A Sunday afternoon

I woke up this morning at about 5:30am. This is typical for me these days, but not because I’m an early morning person. In fact, the opposite is true. If it were up to me, I’d lay in bed until around the middle of the day and only get out when I really had to. On a good day, I’ll get out of bed and my biggest problem will be whether to skip breakfast or start lunch early. Staying in bed until midday solves that little conundrum nicely.

I’m not exactly the poster child for cosy sleeping either. If you have ever had that image of somebody snoozing soundly whilst rugged up snugly in their bed with the blankets pulled up firmly to the chin, with cute little sleeping noises coming from them, then you have not seen me sleep.

Rather, I tend to sleep sprawled out like a shaved, white sloth, with sheets and blankets scattered about me, and often half-dangling to the floor. Usually I will be snoring loudly, with my mouth open as though I’m a guppie plucked out of water. Most likely I’ll be drooling. Generally it is not a good sight, and children and cats avoid me when sleeping. Trying to wake me up when I’m in this stage is akin to poking a large, sleeping lion with a sharp stick. A stick with meat on the end of it.

Regardless of my usual sleeping patterns, I have recently been waking up early because my wife is a runner. She chooses to get up early and go running for large distances at ungodly times in the dark. I’m actually very supportive of the activity, especially given that my own commitment usually just involves saying, “See you later!” To my relief, when she has gone running, she has always returned to our house. If she ever goes out running with a suitcase and a packed lunch I’ll know I’m in trouble.

Today was a special run. She had been training for a 10 kilometre event in a locally organised activity. 10km seems like a really long way to run. I know that there are people out there that run marathons and I will award you full kudos for doing that. However in this I’m easily impressed because 10km is about a thousand times further away than our front letter box. And I’ve only visited the letter box a couple of times.

She set off this morning to meet with running companions and take on the challenge. I remained at home because standing around with other husbands at finish lines is not my ordinary past time, and I had promised the kids an outing for the day. So, after letting the kids sleep in until a comfortable 8:00am, and with just a quick detour to check that our suitcases were all still present, I managed to drag both kids out of bed and line them both up downstairs. I told both kids that due to me being in the top 75% of parents I was going to take them out for breakfast and to see a movie. My 9 year old son took the opportunity to remind me that I was his second favourite parent, God bless his little heart. Additionally, he pointed out that his sister was his third favourite person, which I thought was rather kind.

We headed off to our favourite breakfast place that is essentially a palace for people with no self control. It’s one of those breakfast buffet places where you help yourself to as much of everything as you like. Unlimited bacon, along with access to ice cream for breakfast are reasons why 25% of parents are ranked higher than me.

During this time my wife rang me and passed on the good news that she had completed 10km in her record time. My bacon consumption record did seem insignificant so I decided not to mention it. I mentioned that we were seeing a movie after breakfast, although she declined due to the apparent fact that X-Men does not contain Iron Man. Or, more specifically, does not contain Robert Downey Jr.

After breakfast we managed to arrive at the local cinema complex and purchased our tickets. During the film I was giving my son tips on who the various new superheroes were. He just nodded and looked at me sadly. Apparently recent cartoon tv shows contain the entirety of the comics universe and all children under the age of twelve have an encyclopaedic knowledge of comicdom. I felt as though I was transported back to an earlier point in time when a nine year old version of myself struggled to teach my parents how to operate a VCR. Damn kids.

We left the cinema to head home, and my daughter, firmly in the midst of teenage angst pointed out that her phone was at 10% battery. I was not prepared for such an emergency I admit, and suggestions that I should fire a flare into the sky to attract the coastguard were not well received. Even now I’m not totally sure what happens when a teenager’s phone gets to 0% battery, but it did seem likely that our lives depended on it not happening. I made the helpful suggestion that not pushing buttons and doing things on the phone would prolong the battery life. The response was enlightening, because apparently if you can’t touch the phone then how will snapchat, iMessage, Instagram and Facebook work? I did not have a good way to deal with this.

Generally, when confronted with really hard questions from women, my tactic is to lay down and pretend I’m dead. “Do I look fat in this?” Sorry honey, I’m laying on the ground dead, ask an alive person.

It was a good day, and much adulting was done.

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