Mathew is being a bit of a terror at the moment, especially towards me. He is quite vocally telling me he wants his Mum, not me, he is learning what 'No' means and using it more often than he uses 'Please' and 'Thank You' and he is generally acting as if I am the worst thing in his life and he would be better off without me.
This culminated in an unpleasant incident this morning, where he managed to land a toy tractor squarely on my left testicle from a distance of about twenty feet. I know it wasn't a deliberate, calculated, planned act of violence upon my person, but it took me by surprise and caused a considerable amount of pain. Those of you blessed with the male genitalia will know just how vomit-inducing and distress-causing an unexpected whack in the old sperm-bags can be, and believe me, getting a tractor-shaped, orange-sized heavy hunk of metal right on the plum is about as unpleasant as it gets.
And so I reacted rather badly.
I don't think I called him a Bastard Child of Satan, but I can't be sure of that fact. The aftermath involved me aiming the tractor at the bin, Mathew stomping off crying, and Philippa saying very firm things to me, all while I lay prone on the floor trying to catch my breath and waiting for the agonising throbs to stop pulsing through my crotch.
Even now, hours later, I am wincing every time I move and wondering whether or not my chances of contracting cancer have increased a thousand-fold just as a result of that one impact. I know that any time your cells are damaged it pushes up your risk of developing tumours, and I'm pretty sure he damaged about 98% of the cells in my right orchid, if not more.
Bloody kids.
RC 24-3-23
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