Sitting at the side of the pool feeding the baby, the husband has just emerged with a crying Atticus.
Me: ‘what’s happened?’ (Surely he must have lost a toe such is his angst)
Daddy: ‘we think bubble might be broken, he keeps going down’
I look at the deflated, sorry excuse for an inflatable whale that we bought only 20 minutes ago after pleas and kisses all round from the toddler, with his adorable cries of ‘mama, daddeee peas, bubble!’ And we caved into that. Twats.
The toddler is screwing the whale up into a ball, his lip trembling with sadness or rage, I can’t quite tell. I know I should tell him that behaviour is unacceptable but I’m quite indignant that the stupid plastic whale that we were clearly ripped off for has broken already. I take it back to the ‘pool side bar’ (lies, there are no drinks here, I’ve checked) and swap it for a new one.
Cue huge smiles from the toddler as everything is right in his world again. Phew, world war three averted.
The toddler and daddy go back to playing and I can now sit back and marvel at our parenting panache. Chortle chortle.
I’m saying a silent prayer that the bloody whale stays up so I can sit and enjoy 10 minutes of peace (as peaceful as it can be in an echoey swimming pool) with a now sleeping baby.