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.