My mortifying brush with fame

I had a rather humiliating experience yesterday, care of my Little Miss. We were hanging out in the parents’ room at our local Westfield (as you do); the Stuntman needed a fresh nappy, and I knew Little Miss would be happy to play in the dingy ‘playroom’ in there for a while. I heard the door open behind me, but didn’t think much of it, until my delightfully erudite daughter started screaming, “No, not YOU boy, this is MY playroom, NOT YOURS,” at the top of her little lungs.

Embarrassed and feeling myself start to blush, I turned around only to be met with the very well-developed frame and surprisingly kind eyes of 'The Commando' from the Biggest Loser, who was standing outside the playroom with his cute little boy.

As I recognised him I had an involuntary intake of breath (ok ok, I gasped audibly if you must know), and I felt my face go an even brighter shade of red. Not just because he was famous and intimidating, but because of how ridiculously good-looking he is in real life, and the overall absurdity of the situation. Little Miss was by now holding on to the gate of the playroom, still yelling, refusing entry to Commando Jnr, who was waiting patiently with the same helpless look on his face as his dad. She’ll make a good bouncer one day for sure.

So now I was in a pickle – the Stuntman was still pants-down on the change table, and, as his nickname implies, he is not one to be left unsupervised on high surfaces.  I had to quickly turn back to him and finish getting him dressed, then wrestle him back into the pram (no easy feat in itself), all the while trying to use my most soothing voice on Little Miss to try and get her to calm the fuck down, and open the damn gate.

“It’s OK darling, the playroom is for everyone to share, there’s plenty of things to play with in there, you can share with the little boy,” this in my most lilting, sing-song voice.

“Just open the gate sweetheart, you can play over the other side, you need to share the room now please,” this as my voice grew slightly louder and more frantic, and not quite so soothing.

“LET GO OF THE GATE WE ARE GOING HOME RIGHT NOW!” this with gritted teeth as I swooped into the playroom, picked her up and eventually pried her tiny vice-like fingers free of the gate.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, she really needs a sleep, we’ve had a long morning,” I said, apologetically, to The Commando, who was still standing patiently with his son. He smiled at me, with what looked like understanding, but could just as easily have been pity.

“Come on darling, let’s go home and have some lovely fresh watermelon,” I said, in my brightest Mary Poppins voice. She looked at me as if to say “WTF? Watermelon?” – we both knew full well that I’d be breaking out my emergency bag of tiny teddies as soon as we got back to the car. 

But The Commando didn't need to know about my bribery-with-sweets parenting style, so I kept up appearances all the way down the hall, talking about the juicy watermelon we were going to have, and even busting out a few lines of the watermelon song. Quality parenting.