Melbourne Fringe: Touring With a Toddler Installment 6: The Warts’n’All

Me and the little dude trying to gain a little perspective. Get it? A little perspective? Huh?!....Tap, tap, is this thing on?

So I’ve written a truckload on here (well, okay, perhaps enough to fill a small ute) on the “touring” side of this series (i.e. all the festival/show/comedy element of things), while grossly neglecting to shed much light on the “with a toddler” part.

I do hope that I don’t make it look easy. If I ever do, that is only because I am not actually writing about it. Because it is NOT EASY. In fact, this is pretty much one of the toughest gigs I’ve ever done. Single mothers, I take my hat off to you. And I won’t stop there. I take off my hat, clothes, undies and will even exfoliate in your honor.

Put down the stick, son.

The thing is, he’s not a bad kid. But he’s just…a toddler. And usually I have back-up to help me through adventures like traipsing through the city. Back-up that helps me stay calm during instances, where, say, he pulls his socks and shoes off and throws them across random footpaths over and over and over, despite the fact it is a very cold and and very rainy day. When I finally give in to his refusal to wear them, an older lady takes it upon herself to ask HIM (not me) but him, “Where are your socks? Your feet must be FREEZING!” and he greets this response with a pitiful look at me and a subsequent screech of: “WANT SHOES ON!”

It’s times like these, you want nothing more than to plead with the little guy to “JUST STOP BEING SO…TWO!”

But I do not do this. Instead I try to run him ragged in the mornings, convince him to watch a movie in the afternoons so I can try to power nap, and in moments of desperation, take umpteen photos of him to get a little perspective and remind myself that he is in fact, also delicious.

He is delicious, right? RIGHT?!

Seriously, when I come home each night post-show and he is sleeping and toasty and peaceful I just want to cuddle him and never stop. It was my choice to bring him. And most of the time, I am glad I did.

But really, why can’t my kids just write a “dear dream nanny” letter that I can tear up and throw into the fireplace like they did in the good old days? Huh?

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