A Malt Chocolate Baby
I realise it was a risky strategy but, despite the gloomy Armageddon style weather, I felt optimistic Chickie would remain unconscious whilst I had my haircut. I just had to get a few bits quickly beforehand which should only take a matter of minutes.
Predictably, the forces of evil were against me and firstly presented me with someone I vaguely knew from a mother and baby group who came over for a chat. Next was the Gran who wanted to debate the price of organic satsumas. The debate ended with time consuming void and refund transactions. Irritated, I finally got to the hairdressers after battling past all the market stalls, then I saw the sign, 'Cash Only'. Back from whence I came to get cash. Back to the hairdressers. Chickie was still asleep – excellent.
Two minutes later, Chickie was awake. Drat and double drat.
Four minutes later, Chickie was screaming and throwing things on the floor.
Ten minutes later, a chocolate coated Chickie sat beaming at me from his pushchair.
When the hairdresser had asked whether a chocolate malt biscuit might help, I didn’t realise her masterplan was to keep feeding them to him until our appointment ended. To be fair, I can see the genius behind her thinking and it did provide an immediate and enduring solution to our little problem. It was just lucky for her that my compromising nature permitted tweaking of my core parenting standards, otherwise, I may not have allowed my child to eat his own bodyweight in confectionary.
Chickie was playing her like a violin after Biscuit No 2, realising that all he had to do was set his face into, ”I’m going to cry. Get me another biscuit immediately” mode and she would go scampering off, anxious to avoid a scene. My mind did keep wandering back to the After Eight vomiting incident and made me wonder whether I would pay the price for my actions later.
I had to give Chickie, and his pram, a bath following his unsupervised chocolate handling session. Chickie kindly made a little deposit in the bath and I whisked him out before he contracted cholera and wrapped him up in a big, fluffy white towel. What I failed to notice, when I hung the towel back in the bathroom to dry, was that he had wiped his stinky little botty all over it. A freshly buffed Accountant appeared before me later in the evening, holding the aforementioned towel much like you would hold a venomous snake.
His first query, “Did you know this towel wasn’t clean?”. “Why, no, sweetheart, I didn’t” I replied sweetly. “Well it isn’t” he declared, helpfully pointing out the offending stains. “I’ve just used it to dry myself, everywhere - my face - my hair. Come and smell me. Do I smell?" I tried to decline his kind offer but was finding it hard to speak through my tears.
Predictably, the forces of evil were against me and firstly presented me with someone I vaguely knew from a mother and baby group who came over for a chat. Next was the Gran who wanted to debate the price of organic satsumas. The debate ended with time consuming void and refund transactions. Irritated, I finally got to the hairdressers after battling past all the market stalls, then I saw the sign, 'Cash Only'. Back from whence I came to get cash. Back to the hairdressers. Chickie was still asleep – excellent.
Two minutes later, Chickie was awake. Drat and double drat.
Four minutes later, Chickie was screaming and throwing things on the floor.
Ten minutes later, a chocolate coated Chickie sat beaming at me from his pushchair.
When the hairdresser had asked whether a chocolate malt biscuit might help, I didn’t realise her masterplan was to keep feeding them to him until our appointment ended. To be fair, I can see the genius behind her thinking and it did provide an immediate and enduring solution to our little problem. It was just lucky for her that my compromising nature permitted tweaking of my core parenting standards, otherwise, I may not have allowed my child to eat his own bodyweight in confectionary.
Chickie was playing her like a violin after Biscuit No 2, realising that all he had to do was set his face into, ”I’m going to cry. Get me another biscuit immediately” mode and she would go scampering off, anxious to avoid a scene. My mind did keep wandering back to the After Eight vomiting incident and made me wonder whether I would pay the price for my actions later.I had to give Chickie, and his pram, a bath following his unsupervised chocolate handling session. Chickie kindly made a little deposit in the bath and I whisked him out before he contracted cholera and wrapped him up in a big, fluffy white towel. What I failed to notice, when I hung the towel back in the bathroom to dry, was that he had wiped his stinky little botty all over it. A freshly buffed Accountant appeared before me later in the evening, holding the aforementioned towel much like you would hold a venomous snake.
His first query, “Did you know this towel wasn’t clean?”. “Why, no, sweetheart, I didn’t” I replied sweetly. “Well it isn’t” he declared, helpfully pointing out the offending stains. “I’ve just used it to dry myself, everywhere - my face - my hair. Come and smell me. Do I smell?" I tried to decline his kind offer but was finding it hard to speak through my tears.
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