Moves Like Jabba

My body feels broken by continually lifting, throwing and carrying my kids. It’s broken because I’ve made the choice to be the best Dad I possibly can be. I never regret it, but it hurts A LOT some days, especially my back. I have a slightly crooked spine. I spend most of my day climbing stairs as I walk from one classroom to another. I sit on chairs designed for people literally half my size, my knees approach my chest as I hunch over to check student work or play games with them. Sometimes my legs are splayed down and out at an odd angle, making me look as though I desperately need to pee, all so they fit under the little tables I use with my students. Then it’s home to kids who have literally infinite  amounts of energy, which I know doesn’t come from the food we’re feeding them. I eat their food half the time and I’m like a freaking zombie, complete with grunting noises and an ineffectual shuffling gate. Still, I’ll pick them up, whizz them around till they pee or barf on me, because it’s fun and most importantly it tires them out!

A recent weigh in showed that wee Benny is close to becoming Big Benny, weighing just 10 pounds less than his sister who is double his age. When I carry them they wiggle and flop about like wild chimpanzees on The Crack. In my efforts to keep them balanced on me or stop them from plunging from my shoulders and smacking their heads on concrete, I find myself grunting, groaning and flailing like Jabba as he's being strangled by Leia.

For the love of Buddha STOP MOVING CHILD!

Carys in particular likes to link hands under my chin, around my neck specifically, then she’ll lean back as far as she can, cutting off valuable oxygen to my brain and rendering me incapable of any speech other than “ggggaaaaaccccchhhhkkk”. Now you may be thinking, “well jackass, just pull her off”, to this I say HA! Clearly you’ve never experienced the full might of a small human with a death grip on your neck. Also please don’t call me a jackass, it’s rude. Carys leans back so I can’t really reach her, sure I can grab her legs which are on my shoulders but then all I can do is push her off onto the concrete. The very thing I want to avoid and live in fear of doing. So I flail like I’m giving the Team America signal. You know the one.

Fun fact: If I had facial hair it would look exactly like his.

Sometimes I can reach her and pull her forward, which is why I always try the flail manoeuvre. She’s so good at this, she could take down a WWE wrestler without trouble. Grab hold, giggle manically while he flails uselessly and eventually collapses, then she’d laugh so hard she’d pee on him as her finishing move. If flailing doesn’t work I bend forward, almost bending over double. This pitches Carys forward and stops the grip of death long enough for me to ask her not to do it (other Dad’s I hope you’re taking notes, this is parenting gold). I can then stand straight and continue walking with whatever dignity I have left. Usually this is none at all because her wriggling and my flailing have caused me to sweat profusely through my t-shirt and down onto the tops of my pants, causing large sweat stains around my chest, arm pits, and the top of my arse. Since my nipples don't seem to sweat there are usually two small, circular dry patches which people naturally stare at, like I'm a topless Playboy bunny, only instead of envy or desire in their eyes they have more disgust and revulsion. On top of that my shirt has rucked up, revealing my man muffin tops as well as my pink boxers which had to be bought because I took Carys with me and let her choose which pairs to get. I promised she could choose so there was no backing out. I even tried the old "what about this pair instead love?", to no avail. So, along with every man’s staple of Star Wars, Superman, plain black and plaid boxers, I now have PINK, ORANGE and PURPLE. The caps indicate just how damn bright they are.

With Benny on my shoulders it’s different and only marginally better. He hasn’t figured out out to do the Carys Larynx Crush. Instead he does one of two things; beats on my head like it’s a bongo drum or grabs hold of the sides of my head and leans his full weight from one side to the other. This initially was a game I played with him, where I’d lean a little bit to the side and pretend I was about to fall. Cue hilarity! Then he realised I really would move with him if he had a firm enough grip and leaned with enough weight. So now I stagger like a drunk while he laughs hysterically. The best part is when he’s done with being on my shoulders, this is usually when he’s leant all the way over to one side and decides now would be a good time to get down. I have to catch him as he begins to slide off my shoulder, but not scare him by yelling “NO DON’T DO THAT!!”, instead I use my inside voice to scream it while I bring him safely down to the ground.

Having kids is fun. It really is. They are tough little nuggets. I love that they get such a kick out of playtime with me, and from something so simple as silly movement. I’m lucky that I have the strength and general good health to be able to do all this stuff. But it comes with a price some days, and it’s ok to say no sometimes. If I don’t I’d be in agony. On the plus side, all the jiggling, throwing, choking and flailing has led to me having great times with my kids, increased the muscle mass around my shoulders, chest and back, and it’s taught me that I can move with the speed of a fucking cheetah when I need to.

I GOT YOU!!