And a Chickie in a Pear Tree...

Christmas has arrived at Chez Chick and all the decorations are up. Chickie was underwhelmed by all the twinkley lights and, after one desperate grab for a tree bauble, he soon lost interest.

Our decorations pale in comparison to Sisters who I affectionately refer to as, “Chavy Chase” of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation fame. Each year she proudly displays her six foot singing Santa, dancing Turkey, a fluffy pig in an Elvis costume and wig singing "You aint nothing but a Hound Dog", five different types of Christmas tree (real, artificial, holographic, pre-lit and snow-flocked), festive crockery and, most importantly, mass quantities of celebratory chocolate which she begins eating well in advance. She’s already eaten my Chocolate Orange and has informed me that she doesn't hold out much hope for the replacement making it until Christmas morn' either.

There is a distinct lack of Christmas cheer in this house today thanks to Accountant. “I’m just going out with Chimp for a quick drink, won’t be more than an hour”. Multiply that by six and you’d have the actual number of hours Accountant was gone. He clattered in at 1am waking us all. I sweetly explained to Accountant that I didn’t appreciate his late night cuddles, then threw him out of the bedroom. He didn’t improve my mood by sleeping in until midday.

We then spent the afternoon bickering about who would do the next nappy/feed etc. I used the, “I’m convalescing” card whilst Accountant tried the, “I did everything yesterday” approach. This then moved onto, “You chose to sleep in until 12pm” to which he replied, “because I was so tired from doing everything yesterday”.

When picturing having a baby, I saw a chubby little bundle of sweetness, cooing and gurgling in my arms. What I hadn't factored in was one of those chubby little arms being used for violence. Yesterday, Chickie threw the phone at my head, he regularly slaps me in the face, he’s bitten me, headbutted me, nosebutted me, kicked me in the stomach and the chest to name but a few.

Mummies and daddies require finely honed aversion skills to not only anticipate attack but to identify times they need to be quick on their feet in order to avoid something nasty being sprayed on them by one of their little cherub's outlets. This morning, my instincts were still in bed (thanks to Accountant disrupting my sleep) and I was too slow to stop Chick’s Sneezey ‘Weetabix’ Shower. I duly added this to my list of ‘Things to Blame On Accountant When He Wakes Up’.

It was our debate over the MMR jab that finally reconciled us as we found ourselves equally bewildered by the mounds of information and just wanting to make the right decision. The debate continues but I can’t see us ever feeling confident when faced with a decision that feels more like a game of roulette than a situation we can control by making an informed choice.

Things perked up a bit later that evening when Accountant popped into the shop for some wine. I was sat in the car with Chickie waiting and was very amused to see Accountant get trapped inside the shop when the automatic doors refused to open. He did a weird little jig arrangement to try and alert the sensor to his presence but nothing happened. He then stood there gormlessly for a few seconds clearly unsure what his next move should be. Further jigging and a sheepish glance around to see if anyone was witnessing his embarrassing dilemma and finally the doors opened. I thoroughly enjoyed the performance and even Chickie was chuckling when a red faced Accountant got into the car.