08 November 2009

Open Toy Surgery

I like blaming my husband for things. In fact, cursing Accountant for all the irritating things I encounter on a daily basis, often takes up most of my energy.

So, now that Chickie has set up his own ‘toy testing’ business, I naturally assumed one of his father’s rogue chromosomes was responsible.

“Can you superglue this, mummy?” said Chick, showing me his spitfire.
“Another one?” I cried, shaking my head at Accountant in the kitchen as if he’d broken it himself.
“Afraid so” said Chick before wandering off to subject more toys to his four stage ‘testing’ procedure:

Stage 1 “Abuse Test”: What falls off if toy is pummelled on floor?
Stage 2 “Impact Test”: What falls off if toy is thrown across room?
Stage 3 “Tumble Test”: What falls off if toy is thrown down stairs?
Stage 4 “Tension Test”: (stuffed/beanbag toys) – what comes out if toy is sat on repeatedly?

Chick reappeared, holding ‘Tyrone’, his T-Rex.

“It’s in two bits” he beamed.

It took me a moment to fathom how one big lump of plastic dinosaur had split in two before realising that the loud thudding noise I’d been ignoring had probably been Tyrone succumbing to ‘Stage 1 Abuse’ testing.

We locked eyes, my voice a sinister whisper. “Santa watches you ALL the time” I rasped, “and if he sees you breaking your toys,” Chick nodded, “they’ll be no Christmas.” I looked suitably scared on his behalf.

“Sorry Mummy” he offered immediately.
“Don’t apologise to me.”
“Sorry Santa” he said, looking at the chimney.

Pleased with my cunning, I sent my reformed son off to enjoy his new attitude.

Minutes later, sobs drew me to where Chick sat quivering. “It just broke” he offered in a big breath, holding up what once was a bi-plane.

My eyebrow twitched. “How?”

In an Oscar winning performance, Chickie’s incredulousness was communicated with the deepest of shrugs and by the rising and falling of a voice overwhelmed by utter shock. He was so good, I almost believed that the metal wing simply detached itself right in front of his very eyes.

“The truth?” I encouraged, frowning.
He stuck to his story before eventually asking, “Is it always good to tell the truth Mummy?”
I winced as I recalled all the times I’d asked Accountant whether my bottom looked big but I didn’t falter. “Yes”.

Following a full confession and the subsequent confiscation of all of his toys, Chickie sat glaring at me whilst I discussed his latest phase with my mother.

“Oh, he’s just like you were” she tweeted.
“What?” I scoffed, reminding her of my perfect school reports.

Then she reminded me of how I dismantled my bunk bed on holiday, painted all her doors black and carved a cross in her dining table.

“Oh” I managed, before blaming her for not channelling my creativity more effectively.

02 November 2009

Glue His Mouth Up, It'll Match His Ears

Accountant doesn’t seem to hear as well as me. He also seems to have trouble identifying everyday objects located right in front of his very eyes. Add to this, his contraction of glue ear, and you too could enjoy Saturday mornings like this:

Acc [in pants and socks in kitchen]: Where’ve you hidden my cafetiere?
Me [unconscious in bed]: You left it by the toaster.
Acc: The roller coaster?
Chick [sat on my head]: I want a roller coaster?
Me: I said TOASTER!
Acc [not moving to look]: It’s not there.
Me [red faced]: Near the percolator.
Acc [still not moving]: There is no cheese grater?
Chick [bouncing on my head]: I want a roller coaster. Plllleeeassseeeee...
Me [purple faced]: You might actually have to move something to see it.
Chick [still bouncing]: Where mummy? Can I see it?
Acc: Why do you keep hiding things?
Chick [intrigued]: Why did you hide it mummy? Let’s find it [flinging off my duvet]
Me [cold and weeping]: I didn’t hide anything. There is no roller coaster.
Chick [exasperated]: There is! I want one. [sobs]
Acc: Where’s my coffee?

Reclaiming the duvet, I slid underneath it.

I heard Accountant pad into the bedroom so wrapped myself up tighter than a fajita in my 15 tog cocoon. Chickie began enquiries about swapping me for a mummy who didn’t hide roller coasters.

“Where’ve you hidden the coffee?” Accountant’s voice was muffled. A pleasing start.
“Coffee?” he tried again.
“Liz?” he began tugging at the covers, but my resistance was strong.
“Daddy, I want a rollercoaster?” chirped Chick.

It took an hour before I agreed to come out and my terms were simple:

I would no longer be expected to answer any questions that:

a) I’d answered before
b) required basic thought before asking
c) were anything to do with fairground rounds

It was a great success, rendering Accountant practically mute. I spent a blissful day soaking up the sound of bird song whilst eavesdropping on the wind whispering to the autumn leaves.

I decided it was definitely sustainable on a long term basis.

The next day, in clear breach of my Restricted Speech Policy, Accountant asked where I’d hidden Chickie’s shoes.

“In his wardrobe” I huffed.

Accountant insisted not. I stomped past him, vowing to ram one into each gluey ear, before coming to a flabbergasted halt. Accountant leaned in, eyebrows jiggling high above his head, a lopsided smirk grazing his earlobe.

I avoided eye contact as I struggled with the shocking revelation that they weren’t actually there.

“I told you” he trumpeted.

“I love you too, sweetheart” I tried, before making a hasty retreat. Accountant was in hot pursuit. I broke into a power walk.

“Say sorry” he began.
“Grey lorry?” I replied.
“I want a lorry” piped Chick.

I kissed his cheek before casting a loving wink at my husband. “Discuss it with daddy” I added before skipping away.