So it's 7.47 on Sunday morning. I am back at the kitchen table feeding one baby by balancing the bottle between her cherubic lips and my cheek so I have a free hand with which to type. I'm rocking the other in his vibro chair with my foot. Just in case you think the other foot is a bit of a passenger, you should know that it's for gently nudging the dogs away from the rocking baby who's face you'd swear I'd smeared in Chum it's so irresistibly lickable.
I've already dealt with maggots this morning. You may never look at me the same again, or you may be thrilled that someone finally admitted to this, either way, here goes; on occasion, when I've pushed to kitchen bin a day too far, cramming another carcass in a take away container in, instead of taking the whole lot out to the wheelie bin, I wake up with one or two (hundred) little white wrigglers on my kitchen floor. I think it's a Brisbane thing, 'cause it's never happened to me anywhere else but I suppose it's possible my standards have slipped.
This problem used to be Adrian's domain. As the man of the house, the slaying of wild beasts threatening the tribe was just assumed to be his responsibility and never really discussed. He chased the cane toads away from the shi tsu when she needed a night-time wee, he splattered the cockroaches with his thongs, he once chased a possum back through the cat-flap from whence it came at 3 am with his loyal platoon of puppy dogs in chorus behind him, waking up the neighborhood to let them know the enemy had been routed and their master had once again prevailed. All that changed however, one night on holiday in Melbourne 7 months ago, when he and his best mate Sid wandered down a dark St Kilda alley in the middle of the night. Two drunk idiots walked in, but only one walked out. One drunk idiot had to be carried out as he fell arse over while trying relieve himself and snapped his ankle clean in two.
Yes, 7 months ago, a broken ankle. Don't bother telling me about the time you broke yours and were back at work, (as lead dancer in the Paris Opera Ballet) in 6 weeks. I know, I've heard it all before. I've met athletes who finished seasons, I've met senior citizens who kept up their gardens, I've met children who removed their own casts so as not to miss the annual holiday at the beach (true story!). Nobody is still on crutches and as useless as Tiger Woods' wedding ring 7 months after breaking an ankle. Well Adrian is.
The short version is that there was an infection, blah, blah, blah, and obviously that's not his fault. I have to tell you though, knowing he hasn't done any of this on purpose does little to quell my urge to hack off his foot and beat him to death with it while stoking the funeral pyre under our bed with his crutches as kindling. Particularly as he shouts himself a sleep-in on a Sunday morning while I leap out of bed at the first sound of a hungry twin to find the kitchen floor moving, the baby's nappy overflowing, the dogs bickering, the other twin stirring, the milk curdling and my blood pressure peaking.
I recovered from an emergency Caesarean in a week, just so you know. Well I had to, innit, because unfortunately for me, Adrian is the only person in this relationship who has a wife!