06 January 2007

Pre-Menstrual Mummy Meltdown

Getting eyeball to eyeball with Chickie to add dramatic emphasis to the delivery of my “no spitting” warning was not one of my smartest moves. Chickie, not one to miss a golden opportunity, took aim and fired, spraying a fine mist of fishy slobber straight into my unimpressed, but previously, dry and non-fishy, face.

There are many aspects of my personality that are not ideally suited to child rearing, namely, my deep love and respect for order, cleanliness, sleep, peace and obedience.

Preparations for “Operation Self-Feeding Chickie” had been delayed numerous times as I tried to ready myself for the inevitable horror that awaited me. I could put it off no longer so, armed with a 6ft squared piece of plastic and draped in vinyl, I put my fate in the hands of The Lord who I had conversed with regularly during this stressful time.

Day 1 went well, Chickie concentrated on the task at hand, was willing to accept help and any wayward food landed on the plastic as per my prayer requests.

Day 2 was horrible. The novelty of feeding himself already a thing of the past. My dining room looked like a food version of “Saving Private Ryan”. He used his spoon for evil, wielding it like a devil's sceptre, catapulting food around the room, way out of range of 6ft plastic square catchment area. He poked out great mouthfuls with his tongue and spat out any that dared remain. Then the ‘mushing’ began.

My initial guidance took the form of “No Sweetheart, that’s not how you do it”. A more forceful tone was quickly adopted and the No’s grew in intensity. The final stages found me tearful, my spirit broken, infuriated with the creature that had wrecked my home. I did wonder what the neighbours must have thought at my handling of the situation which, I admit, was probably not what The Baby Whisperer would have recommended.

To try and remain calm, I chanted to myself, "He’s only one, he doesn’t mean it, he’s just a little baby" - deep breath and repeat.

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