AKA - Apocalyptic Tales for Kids
I’m on a plane in Budapest, getting ready to hurtle through the air to London, when my phone pings. It’s a message from my beloved pygmy wife who is back in our London nest with our sometimes-adorable spawn.
“Did you get it?”
This is just between us for now okay, but I did not get it. And if you are wondering what “it” is, “it” is anally inserted medicine for kids, obviously. The rationale behind why we need it is that Lola has a fever and good old fashioned oral British medicine just won’t ‘çut the mustard’ for my delectable Hungarian spouse. It simply won’t, because Zsuzsa, like seemingly most Hungarians, is a massive advocate, as far as kids are concerned, of the anus being the best entry point when administering medicine, or indeed thermometers (as I once discovered to my utter horror whilst orally testing out a thermometer that unbeknownst to me had only seconds early been where the ‘sun don’t shine on’ my infantile daughter).
“It’s the quickest way to bring down their temperature.” Zsuzsa had explained, although for the life of me I cannot understand how that could work. Surely it’s further away from the steaming hot forehead? “It’s also far easier to give them when they’re asleep”, she’d insisted, although I still have flashbacks of struggling in vain to pop one into my sleeping, but very non-compliant baby daughter in the pitch dark on one sleep deprived night. On this particular occasion I think it would’ve have been easier to put a bow-tie on an eel, so I’m far from convinced by this statement.
But, although I don’t really understand this anally focused thinking, that’s not the reason why I am not bringing any back to good old blighty. No, the reason is I know how this ends. It ends in my abject humiliation at the very least. To explain, let’s take a look a couple of items that I’d like to submit into evidence.
EXHIBIT A
It’s the summer of 2016, our eldest has just been born and Zsuzsa has just asked me to pop out and rent her a breast pump. “No problem” I’d replied and off I’d enthusiastically bounded to hunt down this magical pump, momentarily forgetting that back then I didn’t speak a word of Hungarian. The following hour or so consisted of me miming milking tits to puzzled, elderly Hungarian ladies, and to be honest I think I’m still suffering PTSD as a result.
EXHIBIT B
On another occasion I wanted to buy a towel in Budapest, hit a language barrier in a store and then tried to solve it by miming drying my perineum (seemed like a good idea at the time) to a bamboozled looking sales-lady.
As a consequence of both exhibits A and B, I’ve since tried to minimise situations where miming may be involved, especially those that could lead to my incarceration (anally inserting medicine mimes surely have to fall within that category).
So, I do not have it, but I’m not yet ready to tell my wife. I decide to distract her.
“How are the girls?” I skilfully retort.
“Lola had a bad night, but Mila’s ok. I’m sooooo tired. Can you ask the pilot to get a move on?” Comes the reply a few moments later.
Aaaaaaaaand relax
Bless. I’ve only been away for two nights on business, but I bet Zsuzsa’s had an absolute ‘mare. If it had been me looking after both girls for the weekend on my tod, there’s no doubt that screen-time would have exceeded the recommended level. And I say this even though we’re consciously trying to minimise it now, after I caught Lola watching a YouTube documentary on a nuclear holocaust. “I want to watch Peter Rabbit” she’d exclaimed while handing me the device. “I no like this”. And it’s not just Lola, Mila has started to finish some sentences with “…remember to subscribe to our channel!”. As well as this, a few days ago Mila also asked me, while I was explaining to her how the UK has about seven times as many people as Hungary, when the hunters were coming to solve the population problem by killing lots of the humans. We’ve no idea where she got this from. She insists it was from a film that we watched together, but I’m 99% confident that I’ve never sat down and watched Predator with her. So, we’re trying to cut down on screen-time, but desperate times call for desperate devices.
Another ping.
“So? Did you get it?”
Hmmm. Tricky customer this one. Not so easily distracted. I realise that I need to try a new strategy.
“Cabin crew prepare for departure”. Booms a muffled pilot over the tannoy.
“Sorry honey. About to fly. Love you. Can’t wait to see you. x”
I pop my phone on flight mode, sit back, relax and prepare for a rare solo flight. After all, surely it’s nothing that a few airport purchased gifts and some orally administered Calpol, bought on the way home can’t cure.