Monday, February 16, 2009

It was hectic, and okes just weren’t into it

Okes have got a thing going. Okes make out. Okes know what’s on another oke’s mind.
And there’s okes and there’s okes. But okes are okes, hey, so it doesn’t matter if a oke is another kind of oke. Okes still make out.
Take Jayce. Jayce is a oke. He’s 18 months old, he’s still rocking a nappie, he’s dopping formula out of a baby bottle, but he’s a oke. He can stand, a little wobbly sometimes, but ay. Sometimes okes get a bit wobbly. Nothing wrong.
It’s Sunday arvie, lekker weather for chilling in the back garden and jolling a bit of Baby’s First Shapes Board and then moering the hell out of it with your plastic hammer.
So okes are doing that. The chicks are chilling there, doing chick things. Molly’s on the picnic blanket with her crayons out and she’s got the creative juices going. She’s drawing pictures of her mom, and lank little heart shapes.
Babes are into that kinda thing. You know how it is. Okes are more into just chilling on the front stoep, sucking on a bit of formula and just rapping to yourself. Maybe go for a trap down to the birdbath and splash the water around, fart in your nappie and then come back and chill.
Molly… ag, you know how it is. The girl’s four, she’s got a vivid imagination, so she smaaks playing make-believe. She’s basically writing one-act plays in her head and performing them on the fly.
This latest one is about turning the picnic into a nuclear family. “I’ll be the little girl and you be the little boy and you be the daddy. Now they have to put us to bed!”
“Come on Jason. You have to be the little boy! Come get into bed!”
At this point Molly has wrapped the entire picnic blanket around herself and is busy rolling around on the lawn like she’s a large squealing tartan cocoon with a tuft of blonde hair sticking out the top of it.
“Come on, Jason! You the little boy! You must come let them tuck you into bed!”
But Jason’s not feeling the play-play vibe. He’s standing on the edge of the stoep checking this whole thing out, his sister rolling around like a human hotdog, gurgling and squealing and demanding that he come do the same.
He raises the teat of his baby bottle to his lips, then cradles it in his chest, the way you do. He’s going nowhere. He looks across at me, and we have a bit of an okes moment.
Jayce checks down at his sister freaking out on the ground, then checks at me. Then he just shakes his head.

1 comment:

Ami said...

My laaitie is three now. The other day, I asked him to fetch (my second) beer from the fridge and he said: "Okay, but don't drink too much."