Who's The Mummy!

It could be that Chickie’s finally grasped that I’m the one who dispenses all the jelly babies, but I’m in favour. He’s declared me ‘favourite primary care giver’ and pushed daddy out of our bed with his feet, curling up like a hedgehog in the warm trench left behind. He then suggested to daddy, sat on the floor, that he might like to try the toddler bed in the other room.

Accountant, unused to being as unpopular as me, looked up at him like an unwanted puppy. Seizing the opportunity to capitalise on such a cruel and physical rejection, I asked Chickie who he liked best.

“Mummy” he trilled, looking up at me adoringly.
“You’ve chosen wisely, grasshopper. Let’s get Daddy to get you a jelly baby!”
“Yeah!” His expectant face turned to Accountant, who scowled back.
“Get it Daddy” encouraged Chickie when Daddy didn’t spring to his feet.
“Daddy’s rubbish. Mummy would have got you three by now!”
“Yes Daddy. Get move on”. Chickie’s conversational skills were blossoming. Daddy trudged off all huffy and puffy.
“Smashing” declared Chickie in a Bolton accent, on receiving the goods.
“Smashing?” Accountant’s face crumpled in bewilderment.

Whilst I knew why Chickie was doing Peter Kay impressions, I didn’t really want to tell Accountant that it was from Roary the Racing Car. Nor did I want to mention why he could now pronounce, “Madagascar” perfectly, or how he could fully explain the pollination process thanks to Bee Movie.

It had all started so innocently. He was ill and I found Shrek in the cupboard. It soothed him. As we snuggled under the blanket together we suddenly realised we shared a deep, unbreakable bond that would connect us forever. We both LOVED snuggling under blankets and watching telly.

When he started getting better, we still had Garfield and The Chipmunks to watch and we didn’t want to miss those. As days turned into weeks, Chickie became reluctant to do anything that didn’t involve one of his new computer-animated friends. I’d created a monster - one that was quiet for hours and worshipped me. The old monster spat my name from his lips and was as soothing to my nerves as a root canal. Finally an effective parenting tool, after pouring through all those heavyweight manuals (not one of which ever mentioned the astonishing results of television addiction).

But when Chickie’s skin turned a reclusive shade of beige and he started to refuse to go out unless his dvd box could come too, I knew our blissful fortnight as couch potatoes must end. So Chickie’s in rehab and we’re back to mood swings, temper tantrums and an unwillingness to co-operate.

But, on second thoughts, what good is fresh air and an ability to interact in society if you don’t know the names of all the Mister Men?