AKA - More Milk Daddy
I’m sat on a sofa with my wife, who’s very much like a typical wife, only smaller. We’re trying to watch an episode of Peaky Blinders, but are being distracted by a distant noise, emanating from the other side of our flat.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
I’m trying my best to block the noise out, but very much like water torture, having your finger nails removed, or an open packet of pickled onion monster much, it’s proving to be impossible to ignore.
I can feel Zsuzsa looking at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you going to go?” asks Zsuzsa.
“Why me?”
“She’s hasn’t called my name.”
That old chestnut. I press pause and groan.
“She’s incessant. She never quits. Her stamina is insane!” I say.
“She’s determined. She’ll go far.” replies Zsuzsa.
“Determined!? She’s like a tiny dictator! It’s like living with Kim Jong Un! We’re constantly running around like lunatics, frantically trying to keep her happy!”
“That’s not entirely true. We don’t let her get away with everything” replies Zsuzsa.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
“Kim Jong wants milk, Daddy.” says Zsuzsa without a whiff of sympathy for my plight.
I stare at the remote controls. What a dilemma? Do I press play and continue to watch Brummies beat the shit out of each other, or do I bite the bullet and proceed, head first in to the heart of North Korea?
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
“I cleaned up three massive poohs today.” says Zsuzsa, canvasing for her right to remain.
“So did I.” I retort
“Your own don’t count.”
I sigh, heave myself out of my sofa imprint and head towards the miniature despot who has ordered me from my sofa, towards certain anguish. I open the door and peer in to the darkness. Two eyes blink back at me through the darkness.
“DADDY!” bleats Mila, joyously.
“Hey honey. What’s up?” I whisper.
Mila holds out an empty bottle, her expression suddenly serious, as if to demonstrate the magnitude of her words.
“More milk!” she demands.
“More milk?” I reply.
“Yes!”
I look at her and I melt a little. She’s so adorable, standing there in her pink Peppa Pig pyjamas, her bed-headed blonde locks all over the place. Peaky Blinders can wait. I need to savour this precious moment that I’m having right now with my daughter. My beautiful little daughter who will be the grand old age of two in just under two months time.
I smile sweetly and take the bottle from my tiny lady’s hand. She giggles with glee.
I reflect on the fact that it only seems like yesterday when Mila was simply a lump of flesh, who after having obliterated my wife in a Hungarian hospital on a barmy summer’s day, had nothing but instincts and sleep deprived humans to keep her alive. Now look at her. She’s growing up so fast. Sometimes I look at her and I no longer see a baby, but a young lady. It’s freakish.
I kneel down.
“Kiss for Daddy?” I whisper to my gorgeous infant child, feeling sentimental.
I lean in for a little kiss. Mila stares back at me with her big blue eyes. She blinks.
Abruptly and without warning, she then thrusts the palm of her hand in to my face, stopping me in my puckered-up tracks.
“More milk! Go!”
She points towards the door.
I get up and scurry off as fast as I can, determined to appease my tiny, pink Peppa Pig pyjama wearing overlord.