AKA - Hungarians Don’t Play Rugby
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Lola waddling towards me, big grin stretched across her chubby, spherical face.
“Daddy!” she adorably squeals and my heart instantly melts into goo.
Then I notice something. Her nappy. It seems to be a bit low. A bit bulgy.
“Hmmm.” I think, then cast my eye towards the direction that she’s waddled from. She’s been in the kitchen with Zsuzsa. I narrow my eyes at my wife suspiciously, but she purposefully avoids my gaze.
“HMMM.” I think, but this time I think it louder.
Within seconds Lola is within sniffing distance and my worst fears are confirmed.
It is a shit.
Just to make one thing clear, no matter what anybody ever tells you, cleaning up anyone’s shit, even your own child’s shit, is always soul destroying. The aroma, the texture, just…everything. I don’t like it, and if you’re fine with handling shitty nappies, well, you’re clearly a psychopath.
But you see, the thing is, this particular shit, there’s no way Mummy didn’t notice it. She may be acting the innocent, but she knew what she was doing. I see you wife. I see you. I’m well aware that you’ve just deliberately served me a shitty nappy.
Lola arrives at my side and gives me a big hug, but I’ve got no time for affection here. I have a nostril rasping serve to return!
I lean into Lola, gently take her by the shoulders, begin to turn her and whisper “Look what Anya (Mummy) is doing over there! Go and see Anya!” I give her an encouraging little shove and off she waddles, back towards the kitchen, giggling with glee, her horror show of a nappy in hot pursuit.
As I watch her go, I can’t help but admire the quality of my return. I feel like Andre Agassi in his pomp, swatting a Sampras thunderbolt back down the line with interest. I then notice Zsuzsa spot Lola approaching, and as I witness her tiny, almost undetectable look of dread, a lovely warm feeling engulfs me. Take that Ferencz!
But alas, the warming sense of victory doesn’t last long.
It begins to fade as I watch Zsuzsa steady herself, whisper in Lola’s ears, gently put her hands on her shoulders, turn and nudge.
There it is. The cross court backhand. We’re officially in a shitty-Lola rally.
I position myself to return her backhand, but then…
“Honey.” says Zsuzsa nonchalantly. “Can you check Lola’s nappy?”
The unexpected top-spin catches me off-guard.
And just like that, I know that I’m beaten. She’s outdone me, as there’s no way that I can actually reveal that we both know Lola has shat her pants. It’s against the unwritten rules of parenthood.
GAME, SET, MATCH FERENCZ.
No, I just have to take this one on the chin (not literally, I’m not a maniac.) and hope that next time it’s a game of Lola touch rugby. Hungarians don’t play rugby.