There are days when Pittsburgh drives me mad and I can barely restrain myself from eating her brains.
It’s August in Dublin, so naturally, rain is pelting down outside. The number of places we can go is limited. I opt for the nearest shopping centre. If you’ve ever seen Dawn Of The Dead, you’ll know it’s where Zombies like to hang out. And it’s even better if there’s a sale on.
We get there and Pittsburgh tells me she needs to go wee-wee. When we get to the toilets (I’m in a pee panic, at this stage), she doesn’t like the look of the first cubicle, the second cubicle, the third cubicle or the fourth cubicle. There are no more cubicles. So I gently ease her into the fourth cubicle.
She points to the shiny chrome tap on the sink.
“I don’t like that.”
This is before she has even attempted to use the toilet.
“Fine”, I say. I scoop her up and transport her to another cubicle. There appears to be no issues with the tap there.
I’m relieved, but she no longer wants to relieve herself.
“Me no want to go the toilet.”
I take a break in a coffee shop. She sees yogurt on display. She wants yogurt. I purchase her favourite flavour. We sit at a table, I open the yogurt and hand her a spoon, hoping for five minutes peace as she consumes it.
Suddenly, she pushes it away.
“Me no want that one.”
“But you love raspberry!”
“Me no want it. Me want chocolate,” she says, with steely determination.
“Fine,” I say, annoyed and having no intention of giving her chocolate.
I pick up the spoon and dip it into the yogurt and then put it in my mouth. It’s not brain-flavoured, so it’s pretty disgusting. I don’t care. I’m just doing this to annoy her – to vent the frustration that’s been building up all morning.
Oh boy, do I succeed in my goal.
“That my yogurt,” she cries out, following it up with an almighty bawl. The tears flood from her eyes. The other customers in the cafe look around. I may be dead but I’m not beyond mortification.
“Okay, Pittsburgh, that’s it: we’re going.”
She turns into a devil-possessed child.
“No!” she rasps, in her most eerily disembodied voice.
I pick her up and carry her all the excruciating way back to the car.
Only 7 hours to go before the mother arrives back home. It is 7 long hours of domestic war that I think will never end.
When her mother arrives home (and, in two minutes, gets Pittsburgh to do all the things I’ve been trying to get her to do for the whole day) I’ve had enough and I am ready to go down to the local graveyard and bury myself in the ground.
Then today comes. I wake up early and think of the innumerable domestic battles that Pittsburgh and I fought yesterday. I am the unstoppable force and she is the immovable object. The end result: frustration and rage with each other.
Even though her mother is downstairs, Pittsburgh creeps into the room, looking for the early morning cuddle she loves so much. A cuddle even from me – a decaying lump of flesh. I’m quite touched.
“I wasn’t very nice to you yesterday.” I say as I give her a hug.
She then says, “Me not nice to you either.”
All of a sudden the hell of yesterday vanishes and I feel a sudden warmth welling up inside me.
“Ah, Pittsburgh” I say, despairingly, when I realise she’s just had an “accident” and that warmth is welling up on the outside – not the inside.