Took the nieces out. It was tough; loud, running, tantrums, skin knees, singing, jumping ice creams, parks, climbing. I'm back home now. Resting in bed. Trying to rebuild. Flashbacks of the girls run through my head. They bounced like ping pong balls in all directions in the grocery store. An old man turned to me while standing near the $5 cucumbers and mutters: 'been there done that', with a cheeky smile caught in the crinkles of his face. I laugh, and chase after the girls while they speed around the corner. They're both to short to be seen from faraway. I shout back at the old man, as I race onward: 'I'm there uncle not their father! '. He doesn't hear me. I don't believe what I say. Though it feels good to say it in a bid to dispel, lazy, Pakeha, OK Boomer, assumptions where one only helps raise one's own immediate children. Life for some, I guess.
Next, I'm clicking myself into the shotgun passenger seat of our car. Then all hell breaks loose - over two small 'ready salted' chippie packets. Despite this, I'm happy - we're heading home. They'll be their mother's problem, soon as we walk through the door they'll be pulling at her dress. And, like an artful dodger I'll slink back into peaceful annoynomity. For an hour or so, I'll listen to classical music and try to rearrange the contents of my brain, although, it always seems to end in failure, haha.
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