MEL BUTTLE
“What I know about toddlers could fit on a Smartie”
Iwould never have guessed a one year old’s favourite thing to play with at my house would be a bottle of salad dressing. My friend and her toddler came to visit; I tried to be a thoughtful host, getting out a few things I thought her son might like to play with. What I know about toddlers could fit on a Smartie, which interestingly, one year olds are not allowed to have.
I was telling my mum about the pending visit, which led her to reminisce about my time as a baby. “You wouldn’t eat anything, you hated every formula,” she almost spat down the phone line … sounds like even 40 years on, the trauma is still present. I had to ask, “What did I eat then?” She didn’t hesitate to answer, “Carnation milk”. I went silent, slightly shocked. She countered with the mum classic, “Well, you survived didn’t you?” I left another pregnant pause, still blown away that the stuff I make creamy mushroom gnocchi with was given to me as a whole food when I was an infant.
She filled the tense silence with, “It was the ’80s … things were different.”
My friend is one of those organised mums; she knew I’d only have almond milk, so she brought her own cow’s milk for the tiny tot’s bottle. We only have non-dairy milk at home because, and this won’t blow anyone who’s reading this away, I’m a bit intolerant to dairy. Sounds like I always have been.
My friend had this mum backpack that was packed to the gills with items she may need, Weet-bix in a Ziploc bag, nappies, a change of clothes, for her kid, not herself, which, after he worked out how to open the salad dressing wouldn’t have been the worst idea. She and her son would leave my house smelling like a side salad at a leagues club.
He entered my house shyly at first, clinging to his mum’s leg, coyly giving a small wave. I love how little kids wave, it’s all hand, nothing going on in the eyes, they just think it’s part of our culture to jiggle a limp hand in a stranger’s face. He warmed up very quickly … soon enough he was ripping my cupboards open and telling me what noise a dog makes. It’s “arf arf arf” if you were curious.
I thought I’d prepared – I’d loaded up The Wiggles on the telly, put a pile of picture books on the couch and found a tennis ball. Yes, as you can see I have no idea. In my mind my friend and I would catch up on the couch, while her son flicked through Spot Goes to the Park.
Instead she barricaded the dishwasher with her body while I fished the remote out of the laundry basket. Toddlers are
quick, their low centre of gravity and total lack of fear about smashing their temple on the table makes them very agile. They’re like shoddy cat burglars, if cat burglars had to clump around in sandals and only wanted to steal your saucepan lids, then shove what they’d just stolen in your face while laughing hysterically.
We did get to catch up over “No, that’s the dog’s water, your drink is here” and “How did Weet-bix get up your nose?” All this while I was throwing in, “How’s Frank going at work, did he enjoy the Barossa trip?” Our visit reminded me of a theatresports game we played in high school drama, where you had to speak in only gibberish while your scene partner spoke to you in English. Chaos.
It was a whirlwind of a morning, I needed a sit down and a packet of Smarties after that.