I have a collection of stationery on my desk at home. Clips and pens and a few cool things from Typo that I received as a gift when I left a contract position a few months ago.
Included in this pile of things is a DOPE SHIT stamp – I’d been saving it for a particularly brilliant piece of writing that I can print out and duly brand with this highest form of praise. However, that moment has not arrived and at the point of this story the stamp was fresh and moist and a clear temptation for prying hands.
I was working on a particularly taxing article that was already late when my 3yo daughter appeared in the doorway naked and covered from head-to-toe in bold, black DOPE SHIT stamps.
It was branded all over her body and face and, I realised as I marched her to the sink, it was also all over the walls at toddler eye-level. She’d been particularly stamp-happy in the kitchen and dining area and I also found a few on the back of the new, white couch which was enough to wipe the slightly amused grin off my face.
I was in the midst of uncovering the degree of havoc wreaked in such a few short minutes, when my phone rang. It was our landlord’s elderly father. He hasn’t been around in a year and was in the area and wondered if he could pop by for the mail… how soon, I enquired, no he’s about a minute away, was that a problem?
Panic. I kept him outside chatting as long as possible while Christina, who helps with the kids when I’m working, scrubbed frantically at child and wall. I still can’t get over the non-serendipitous (is that even a thing) alignment of things in that moment. Particularly as I’ve been waiting months for Landlord Snr to pop in so I could show him a few things that need fixing around the house.
These will now have to wait until the next annual post collection – I think even then I will be discovering upside-down DOPE SHIT’s on the garden walls and hidden behind curtains.
Note to self: never (ever) think smugly to yourself ‘my child must be quietly playing’ but rather know they are up to something.