It's A Good Job You're Cute

“Door!” Chickie exclaimed, excitingly pointing to the latest deposit into his memory bank. Shocked that his latest linguistic accomplishment hadn’t been met with the usual rapturous applause, he tried again, “Door!”.

A chesty cough and a slurp of Beechams Cold and Flu was all I could muster by way of congratulations. What Chickie didn’t seem to be grasping was that it was 3am, mummy didn’t feel well and was coming very close to placing him on e-bay after spending many hours concentrating on not coughing for long enough to fall into much needed unconsciousness thanks to the three week sleep deficit and ticklefest in her chest cavity, all compliments of the Chick.

As he bounced around on our bed, oblivious to the undercurrent of exasperation, I checked the maximum Calpol dosage had been administered by the ratty Accountant. He grunted his confirmation and, re-alerted to his presence, Chickie turned his attention to restyling Daddy’s hair using a new grab and pull technique for that dishevelled night-time look. I took the opportunity that this temporary shift in attention provided to cough and wallow in some serious self pity.

I knew this day (actually middle of the night) was coming. When you want to resign as Mummy and be Baby again. When you want your Mummy to look after you and make the screaming stop.

As I peeled myself from the cosy sanctuary of my bed again, easing myself into the chilly darkness, there was nothing at that precise moment I would rather have been doing less. A seemingly fine Chickie was pleased to see his Mummy and that his screams were as effective as ever. Mummy was not so pleased to see Chickie.

Stood in the darkness, cuddling ‘His Yumminess’, I realised that the day my waters broke, my cushy days may have been washed away forever. It was now Chickie’s turn to enjoy the security that I had enjoyed as a child, knowing that no matter what, my Mum would always be there to make it better.

At thirty, I am slightly older than the ‘average’ baby, but not in Glam-Nan’s eyes. She’s now sat at the café with a disgraced Chickie, to allow her baby girl some rest and recuperation.

A stark warning that, just because your child is a mummy herself, it doesn't mean your days of 'making it better' are over.