The Mobile

My eldest daughter Charlotte is a beautiful little girl. She's 11 years old, lovely temper, intelligent, and talented. She's also developed the best of Christine and my sense of humour, a dry intelligent wit, and we both enjoy ribbing each other.

Of course I haven't got a father's biased view.

On Sunday, I took the girls to Eurofest 2004 at Frenchs Forest. (Am I the only one who thinks it should be French's Forest instead of Frenchs Forest?) There were rides, stalls, musical and dance groups, a beer tent (woohoo!) and other assorted goings on. As we were at home getting ready, I noticed Charlotte had put on a skirt. [Although I called it a dress, for which I was immediately corrected. I can program computers, play musical instruments, and intelligently discuss the situation in the Sudan, but I can't remember whether a skirt is a skirt or a dress.] I questioned this. "Are you sure you want to wear that dress/skirt? You'll be going on rides like the Jumping Castle?"

But she insisted. She's at the age where she is beginning to make sure things about herself are just right. Clothes, makeup, hair, shoes, etc. Off we went.

We arrive at the Festival, and meet up with John (the Boss) and Jill and their girls. Straight away the kids head for the rides. First the Pirate Boat and then the thing which I call "The Mobile". It's circular and around the outside are hanging individual seats, so when the thing spins around, the seats fly out. Like a mobile. It's only small, about twenty seats around the outside.

So Charlotte and Josephine (my 6-year old) and John's daughter Georgia get onto the ride and sit on their seats facing out. I said to John, "Watch this. I'll get Charlotte," and called to Charlotte as the ride started up, "Sweetheart, don't you wish now that you hadn't worn a skirt."

It was priceless. Her legs closed tighter than they already were. She had a cat's bum look on her face, and I don't think she enjoyed the ride at all, she spent so much time ensuring her skirt wasn't riding up. When she got off the ride, she ran up to me and belted me on the arm, she'd realised I was joking — you couldn't have seen her undies at all.

One of those great parent moments.

And on the way home another parent moment, though not so great.

One of the stalls was a Snow Cone stall run by the sister of a bloke I know, a drummer who I've played with on a couple of occasions. He was there helping his sis out, and slipped my girls a free cone each, just before we were about to leave. So they finished up that and then immediately went again on "The Mobile." Josephine was a bit cranky after we got off, complained that we were leaving "...without buying a toy, Dad!" I didn't think anything of it and started out.

We'd gotten no more than 100 metres down Warringah Rd, when she said, "I feel sick." Mad scramble for a plastic bag. She throws up. About two cups of dark red water from the Snow Cone. Charming. I'm praying that there are no holes in the bag. Needless to say, no permanent damage done.

Josephine calls throwing up spewking. I kind of like that term.