Pop Goes The Ball Pit

I don’t know what was deflating faster - Chickie’s ball pit or my spirit. I’m delicate in the mornings and like a ‘coming round’ period of half an hour minimum to include a cup of tea, a bowl of All Bran and Frasier. After several teary exchanges, Chickie now respects that Mummy isn’t a morning person and limits naughty behaviour before the 10am sleepyshed if he wants rational handling of the situation.

However, this morning I stepped into the ‘Under 10’s Dodge Ball Championships Arena', previously called my living room. I was lucky enough to get a front row sofa and a buoy bobbing atop my cereal. The Nephews had stayed over and spent the evening trying to dislocate body parts inspired by the ”don’t try this at home” contortionist on tv. Unable to fold themselves into Chickie’s nappy bag, they turned their attention to the “Squishy Snot Nose” competition which kept them giggling for a full two hours past their bed time.

Gloops finished off my morning splendidly by diving into Chick’s ball pit via the roof hatch. Chickie looked on in awe, learning what it was to be a real boy, not realising his beloved ball pit was, at that very moment, hissing it’s last breath.

Being the only girl in a house full of noisy, energy packed boys provided a disturbing insight into a lifestyle that could all to easily become a reality eight years from now should the horrific, terrorising memory of labour ever fade (doubtful). It’s not really something my temperament and love of pastels is compatible with. I like sugar and spice, matching Cath Kidston aprons and all things nice.

Later on in the day we went for a coffee. I find something comforting in the idea of ‘going for a coffee’ but I finally accepted today that I don’t actually like it. The vase of latte Accountant expected me to drink before he’d allow me to leave the café reinforced this. I like the froth, I love the chocolate sprinkles but beneath lies the problem. In order to be allowed to leave, I had to promise that I’d never order one ever again.

On exit, Chickie decided he no longer enjoyed the confines of his pushchair and was actually in quite a strop about his 'Titanic shaped' ball pit so arched himself into the letter ‘C’, making all attempts to place him in his pushchair impossible. After several failed efforts and increasing interest with commentary from nearby tables, I was forced to physically straighten him out. His first very noisy, very energetic public tantrum followed.