raspberries at dusk

I'm sitting here, my mind a complete blank, it's like life is washing over me - work, Motherhood, wife-dom, the whole schmoo is like a tide that has just pushed me out onto the litoral of bedtime. I have one memory from today, amongst the flotsam and jetsam, the snapshots of phonecalls and emails and task lists and stolen trips to the fridge for snacks and that memory is of my son blowing a series of highly damp raspberries directly into my face in response to my suggestion that His Royal Piglet might like to take a bath.

I can't remember what happened before the raspberry. I imagine it was dinner-related but for some reason I had picked him up and we were in that Siamese standing position, one pair of legs, two heads - you know what I mean, parent carrying child, child and parent nose-to-nose. Anyway, so I suggested the bath and he blew a big, fat, juicy raspberry right into my face until I was coated in a fine spray of yoghurt and spit and apple juice.

The only appropriate response, I decided, was to blow one back, however my first few tries were fairly pitiful. For each of my little Mumsy blows I got a faceful of spit back and so I loaded up and sprayed him a good one - boy was it worth it. First I got a look of fake shock, then he wiped his face with the back of his wrist, cackling with laughter. And then he gave me both guns.

We stood there for a minute or so, trading big wet buckets of spit and roaring with laughter; however he didn't ever consent to take that bath. He probably didn't need it after all that mind you.