Baby Bear In Porridge Shocker

MMR does not stand for Measles, Mumps and Rubella. It is secret medical code for Meltdown MonsteR. Chickie is upstairs now spending some quiet time rethinking his attitude.

This morning, frustrated beyond reason, I ranted to Glam-Nan. Baby Bear had spat out all of his porridge, snubbed my fig and apple puree and was now screaming like a loon from his highchair.

I’m aware it’s “just a phase”, “he’s unlikely to still be doing it when he’s 18” and I should “stay calm” but trite advice was doing little to suppress my urge to stick a funnel into his mouth and pour in the porridge. Her perky melodic finale of “tra la la” designed to lift my spirits was a “tra la la” too far. However, redemption was just around the corner when she offered to take Chickie out to play. An instant spirit lifting solution.

Chickie’s toilsome diet change was an experiment intended to ease botty problems. Whilst he’s enjoyed smearing, splatting and spitting every last freshly prepared morsel around the dining room, little has actually reached his stomach.

Fearing Mummy’s affections were waning, Chickie took to his feet and strutted into my folded arms. Unable to maintain my “I’m in a strop with you” face, I conceded and allowed myself to bounce around the room in celebration of his accomplishment. Chickie knew he was back in control.

Most days are now spent undertaking repetitive exercises in futility. Whether doing my daily transfer of Accountant’s tie from banister to wardrobe, tidying Chickie’s toys up continuously, changing a nappy that’s destined to make my eyes water again within two minutes, washing and ironing clothes that will be stained again within one or preparing meals to be used as playdoh, being there as Chickie does his stuff makes it all okay.