The dog walk, the hammer, and the karaoke

I wear a lot of hats. Chef, chauffeur, dog walker, tantrum referee, ball thrower, puzzle completer, block stacker… *draws breath*

One of my top jobs as mum of an almost-two-year old (IYKYK) is on-demand entertainer. I like to believe my singing voice resembles a slightly husky Taylor Swift (my husband likely disagrees with this, but we move) and I do an excellent rendition of Wind the Bobbin Up. Right now, given my son’s current love of the Disney film Encanto, I am also competent at singing and rapping in Spanish. One for the CV right there.

If you haven’t seen Encanto, you may still be familiar with its breakout hit We Don’t Talk About Bruno. It was all over the radio a couple of years ago and it’s a bit of a tune. Anyway, George is obsessed, so as soon as I get the slightest hint of a whinge I immediately launch in. Doesn’t matter where we are; I’d rather a raised eyebrow than the side-eye you get when your toddler is having a full-blown meltdown in the middle of Lidl. And I know the open-mouthed stares are really just jealousy over me living my best life, rocking out in a supermarket with no backing track (except for my toddler, who knows a surprising number of the lyrics given that his vocabulary is mostly limited to “ball” and “no”.) 

Cut to me last Thursday, middle of a field, dog going feral, baby in sling and tantrum threatening. I break out my failsafe Disney song — thanks, Lin-Manuel Miranda — and before I’ve even reached the second line, George has whipped out (from where????) a toy hammer and offered it to me as a microphone. Bear in mind that we are now 20 minutes into our walk and I’ve seen absolutely no evidence of said hammer up to this point. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or concerned at his prowess in secreting power tools, so I ignore that for the time being and struggle my way through verses two and three. Carrying a 2.5 stone child and running after a spaniel while warbling a catchy kids’ song will test your fitness levels in ways you never expected. 

We made it home, crisis averted, neighbourhood entertained (should I be charging? I feel like I should be charging) and microphone-hammer still clutched in tiny fist.

I never did work out where he’d been hiding it. Trade secrets of a future spy, I suspect.