Independence Day
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Now that Chickie is upwardly mobile, he’s changed. No longer in need of ‘mothering’, he has decided he’s of the age where he’s ready to handle things for himself. Whether it’s eating his breakfast, styling his hair, doing his tax return or unloading the washing machine, Chickie knows best and doesn’t need help or advice from anyone. He’s his own man.
The problem with Chickie’s one man show is that, whilst enthralling for him, it can be rather dull, laborious and tiresome for others. As much as I admire his persistence and single minded determination in his repeatedly futile attempts to slot the key into the iddy biddy lock, after the 2000th time and an hour’s wait to open the door, intervention is often necessary. However, Chickie has taken to having breakdowns every time assistance is offered. They're wildly dramatic, energetic and unrelenting.
In addition to his new aggressively executed D-I-Y approach to life, his cautious nature requires his Mummy to never be more than a metre from his side in case he encounters any problems on his path to independence. Trying to do anything without tripping over Short-Stuff has become a problem. If he loses sight of Mummy for a second, the wailing begins.
My usual cunning is failing me and I’ve no more innovative ideas to distract Chickie whilst I make a run for it. It seems my only option is to incorporate The Chick into every aspect of daily routine. Whether hanging from the hoover, the clothes line, my leg or a wheelbarrow, Chickie only really stops crying when he’s supervising mummy’s activities or eating chocolate. However, after finding my ‘groove’ and becoming housewife supremo, Chickie’s new found interest in my domestic affairs is affecting performance levels.
I used to rely on the two hour nap window to whiz around the house like a human duster but even that has come to an end, as all good things must. After repeated night wakings, a two hour nap was deemed too long by all those consulted and so I’m having to do the unthinkable and wake him after an hour. Heartbreaking.
Hopes were hinged on the Adventure Playground being completed at the end of the garden shortly but, it seems the “play bark” I lovingly and knackeringly prepared for Chickie over a three day period, is, in fact, a giant litter tray. Whilst I’m anxious for Chickie’s focus to be redirected, him snacking on cat poo whilst I get on with the ironing isn’t what I had in mind. Why does everything in my life end up revolving around poo? I know which cat it is and he better stay out of my way and my ‘play area’ or he’ll find himself terrorising the neighbourhood wearing Huggies Size 5.
The problem with Chickie’s one man show is that, whilst enthralling for him, it can be rather dull, laborious and tiresome for others. As much as I admire his persistence and single minded determination in his repeatedly futile attempts to slot the key into the iddy biddy lock, after the 2000th time and an hour’s wait to open the door, intervention is often necessary. However, Chickie has taken to having breakdowns every time assistance is offered. They're wildly dramatic, energetic and unrelenting.
In addition to his new aggressively executed D-I-Y approach to life, his cautious nature requires his Mummy to never be more than a metre from his side in case he encounters any problems on his path to independence. Trying to do anything without tripping over Short-Stuff has become a problem. If he loses sight of Mummy for a second, the wailing begins.
My usual cunning is failing me and I’ve no more innovative ideas to distract Chickie whilst I make a run for it. It seems my only option is to incorporate The Chick into every aspect of daily routine. Whether hanging from the hoover, the clothes line, my leg or a wheelbarrow, Chickie only really stops crying when he’s supervising mummy’s activities or eating chocolate. However, after finding my ‘groove’ and becoming housewife supremo, Chickie’s new found interest in my domestic affairs is affecting performance levels.
I used to rely on the two hour nap window to whiz around the house like a human duster but even that has come to an end, as all good things must. After repeated night wakings, a two hour nap was deemed too long by all those consulted and so I’m having to do the unthinkable and wake him after an hour. Heartbreaking.
Hopes were hinged on the Adventure Playground being completed at the end of the garden shortly but, it seems the “play bark” I lovingly and knackeringly prepared for Chickie over a three day period, is, in fact, a giant litter tray. Whilst I’m anxious for Chickie’s focus to be redirected, him snacking on cat poo whilst I get on with the ironing isn’t what I had in mind. Why does everything in my life end up revolving around poo? I know which cat it is and he better stay out of my way and my ‘play area’ or he’ll find himself terrorising the neighbourhood wearing Huggies Size 5.
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