An Accountant A Hypochondriac and A Boy Called Chickie

New Blog!

2011-07-27T17:02:00.002Z

Hi there, I've got a new blog on the go www.ruby-roux.blogspot.com ... check it out xxx

Mouse Hunt

2010-01-22T13:22:00.002Z

It all started when I pretended the squeaking in our understairs cupboard was a mouse. It's actually the gas meter clock thing turning around. It all went a bit quiet so I knew something was going down. Just look what I found garnishing my recycling inside the cupboard (still dressed as Superman you'll note).

Hamster Sandwiches Please Mum....

2010-01-20T19:22:00.005Z

Thought I would try and start uploading my photos more regularly to make up for the fact I haven't been writing! The photography course I'm doing is taking up a lot of time but, as a picture paints a thousand words, I'm hoping they might compensate (for the time being) for the lack of wordage!

This is what happened when Chickie said he'd like Hamster sandwiches for lunch!

P.S. For those of you who like photography, check out this link to a new site I like called 'Beyond Snapshots' ...

Open Toy Surgery

2009-11-08T18:48:00.000Z

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.

Glue His Mouth Up, It'll Match His Ears

2009-11-02T10:30:00.000Z

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.

My Little Boy is 4!

2009-10-26T11:48:00.001Z

I’m not a perfectionist anymore.

I realised this on Saturday, in Morrisons, stood in front of disposable tablewears (Indicator No 1) last minute shopping (Indicator No 2) for Chickie’s fourth birthday party. One pack of perforated paper tablecloths were slung into my basket alongside non-matching paper napkins (Indicators No 3&4).

In 2007, preparing for Chickie’s second birthday party went something like this:

Two months prior, family members received ‘The Masterplan’ outlining the ‘creative vision’ and responsibilities.

Accountant – Runner
Sister – Make Up and Hair Design
Grandad – Set Design and Props
Grandpa – Sound and Lighting Technician
Nanna – Food and Beverage Manager
Grandma – Post Production Co-ordinator
Me – Creative Director

A homemade ‘Happy Birthday’ banner featuring three self-illustrated chicks in orange and yellow formed the central theme.

Co-ordinating invitations, an exact pantone match to the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner, were designed and circulated.

Chick balloons reinforced the theme and we all remember the look of relief on Grandad’s face (Set and Props) when he finally tracked down the only yellow and orange balloons with chicks on them in the Home Counties.

On the big day, the team gathered together at 0800 hours in the church hall for their motivational briefing. This was especially important for Mum (Food and Beverages) who never responded particularly well to the pressure, tending not to sleep or eat for the fortnight preceding the party. Giving her the additional responsibility of creating a three tier train cake with alternating orange and yellow chickie passengers had left her looking unwell. I nodded in my sister’s direction (Hair and Make Up) before pointing at our mother, who was muttering to a tray of ‘chick’ themed fairy cakes in the corner.

“If we can all just focus our attention back to the flipchart” I said, tapping my marker against the board.

Mum looked up with red-rimmed eyes.
“Right then, you clear on what’s to be done?”
Six beige faces stared back.
“Go, go, go!!!” I encouraged, shooing them off to be the best that they could be.

In the post-party de-briefing, Grandad came to realise that incorporating a pink balloon in the entrance decor was against everything the party stood for and clearly not on my diagram, and Accountant was enlightened on the fact that using a ripped piece of serviette as a ‘present table sign’ was grounds for divorce and almost compromised the entire project. Nanna was encouraged to practise her icing skills and Grandma to develop more initiative.

“But thanks for your help. Next year, we’ll make it even better” I concluded.

And we did. Nanna had colour in her cheeks. Grandad had sausage rolls in his. The balloons clashed with the party boxes, the invites had a typo, the cake was from Sainsbury’s and the only theme was mayhem.

In honour of the birthday boy, who has taught me that perfection is not for him!

The White House

2009-10-19T16:26:00.002Z

Stood before Lola’s playhouse in the garden, I listened as her mother (a new acquaintance) updated me on its recent refurbishment.
“We just put the carpet in” she explained, stroking the Laura Ashley curtains framing the windows.

I poked my head in. “The wallpaper’s lovely” I added, wondering what species of child she had and why she’d got one instead of me. I pictured Chickie’s playhouse at home, splattered with mud, decorated with dead spiders and mostly used as a giant footstool to scale the fence into next door’s garden.

“The three piece suite is lovely” I cooed, before closing the stable door on dreams of motherhood I’d once entertained.

“Perhaps Chick should play indoors?” I suggested as we walked back towards the house.

“It’ll be fine” she said, waving her hand in that way people do when they’ve no idea what they’re dealing with. Whilst she went to the kitchen to make some tea, I surveyed her living room with its white everything and toys in labelled boxes – ‘animals, dollies, miscellaneous’. I felt like I’d booked a chimp into Champneys. I looked into the garden to see him happily relocating decorative stones from her feature border to her drain.

A bolt of pure anxiety propelled me outside. Whilst continuing my chatty repartee with her, I did my best to sound like my cheek wasn’t pressed against her patio slab and my right arm wasn’t being used as a drain rod.

After a quick scrub down, I perched nervously atop the white leather sofa, resisting the urge to bite my nails as I watched Chickie enter the playhouse.

“Here we are” she trilled, appearing with a tray of French Fancies.

“Lovely” I said, smiling as my eyes crept over to Chickie’s grinning face peering back before he slowly shut the door. Gentle palpitations pattered across my chest.

As my friend ran through her interior design plans for Lola’s dollhouse, I realised this was a mother who had never had to cut her child’s fingernails off to gain access to the dirt underneath. She didn’t have to wash her sofa covers every fortnight. There were no teeth marks in her furniture. And I bet she’d never once had to hose Lola down before pre-school. We were parenting polar opposites.

“They’re playing so nicely” she remarked, nodding towards the playhouse which was now very, very quiet. In my experience, this was not a good sign.

“I’ll just check all’s well” I called back as I fled across the lawn.

And there was my son surrounded by the usual carnage. My friend gasped behind me. “I’m so sorry...” I whispered, tugging Lola out from under the sofa.

At nightfall, after re-categorising the toys according to purpose and colour, we returned to the home specifically tailored to suit our child. With washable paint on the walls, washable fabrics on the soft furnishings and nothing white in sight.

Cat and Mouse

2009-10-12T10:51:00.001Z

It was risky but, due to babysitter shortages, Chick was coming with me to meet the Headmistress of his potential new school. Before we left, I gave a short but inspirational ‘briefing’.

“You see these sweeties” I removed the jar of Percy Piglets from the shelf before wafting them around his nose. Chick inhaled, his pupils dilating with longing as he nodded emphatically.

“Well” I whispered, crouching down, “they can all be yours.” Now in a trance like state, Chick’s eyeballs never strayed from the piglets. “All you have to do is be SUPER good when we go to big school.”

He licked his lips. “Agreed then” I said, patting his head before bundling him into the car. On the way, I ran through some behavioural expectations.

“Remember manners. Don’t run. No squawking, roaring or spitfire impressions. Whatever mummy asks, do it quickly and quietly.” Chickie stared ahead.

“Your entire future depends on it” I added in a sinister whisper for dramatic emphasis. Confident that my four year old now understood the importance of the occasion, we trotted off, to meet Mrs Bewbush.

In my head, when imagining the introductions, Chick had been waiting, cross legged, whilst flicking through ‘GCSE Maths: Higher Level, The Revision Guide.’ What I hadn’t anticipated was that I’d be pulling him out by his legs from beneath a giant paper mache elephant.

“Let go of that carpet tile now!” I spat through gritted teeth, whilst turning around to smile sweetly at the Headmistress and the other families who were all waiting patiently for Chickie to release his grip.

Once retrieved, I whispered, “They’ll be no Percies now, Mister” before he scampered off down the corridor. And then nipped through an open door into the playground. Agog, I stared at the retreating silhouette I couldn’t quite believe was mine as it sprinted across the running track before disappearing. I apologised to Mrs Bewbush who continued her presentation as I took up pursuit.

“They’ll be no sweets, no aeroplanes, no playdates, no bike, no trains and no FUN!” I ranted at the child smirking at me as I pulled him back across the field towards the normal families. “Wait till I get you home” I jabbered on.

Later, at home, Chickie was distinctly unimpressed as I closed all his blinds and tucked him into bed at lunchtime. Ignoring his wails, I stomped downstairs to email his father.

Eventually, all that could be heard was the tv. Until the chuckling started. Curious, I checked his room, where he was no longer in residence. Nor was he in our room, or anywhere upstairs.

That’s because he was on the sofa – enjoying cartoons. Until I started chasing him around the living room, out into the garden and then back up into his bedroom - the Tom and Jerry theme tune, playing in the background.

Street Wars

2009-10-05T12:14:00.002Z

As I waited in the car park for my sister and our appointment to view the ‘out of catchment’ school of choice for Chickie, a sudden knock on the window almost made me wet my pants.

Two familiar faces peered in. Philip and Louisa from No 32. The perfect couple with above average everything.

They waited, all attractive and intelligent looking, whilst I clambered out of the car. After a posh double/triple kiss (the one where I never know which cheek to kiss first or the right number of kisses to apply and end up headbutting everyone), I casually asked, “What are you doing here?”

“We’ve got an appointment to see the school” Philip chimed. Drat - they lived at least 20 metres closer to the school than us.

“You’re both looking especially dapper” I commented, raising an eyebrow. Philip looked like he was wearing Armani and Louisa’s outfit seemed tightly based around the tones of his aqua pink twill stripe Windsor double cuff shirt.
“Yes, well I was wearing something very similar to what you’ve got on” she nodded at my woolly dress and leggings, “but Philip sent me back upstairs to change.”
“Yes, it’s very important to make the right impression, don’t you think?” he beamed.

At which point my sister over-revved her way into our lives before abandoning her giant car at an angle that effectively shut off emergency access to the school.

“Her boys used to come here” I explained as she started to weep as we made our way across to reception. “And she was so very active within the school” I added, smiling up at Philip sweetly as all the teachers rushed out to hug her.

After signing in, my sister and I took our seats across from the administrative team. Philip began to tut. “Oh dear, I think you’ll find it’s the 30th today, Liz” he said loudly, peering smugly over the visitors book at me. “Shall I correct your entry?” I glared at my sister who had told me it was the 29th.

When the Headmistress appeared, I resisted the urge to curtsey, and to stick my tongue out at Philip as she asked after my two nephews.

Then the tour began. Louisa and Philip powered through a list of Jeremy Paxman style questions including curriculum, funding and class sizes. I cooed over the shabby chic toilet cubicles.

“It’s all so tidy” commented Philip.
“Thank you” said the Headmistress.
“Yes, how is Meredith getting on with her destructive phase?” I asked Louisa.

“Have you heard about Chick’s ASBO?” Philip asked my sister.
I laughed along before mentioning how he got a special star for ‘Participation’ in his Sunday School last week.

Afterwards, when Philip had finalised their harvest festival donation arrangements, we walked back to our cars, before double kissing each other and racing each other back to our street.

The House that Sunlight Forgot

2009-09-28T12:31:00.000Z

Deep within the darkest of woods, a huge French chateau cast its shadow over the land and a lone figure waited within.

At dusk, an English family approached and the mother knew immediately that she’d made a grave mistake.

“Wow” said Accountant, “it’s massive!”

“BATS!” squealed Chickie as we got out of the car, pointing towards the third floor of our accommodation where a steady stream of winged silhouettes were firing from the roof.

Suddenly, I longed to curl up like a hedgehog and roll myself back across the Channel.

Arthritic trees contorted towards the fading light, their sad swooshing, the only reprieve in the quietest of quiets.

The spindly caretaker arose from the front steps, beckoning us inside.

Positioned beneath a stuffed moose, opposite the stuffed deer and to the right of the medieval weaponry, I smiled weakly at Madame Cadiet as she demonstrated the shutters. My eyes crept over the brass devil faces with their hollowed out eyes and horns.

“It smells like a church” whispered Accountant. His unexpected breath on my neck, the cause of a mild heart attack. Clutching my chest, I tippy toed further into the nightmare.

A complex labyrinth of bedrooms, bathrooms and corridors followed adorned with menacing little dolls, giant crucifixes and paintings of hangings. The third floor was cordoned off. Madame pointed upwards, barking “non” and shaking her head vigorously.

“Non?” I queried, keen for expansion.
“NON!” came the reply.

“Anything you need?” she asked upon leaving.
“My daddy” sprang to mind but I shook my head until she became just another shadow.

“I love this boo-ti-ful house mummy!”
“It’s the perfect haunted house!” added Accountant enthusiastically.
I glared at him. “What?” he squeaked, wide eyed and gormless, as only men can be.
“I’m not keen” I whispered without moving my lips so as not to alert Chickie to my distress.
“You don’t like it? Why?” Accountant boomed.
“Mummy?” Chickie’s bottom lip wobbled.

I glared at Accountant. He stared back, wide eyed and gormless.

Later, I sat down with the guest book, eager for reassurance that others had survived their holiday. Thank you to Claude from Belgium as, without him, I might never have known that Monsieur Litoux died in the house in 1983.

That night, lying rigid atop the 130 year old mattress and the kitchen knife I’d tucked underneath, I listened to the trees whispering about me outside the window.

Whilst Chickie and Accountant snored away the longest night of my life, I pondered whether it was the first time that all the occupants of a nine bedroom house had wedged into one bed. Then I pondered the padlocked third floor. And the padlocked cellar. And the wardrobe in our room, big enough to comfortably house a lion, a witch and a serial killer.

A day earlier than planned, Accountant drove his twitching wife back across the Channel, all curled up in her seat, just like a hedgehog.

STOP THIS MAN!

2009-09-05T16:26:00.001Z

One of the great things about family is that you can write about them in the local paper and they still have to love you!

So, Daddykins, despite your inheritance withdrawal threats, I’d like to discuss last Wednesday.

Here’s what happened.

Approximately five years ago, my mother and I had a conversation a bit like this:

Mum: “Your father’s got high cholesterol”
Me: “How high?”
Mum: “High” (accompanied by a suitably grave look and a muttered disclaimer that she warned him not to eat so many custard tarts)

When dad returned from the golf course, he found me waiting, eager to discuss the lifestyle changes I had planned for him.

“Right” I began, “they’ll be no more bacon butties or pudding of any kind. No cheese and no butter on your toast anymore”. I paused to think, “In fact, no more toast! You can eat muesli”. Dad remained silent, still clutching his golf bag.

“No sausages, no crispy duck, no fatty cuts of meat. You can kiss goodbye to whole-milk dairy products too”. I looked up to assess absorption levels. “Mum, write this down!” I snapped as I caught her glancing at dad with sympathy in her eyes. “And no muffins, no cookies and no pastry!”

Dad stared bleakly back at mum which I took as his acceptance to my terms. “I’ll be back in a week to review your progress” I stated, marching out in a self-righteous huff, having badgered him for years about his relationship with saturated fats.

To be fair, initially, he was good and I was pleased. But then he fell off the wagon and just kept on rolling. Pleas, sleepless nights and Heart Foundation pamphlets did nothing.

Which brings us back to last Wednesday when I was invited round to dinner. Upon arrival, I handed him a ‘please stop eating’ letter I’d written, confident that all the love and fluff enclosed within its five pages would surely pull at those clogged heartstrings. He read it, in silence.

Seated for dinner, the anticipation of dad’s new child size portion brought peace to my soul.

Until I saw five roast potatoes making their descent towards the table, set off beautifully by two large portions of crackling.

He avoided eye contact as he quietly positioned himself before them.

I waited until his fork was but a breath away before whipping the hardened lumps of pure pork fat off of his plate, confiscating them indefinitely. I glared at mum, who should have known better. Then I glared at dad.

Now I have no choice but to ask for the public’s help.

So, if you see a white haired Ken Barlow look-a-like around town, who looks like he could be about to tuck into anything other than a rice cake, please inform the Worthing Herald immediately.

Together we will stop him!

To Do - Lifestyle Review

2009-08-28T13:09:00.001Z

I love lists. To Do ones. Shopping ones. His and her life goal ones. Accountant looked less keen as I presented him with ‘ourfiveyearplan.doc’ when he walked through the door.

Inspired by a visit to a friend’s pastel dollhouse, I decided it was time for one last push for perfection and jotted down some thoughts before typing up and colour coding our dreams for the future.

More outdoorsey (me)
Triatheletes (both)
Co-ordinated dresser (him)
Smaller boned (me)
Straighter teethed (me)
Gracious, patient, serene (me)
Eager to please (him)
Fluent in French (both)
Grow organic vegetables (expert horticulturist) (one of us)
Shinier hair (me)
Advanced DIY skills (him)
Less spotty (me)
Six pack (him)
Obedient (him/Chickie)

Accountant pulled a pen from his suit and defaced all my hard work. I attempted to read his revisions but he waved them above my head. I made a mental note to add ‘taller’ to the list.

He started reading, “Smaller bottom (her), seasoned camper (her), spatially aware (her), basic arithmetic (her) and buy a caravan (me)”, before thrusting the list in my face and strolling off towards the kitchen. My eyes narrowed menacingly as I noted his sketch of a giant bottom.

Later that night, as I sat reading ‘Growing Vegetables’ whilst listening to ‘Intense French’, Accountant lay wedged in the deepest recesses of the sofa, flicking between Miss Marple and The Professionals.

I paused the French. “Perhaps you should think about getting to work on that six pack, Sweetheart?”

“Yes” he agreed. My mouth fell open as he bounced straight up. I beamed at him lovingly as he walked towards me. He smiled back, gliding past, before coming to rest at the fridge.

He winked at me as he trundled back to his indentation in the sofa, Guinness in hand.

The next night I was reading up on problem complexions, when I looked out the window to see my neighbour’s husband bounding back home from his jog, sports bottle in one hand, buggy and baby in other. I reached for the list. “Multi-tasking – him.” Who knew men were capable of such cunning.

“Sweetheart” I yelled downstairs, eager to update him on his new task. No response. “SWEETHEART!!!” Nothing.

“I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!” I shouted, stomping down the stairs. Muffled oinks greeted me as I stepped into the living room, where my beloved lay sprawled face down, gently sucking the sofa cover in and out of his mouth. A small drool pool at the base of his bottom lip put time of unconsciousness at approximately 8pm.

I returned to the study, watching as super husband did his stretches in the front garden whilst weeding the lawn.

Turning on the computer, I started my column, appreciating as I wrote, how perfect Accountant actually was for someone like me.

Can't Take The Pace!

2009-08-24T21:07:00.002Z

As I stared blankly across the table at Patrick, cursing the headache I’d had since the summer holidays began, it took me a few seconds to register that Chickie’s little friend didn’t look quite right. He was rocking gently as Chickie prattled on at him about cheese and light sabers.

“SSshhhh” I said, trying to focus on Patrick, who hadn’t blinked in over a minute. Chickie moved onto flip flops and nobblybobblies.

“Patrick” I said softly, waving a hand in front of his colourless face. He continued to stare ahead, through glasses that now rested at a 45 degree angle to his sunken eyes.

“Patrick!” I said, more insistent as I heard his mother walking back towards us.

Chickie joined in the fun. “PATRICK, PATRICK,!!” he yelled, leaping up and down like a ‘Pop-Up-Pirate’.

The gentle force of Chickie’s interest brought Patrick round momentarily before he fell asleep, once again, with his eyes open.

“I’m so sorry” I said to Patrick’s mother as he collapsed into his plate of cheese and pickle sandwiches. “I gave him loads to drink to compensate for all the sweating...” I trailed off as she lifted his head from the worktop and began picking crumbs out of his matted hair.

She tells me it took Patrick over a week to recover from his playdate with Chickie.

Then came Megan. A sweet little girl, with blonde waves in her hair and innocence in her eyes. At Amazon Adventures, she waited patiently as Chickie changed into his thermoregulation sportswear before skipping off holding his hand.

The next time I saw her hand, it was been dragged in the opposite direction to which it wanted to go, up three levels, through a giant mangler, up the rope nets, to infinity and beyond.

Whilst she was being pushed to her physical limits, her mother and I sipped tea and chatted about her night waking.

Megan would reappear briefly every now and again, each time, her hair slightly curlier than before. She’d gulp down some fluids before Chickie would reappear, much like Jaws, to take her again.

At one point, she broke free, hiding behind her hands, cuddling up to her mummy.

Chickie found her and nodded enthusiastically when asked if the girl cowering behind her fingers was his girlfriend. Megan peered through a gap at her mummy, desperate for it not to be true.

“Let’s go again!” he yanked at her, unbothered that Megan’s core body temperature had exceeded recommended levels.

When we left, Chickie skipping, Megan hobbling, I waved another friend goodbye. Forever.

Or so I thought.

Then a text arrived.

“Megan didn’t move all night! She stayed in her bed! Say thanks to Chick!”

So, if your poppet’s not sleeping, just call ‘Chickie Extreme Sleep Solutions’ – so effective, they’ll be unconscious even when they’re still conscious!

Officially Middle-Aged

2009-08-18T10:04:00.000Z

I don’t know the exact moment in time when I became my parents but I think it was around Monday or Tuesday of last week.

I was stood on my neighbour’s doorstep discussing her new self-styled fringe, the left side of which had been a great triumph in hairdressing terms. The right side - less so, looking more like it had been chewed off.

To ease my neighbour’s suffering, I removed the three extra-strong kirby grips on top of my head, allowing the ravaged hair beneath to poke up into the fresh air for the first time in six months.

“I cut it myself too” I whispered, pointing to my “Something About Mary” style tuft whilst glancing over both shoulders to check the immaculately coiffed occupants of No 98 weren’t laughing at us through their net curtains.

“It’s just that hair cuts are so expensive” she said, stroking her severed hair.
“Oh, I know, it’s ridiculous” I replied, strapping down my quiff again.

After that conversation, came the conversation at playgroup about Tesco Clubcard savings. I brought it up. On purpose. I talked about the credit card benefits, the amazing clubcard deals, the best ways to earn points, bags for life and concluded my findings with a Tesco versus Waitrose essentials range cost/benefit analysis. And I wrote the ASDA Lancing Store grand opening on my calendar.

Then, I started darning, without even realising it. One night, I sat happily for hours, with Accountant’s fermenting socks composting in my lap, smiling contentedly as I held up the mended article to the light.

And I inexplicably have loads of money off coupons. I’ve started unconsciously cutting them out and putting them in a drawer. Just like my mother-in-law.

I also read the August Somerfield magazine cover to cover, lifting up the page with ‘Credit Munch of the month’ to show Accountant. “Cod with a Spice Rub, feeds 4 for £4” I chirped.

But the chilling moment when I suddenly realised I belonged in a Doris Day film was when my dad began his weekly ‘roast chicken’ report.

Historically, I have always been blessed with the ability to completely ignore him when he excitedly details the weight and class of the chicken, how he was just there at the right time (3.58:03pm every Sunday), and they were marking them down and he bought 3 for £2.99 instead of £14,72.... BUT last week, not only did I listen but I found myself equally enthralled at the prospect.

So, if you should see me and I start talking to you about fabric conditioner or I’m bulldozing you out the way at the Special Offers cabinet, you have my permission to slap me (gently) with a roast chicken.

Charity Case!

2009-08-04T12:47:00.001Z

Accountant seemed unusually pleased with me as he came over to dollop a big kiss on my head.

Confused, I looked round at him from where I sat at the kitchen table. He nodded at the computer in front of me, beaming broadly. I turned to look at the screen, wondering what was going on.

“That’s excellent” he commended, patting my shoulder as he nodded approvingly at the Oxfam website I’d been checking out before he’d wandered in.

I wasn’t sure why it was so excellent but Accountant’s love levels were clearly soaring. It felt like a good time to ask for stuff.

“Any chance of a cup of tea?”

“Of course” he responded before zooming off towards the kettle. Whilst he clattered around, I continued my online activities.

On his return, he seemed less pleased, craning his head towards the computer before enquiring as to what it was exactly that I was doing. I felt it safest to clarify what it was exactly he’d thought I’d been doing.

Fundraising, fighting climate change, organising outreach projects were some of his suggestions.

I nodded as if in deep ethical contemplation whilst casually guiding the cursor towards the minimiser icon in the corner of the screen.

“Mmm” I stalled for time as Oxfam’s Secondhand Clothes Store “1000s of women’s clothes and accessories” became a neat rectangular giveaway on my lower toolbar.

Accountant shook his head. “Shopping is like donating..” I began as his disappointment sent him shuffling off.

A few days later, my charitable nature found me in a clash of wills with a pensioner in the ‘Help the Aged’ shop. At stake, a pair of vintage Carvella shoes.

The nanna won and followed me into ‘Link Romania’, taunting me with her bargain. “Yours for 20 quid” she cackled from behind the paperbacks.

I consoled myself by finding Accountant a pair of shoes for £6. He trotted off to work in them the next day, almost agreeing with me as I wittered on about how my love of shopping and his love of saving could finally co-exist and he seemed pleased with me again.

Until 9.30am, when he left a message on my mobile. “There’s a massive crack in the soles of these shoes.”

A text followed at 10am, “The soles are crumbling all over my floor.”

11am: “There are bits of shoe all over the office.”

And 1pm. “I have no shoes on now and the Partners are asking who it is leaving black stuff all over the office!”

When Accountant arrived home in his socks, he explained how his heel fell off in the middle of a client meeting, landing on the floor, £6-price-sticker side up.

As he wandered away, leaving a trail of black bits in his wake, I decided it might be time for an Accountant Outreach Programme.

All donations payable to me!

Chickie and the Thunderstorm

2009-07-20T10:42:00.000Z

At the first clap of thunder, against all my instincts, I played it cool. Chickie was peering at me from under his duvet and I knew better than anyone how a mother’s reactions to life’s little dramas could end up costing you a fortune in counselling fees.

Chickie was sporting the same expression he’d worn the first time he’d heard a balloon go pop. A full blown phobia naturally followed. The first bang at any party now his starter gun for a 100 metre sprint to the car.

“Is there light-er-nin?”
“Shall we see?” My acting was brilliant. Calm, nonchalant. I even managed to sound excited.
“Yeah!” Chickie was fooled.
Inching towards his bedroom window, I reached out a cautious hand to pull up the blind.
Chickie clambered up onto the bay windowsill, reaching for his toy telescope.
When the first flash came, I tried to style out the scream that had been waiting in my throat since my charade had begun.
Chickie eyed me suspiciously through his giant lens.

Then something astonishing happened. Chickie arose, short and stout, but magnificent with the added height advantage of the window ledge beneath him. The thunder crashed and his fearless, hyperactive shadow dazzled as firebolts filled the blackness surrounding him.

With each boom, Chickie appeared to gain more power. He was beginning to remind me a lot of He-Man at the ‘POWER OF GREYSKUL’ bit. It was at this point, I became as scared of Chickie ‘The Electromagnetic Toddler’ as the thunderstorm.

But then, storms when I was young, had been dealt with differently. My mother made no attempts to hide her naked terror and although I’m sure she didn’t actually run around screaming, “we’re all going to die!” I definitely got that vibe.

In the event of a storm, my mother had a simple plan.

1. My sister wore wellies
2. I wore marigolds
3. Mum took tranquilisers

Then came the running. Instructed to take off directly after the last lightning bolt and before the next clap of thunder, we would sprint, for what my sister and I could only assume was, for our lives, to the car. There we would sit. In the darkness. In the garage. Wearing rubber.

Personally, I liked to spend this special family time praying that the 100 foot Ilex tree directly opposite the garage wouldn’t be hit by lightning. Mum liked to hyperventilate.

Now watching Chick as he demanded that I watch ‘HIS’ storm, I was struggling to believe how any blood relative of mine could actually be suited to thunder. Personally, I was more a mild summer’s day. Accountant, by profession, probably drizzle. My mother, a force of nature unto herself.

A Fabulous Find!

2009-07-14T11:36:00.001Z

“So, are you having anymore?” The girl asking the question nodded in my son’s direction. I followed her gaze as Chick, now one of the biggest boys at playgroup, practised his t-rex impression on all the babies, delighting in the way they vibrated, and then wailed, in their bouncy chairs.

“He’s a limited edition” I replied as I scurried off to apologise to all the mummy’s frantically cooing at the neat row of open mouths.

Once again, I explained to him the principles of pleasantness and how, if applied often, harmony and inner-peace would surely follow. Chick charged off towards the Rich Tea Fingers.

As he worked the biscuit lady in charge of distribution, I mulled over the ‘anymore?’ question which, lately, someone seemed to be asking me every day.

It had been over three years and, despite promises that I’d change my mind about never, ever, ever having a 10lb 1½ oz baby EVER again, I was still very comfortable with the idea.

Plus, Chickie’s energy levels were equal to that of three regular children and five springer spaniels.

But then came the ‘only child’ sympathy gaze. Wistful eyes would be cast over the little boy who faced a life of solitude because his mother was a wimp.

“He has friends round every day” I justified, but their expressions remained the same.

A few days later, my friend asked me if I might be able to have her son for the afternoon. Initially, I was scared. Two boys, co-incidentally born on the same day, in my sole charge.

So, that afternoon, Patrick was delivered. Looking a lot like Chick, but with glasses, he bid me a good afternoon. Chickie galloped around in circles, foaming at the mouth. Patrick excused himself to play trains.

Then the magic happened. The Patrick magic. His soothing, managerial style, a damper block to Chickie’s constant vibrations. It was the most peaceful afternoon I’ve enjoyed since Chickie gave up naps.

At 7pm, I reluctantly buckled Patrick into his car seat next to Chick. As we drove into the hills, Patrick directed us.
“Right at those arrows and then over there by the double garages”. He was so helpful.
“Mind that car” he added thoughtfully.

At the front door, Chickie and I tried not to cry as Patrick walked out of our lives.
“Thanks for having me” he chimed back over his shoulder.

Chickie began to sob. I bit my lip.

“How are you feeling?” I asked his mum.
“So so” she answered.
“I could have Patrick again tomorrow for you if you like?” Before she could answer I’d arranged collection.

Chick and I skipped back to the car, overjoyed with our discovery of the perfect ready-made twin!

Stop The Car!

2009-07-06T10:09:00.001Z

And there they were. Eight little words that every mother longs to hear. I hit play again on the answering machine, enjoying it for a second time.

My mother’s recording, cautious but still loud enough to be legally binding, asked the question. “Would Chickie like to come for a sleepover?”

“Why yes, yes he would”, I answered aloud, as I skipped off to find the stick that opened the loft hatch.

Climbing the ladder, I made a mental shortlist of restaurants for that evening and began imagining me at 9am the following morning, stretching, yawning and then pulling the duvet back over my head because I’d no need to get up. Not for hours.

I was in the process of unwedging the suitcase from the hatch when another question was presented from below.
“What you doing mummy?”
“Getting your suitcase sweetie!” I chirped.
“We going on holiday?” Chickie sounded excited. “On a boat?”
“You’re going in a car!” I informed him with my most enthusiastic expression.

Making my descent towards Chickie’s happy little face, I beamed at him, basking in all the joy.
“Nanna’s having you for a sleepover!”

The joy suddenly stopped, his smile flipping itself over on his face to convey deep dissatisfaction.
“I don’t want to...” he began.

Feeling the dream was now in mortal jeopardy, I frantically interjected. “You can jump on all the beds, play with grandad’s golf clubs and go to bed really late.”
He mulled this over for a moment before continuing, “no.....”
“I think Nanna’s made some ginger biscuits” I cut in again, lifting my eyebrows as far as they’d go.
He was waivering, I could feel it. “You could squirt Grandad with the hose!”
His lips curled devilishly. I began packing.

Hours later, I bundled him into the car before Nanna and Grandad had brought it to a stop. “Too-da-loo” I began waving, wishing old people didn’t take so long to drive away.
“I want to sleep at mummy’s house.”
I quickened my pace towards the front door.
“I WANT TO SLEEP AT MUMMY’S HOUSE!”
I broke into a light jog. Mum and Dad still hadn’t pulled away and, with all their windows open, it was hard to pretend I couldn’t hear but I kept trying.
As my foot crossed the threshold of my now quiet house, I heard the worst word of all, “Elizabeth!”
I considered making a run for it and hiding behind the front door but then dad had a key.
“Yes” I smiled sweetly, pivoting round to see three unimpressed faces looking back.

Waving Nanna and Grandad off, I looked down at my son, who smiled back.
“Mum” he said
“MMMmmmm”
“I want to sleep at Nanna’s house.”

Nanna finally sped up as I began chasing after her car.

Another Good Idea!

2009-06-28T21:47:00.000Z

“They’ll come back - just shout ‘CHICKEN’” my sister had instructed.
“Chicken” I trilled, waving my empty hand to fool the ‘husky-with-attitude’ who couldn’t even be bothered to look up.
“CHICKEN!!!” I screamed more shrilly, as she bolted in the opposite direction.

A couple moseyed over. “Morning” the chap said, all smirks as ‘Toula’ leapt over a stream, ears flat back as she whizzed even further out of my family’s life.

“CHICKEN!!!!!!!” I yelped, “CHICKEN!”
The couple moved on.

I fully intended to kill my sister when she got back from sipping cocktails in the Royal Albert Hall whilst I stood in a field clutching a sandwich bag filled with her belligerent pet’s steaming poo, pointlessly yelling about poultry.

It wasn’t the only lie she’d told in order to coerce me into house, dog and babysitting her life for the weekend.

For instance, she’d mentioned nothing of her youngest’s tendency to be sick on short car journeys. It seemed he didn’t feel the need to mention it either. With no forewarning, it proved a smashing surprise.

Nor had she mentioned the nightly wart treatments that I was to be so intrinsically involved in.

Chickie groaned from his buggy as he woke from his nap, instantly hysterical as he remembered that he had a sore throat and matching cough. Bo, the good husky tied to his buggy, licked him better.

Whilst I wiped him over with antibacterial wipes, Toula reappeared. I pretended to be pleased to see her, grabbing her whilst she sniffed out treats. “Oh, they’ll be no treats” I informed her once her lead was back on.

Too ill to walk, Chickie remained in his buggy. Too stroppy to walk, Toula lay down. Too young to walk, Bo pulled us all along.

Accountant and nephews were waiting on the beach so I stumbled towards the sea entangled in leads, wheels and dogs legs.

Once on the shingle, Chickie still wouldn’t walk so, with Bo’s lead between my teeth, I dragged him backwards through the stones in his buggy whilst he held Toula.

As she zoomed past me, the buggy suddenly became nice and light. I watched as Chickie flew past on his belly, still holding her lead. Whilst he howled face down in the stones where he’d finally come to a stop, Bo escaped, almost taking my teeth with her, to join Toula in eating the horse droppings that had proved so enticing. Toula, not one to share, attacked Bo.

With such an audible range of snarling, screaming and genteel seaside mayhem, most of the beach were watching. All except Accountant who I could see sat on a bench outside the cafe, slowly sipping a coffee.

“What?” was all he could say when I finally collapsed before him with a bleeding child and two freshly fertilised huskies.

Turf Wars

2009-05-18T09:04:00.001Z

Accountant huffed past me, scowling and sweating heavily. He glared ahead as he dumped his 15th wheelbarrow of turf onto my wellied feet. I could tell he was beginning to hate me. And I was beginning to hate gardening, despite an enthusiastic start and the stirrings of a curious crush on Alan Titchmarsh.

Perhaps Accountant had been right. Laying a whole new lawn over the weekend may not have been one of my better ideas. Unwilling to accept that that could ever be the case, I’d ignored him, badgering him relentlessly until he broke. My victory was short lived when he informed me that I’d be laying it alone.

So I spent everyday working the land - digging, excavating, stamping, levelling and raking then re-raking in readiness for the Bank Holiday weekend. When Chickie slept, I raked. When Chickie went to playgroup, I raked. When Chickie went to bed, Accountant dug and I raked.

Twenty hours of hard labour and hands that would never look womanly again and we were ready.

As I surveyed the 27 squared metres of levelled mud, the 4ft high piles of turf and my husband’s retreating silhouette, I did wonder what I’d been thinking. It definitely hadn’t looked that hard on Groundforce but then Alan was a skilled professional and they had featured his lawn laying in fast forward.

Upon unrolling my new green carpet, my spirits wilted further. Rather than the lush, thick bowling green grass I’d expected, I found a sad looking offering, yellowing and smelling of something familiar.

Whilst Accountant barricaded himself in the house, I plundered on. One hour and four squared metres later and I decided a call to the garden centre was overripe as was my, now steaming, lawn.

Me: "It's yellow and smells funny"
Penny at the Garden Centre: “What does it smell like?”
Me: “Horse poo”Penny at the Garden Centre: “It shouldn’t smell like that, that means it’s fermenting and won’t root. You need to bring it back”
Me: “Marvellous”
I knocked on our back door, which Accountant had thoughtfully locked. I watched his peanut shaped head poke through the curtains which he’d also closed.
Me: “We need to take the lawn back”Accountant: “@#;!in& b@#%!** hell!”

That was the last time I heard him speak for a while. He didn’t speak at all as he began reloading all the grass he’d previously unloaded back into the wheelbarrow and then into his car.
He didn’t speak much this weekend either as he trundled back and forth with his wheelbarrow piled up with all the new grass.

On Sunday evening, my green (literally) fingers ached and everything else hurt but I had one last thing to do before I could rest.

Collapsing next to Accountant on the sofa, I poised myself.

“Sweetheart” I began, “I’m sorry.” Deep breath. “You were right.”

It had taken ten years, but it had finally happened and Accountant couldn’t have looked smugger.

Outbid

2009-05-14T21:56:00.000Z

“It’s time you earned some money” declared Accountant as he peered at me from over the top of his spectacles and our bank statement.

If it hadn’t been for the boiler breaking down and then the washing machine chasing me across the kitchen whilst on its rinse cycle, I wouldn’t have had to sit there watching my face droop in the reflection of Accountant’s glasses.

And now I had to get a job to pay for boring things I could neither wear nor eat. The injustice.
What could I do that would fit around Chickie’s hectic social life? I did some research and presented my findings to Accountant.

Referring to my notes, I began. “Well, apparently there’s a newspaper round up for grabs in Wallace Avenue?”
He shook his head, continuing to look at me expectantly.
“What? I said.
“Well? What else is there?” He nodded down at my A4 pad.
“That’s pretty much it!”
From his face I could tell he’d expected more.
“I thought I’d run for Prime Minister next year, when I’ve got more than 2½ hours available a day and fewer childcare issues? “

Later that evening, as I paid for my lotto ticket online, I racked my shrinking brain for some money making ideas. My friend worked the nightshift at Sainsbury’s but, as a result, didn’t sleep for two days a week.

“You just don’t sleep at all?” I squealed when she’d first told me.
“Nope” she nodded at her one year old, solely responsible.
“What, not at all?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”

Whilst I admired her endurance, I knew I was made of more delicate stuff. After eight hours sleep every night, it took a good thirty minutes for me just to be able to open both eyes at the same time.

“How about selling stuff on ebay?” my other friend suggested as we mulled over my predicament.
“I’ve got loads of Chick’s old clothes I could start with!” I enthused, stroking my chin as the idea took shape.
After eight hours taking over 300 photographs of Chickie’s old clothes, I liked the idea much less but I was committed.

Whilst Accountant sat on his laptop downstairs, I began uploading my photos on the old laptop upstairs. It took ages.

Bored, I took a little peek at some of the stuff for sale.

“What you doing?” Accountant shouted up to me, no doubt sensing danger.
“Just selling stuff on ebay” I shouted back.
“Good” came the reply.

I flicked back to the photo upload but nothing had happened. Then back to items for sale. Vintage jewellery to be precise.

There was a nice brooch. And a lovely bracelet. A small bid wouldn’t hurt. Accountant never need know. I clicked on ‘Confirm Bid’, for the bracelet. And the brooch.

And then ebay emailed Accountant, downstairs, kindly re-confirming my bids.

Contented Little Baby

2009-05-10T21:55:00.001Z

Following years of intensive research, I’ve devised a recipe which, whenever Chickie is scheduled for public display, I whip out and follow precisely to improve my chances of presenting a happy, well-balanced show bambini.Be warned though, if any of the quantities are altered in anyway, it can become a Recipe for Disaster.

That’s why I was less than pleased when Chickie spent the thirty minutes he should have been power napping, vigorously protesting on his bedroom floor. An hour later, a red eyed Chickie was scraped off the carpet and bundled into the car ready for delivery to his friend’s house.

Recipe for A Contented Toddler – Guidelines Only

Makes 1 Portion

Ingredients1 toddler (wash before use)
1 full tummy containing 2 pieces of honey on toast (crusts removed)

1 punnet of red grapes (cut in half)

4 mild cheddar sandwiches,

1 portion of Spaghetti Bolognese
Plenty of fluids
1 poo
12 hours of high impact activity to include 30 minutes trampolining, 40 minute brisk walk, 1 hour tantrum, 20 minutes water play, 1 hour cycle ride, 30 minutes arts and crafts, 1 hour digging, 7 hours debating
30 minute power nap at 11am
5ml Calpol (if teething, windy, snotty)
1 threat of ‘if you show me up, your Batman gets it.’
1 promise of ‘if you’re a good boy, you can bounce on daddy when he gets home from work’1 knackered mummy

TIP: AVOID carbohydrates

Instructions: Approach arrival at any play date much like you would Airport Customs.

1. Nothing To Declare.
Toddler has followed the recipe to the letter and smug mummy can sit back and relax whilst eating all her hostess’ chocolate fingers, safe in the knowledge that poppet is good to go. Satisfaction levels will be further enhanced if other toddlers in attendance haven’t followed the recipe and their misbehaviour then highlights your child in an even more favourable light.

2. Declaration on Arrival.
You admit failure to get toddler to follow recipe, which you blame on factors outside of your control such as tiredness, colds, immunisation (delete as applicable). However, you’re absolved from any judgment as you were humble enough to declare that you got it horribly wrong. Toddler can’t be disapproved of for assaulting and battering others, as they’ve now got a bona fide pre-existing excuse. Mummy still allowed chocolate fingers.

3. Smuggling.
Only for the bravest of mummies. You and poppet both know that the recipe has been breached but mummy keeps quiet, unleashing her child, in the hope that their increased adrenaline levels will see them through. A risky strategy that can end gloriously or hideously. Mummy only allowed chocolate fingers in the event of happy ending.

Being a wuss, I went for Option Two and, before my friend could even ask how we were, she had the full low down on Chickie’s naplessness. Free of all responsibility, I toddled off to find those choccie fingers.

Fatty Bum Bums

2009-04-19T13:36:00.002Z

“Your bottom seems to start a lot higher up these days” commented Accountant, as I bent over to pick something up off of the floor. I pinged upright and scurried off to the mirror, glaring at him as I flew past.

Bottoms are always tricky to properly assess without being able to rotate your head around like an owl (or Chickie, mid-tantrum). I got as far as my spine would allow but still couldn’t see properly.

Turning side on, I hoiked up my shirt for a better view. I looked up to find Accountant’s eyebrows telling me what I didn’t want to admit. I seemed to have a second bottom growing out of the top of my jeans.

I suppose I had eaten quite a few packets of Party Rings during Chickie’s latest “challenging" phase. Plus the odd Martini, everyday at 7pm sharp. And all those easter eggs everyone kept buying Chickie. But then it was a mother’s duty to protect her child from excessive cocoa solids wasn’t it - what choice had I really had?

I wandered into the kitchen and stared dreamily at the nine remaining Easter Eggs I’d planned to spend that evening with. Now they were forbidden, the longing became deep and chocolately.

But wouldn’t it really be sensible to start a diet with a clean plate? To remove all temptation? Yes, I decided - it definitely would and began plans to eat the contents of the ‘yummy’ cupboard immediately.

A week later, engorged and looking slightly pregnant, the diet began. No mid-morning packet of Jammy Dodgers with my tea, no scrumptious butter lathered on sweet waffles, no dastardly mayonnaise. Just boiled rice with boiled peas and boiled fish for dinner.

The weight loss initially was encouraging. A 4lb bag of sugar was stationed, like a bodyguard, in front of the cracker cupboard - my usual stop after the 'yummy' cupboard. It obstructed entry and served as a reminder that the equivalent weight in blubber just wouldn’t fit into my jeans no matter how vigorously I tucked.

It was going well, my resistance strong, until today, when, for the second day running, I was a 1lb heavier. Where that pesky pound had come from, I didn’t know but I hated it and it needed to be punished.

After making a serious effort to eat my "Weightwatchers" tomato and lentil gloop that evening, I could take no more. Scrumptious wafts of Accountant's 456 calorie four cheese pizza bubbling in the oven wafted up my nose. I floated towards it, carried along by its vapours. Four slices of pizza and a Bart Simpson easter egg later and the diet was over. High from the sugar rush, I felt an odd mixture of elation and shame.

But then, perhaps having two bottoms wasn’t so bad? At least I’d have a spare if anything ever happened to the first one?

Happy Families

2009-04-16T18:00:00.000Z

Lying in bed, I looked on top of the wardrobe where the yummy, leather weekend bag I’d bought years before now resided. A gentle sprinkling of dust had settled on the soft taupe leather with its silky, striped lining and studded feet.

I remembered buying it, imagining the pair of us, gliding into glittering hotel foyets in all the major cities across the world. I was wearing heels and ‘Jackie O’ sunglasses. I had a substantially smaller bottom and my boobs were still pointing in the same direction as when God had designed them.

I clambered out of bed to give it a quick buff and a cuddle but it was out of reach. I tried my bounce and grab approach which had served me well in the past but, like a sulking friend, it evaded my advances.

I traipsed back to bed as Accountant wandered into the room.
“Well?” he said.
I pretended not to understand.
“Have you found anything?” he nodded at the 'Siblu' holiday brochure that lay on my bedside table.
“Erm, no, not yet” I replied.
“What’ve you been doing then?”

Deciding not to tell him I’d been fantasising about luxury luggage, vast marble bathrooms, shimmering crystal chandeliers, fabric lined walls and 24hr room service, I made my excuses.

“Just readjusting my expectations, sweetheart.”
Accountant’s face set to one of deep disapproval so I cautiously reached for the brochure, grimacing through the effort. Accountant settled down beside me as I opened to the first page.

Screaming children, primary colours, a slithering entanglement of waterslides, banana boats, caravans, lilos, outdoor sports, tents... I shut the brochure with a decisive snap.

Feeling Accountant’s eyes boring into me, I declared myself exhausted and turned off the light. Before I’d shut both eyes, the light was back on and, apparently, Accountant was keen to chat.

“What’s your problem?”
It was more like problems, really. The biggest one being my husband.
He went for the jugular. “Chick will love it.”
“I know he will but where am I going to plug in my hair straighteners?”
Accountant growled.
“How do people even wash?”
“It doesn’t have to be a tent, we could have a mobile home” he said re-opening the brochure to illustrate his point.
A shiver ran down my spine, “I can’t spend a week with those curtains” I whined.

An icy atmosphere settled in the room as Accountant began muttering about how inflexible I was. I turned away. Compared to three years ago, I had more child-friendly features than ever but still it wasn’t enough. They wanted my very soul.

I went to sleep guilty. Guilty I wasn’t ‘outdoorsy’. Guilty for hating Aqua-parks. Guilty of loving pastels and gingham, mints on my pillow, toilet paper folded into a ‘v’ and miniature toiletries.

The next morning, brochure open in front of me, I dialled the number slowly.

“Siblu– French for happy families” the cheery voice answered.

JUST a Housewife

2009-04-06T20:09:00.002Z

To my dear friend (obviously a male) who kindly enquired how I was finding JUST being a housewife, I've rustled a little something up by way of an answer, in a format that you'll hopefully understand:

Job Title: JUST a Housewife

Job Overview:

A lifetime contract, reporting to a three year old male, you will be solely accountable for his development and wellbeing. He can be prone to mood swings, unreasonableness and constipation so a strong will to survive is necessary.

Key Skills:

Problem Solving:

You will need to think creatively in order to apply innovative and entertaining approaches to gain co-operation in the undertaking of any basic daily task. Previous experience as a Children’s Entertainer/Puppeteer would be beneficial.

Judgment:

Sound evaluative skills are required to assess and avert threats, tantrums, accidents and medical emergencies. First Aid training is essential.

Resilience:

You must possess the ability to remain calm and rational whilst your patience is being tested beyond all endurance. Previous acting experience would be useful in order to appear nonchalant and relaxed, especially in public, when really you’re frenzied and about to cry.

Communication Skills:

You must be a top level negotiator, able to resolve bitter disputes with outcomes agreeable to all vested toddlers.

Flexibility:

You must be adaptable as anything planned, especially if you’re looking forward to it, is going to be cancelled.

Numeracy:

Basic numeracy would be useful to ensure alternating dosages of Calpol/Nurofen do not exceed maximum limits.

Strategic Thinking:

Forward thinking and able to anticipate potential issues before they arise, you will intuitively steer your child around those triggers that may result in increased stress levels.

Organisation:

Responsible for the management of a hectic diary, you will possess excellent planning skills. Child must approve all activities and be briefed at the start and end of each day on all forthcoming events and changes to the pre-agreed schedule. Previous experience of contingency planning would be beneficial.

Other Requirements

Applicants with Psychology, Nutrition and Medical Degrees are preferable.

You must be as energetic as a Duracell bunny and require minimal amounts of sleep.

Familiarity with The Health and Safety at Work Act, particularly, COSHH (Control of Substances Hazardous to Health), would be useful as you will be in daily contact with dangerous deposits.

Understanding of the Bristol Stool Chart would be beneficial but not essential as on-the-job training is provided.

There will be heavy lifting and dragging involved in this position.

Please Note: Anything you say or do will be held against you for the rest of your life should you be saying or doing it wrong.

Remuneration and Benefits:

No Holiday, No Pay, No Lunch Hour, Overtime Expected.

Ear Plugs and Marigold gloves provided.

No training given.

Further Reading

Setting Limits with Your Strong-Willed Child
Family Medical Guide
The Relaxation and Stress Reduction Workbook
Lose your Mummy Tummy
Budgeting Basics

Make It Stop!

2009-04-02T09:00:00.001Z

“I love you Liz, I always have”
“I love you too, George” I whispered, leaning into his chest, lips puckered, eyes closed.

“MUMMY! It’s 20 o’clock! We’ve got to go NOW!”
“Er” I whimpered, disorientated. I cranked an eye open. Chickie was so close, it was like viewing him through a magnifying glass. I jolted back into the pillow.
“Mummy’s dreaming – go and play in your room for a little bit” I mumbled, anxious to return to George Clooney’s lips.
“You smell yucky mummy. Can you play with me?”
“Sweetheart, it’s too early for mummy, just go and play in your room for a few hours”
Chickie began singing. “Silent night, ho-ey night, round yon mergin mother and child, sleeping, sleepy, sleep, never sleep”

Unable to open both eyes at the same time, I viewed Chickie through a small crack in my right eye. He looked so awake. My eyeball crept over to the clock. 5:59am. God, it was still night.

I groaned and slid under the duvet. Chickie climbed on top and began bouncing up and down. I turned over and toppled him onto his father, before quickly rolling away.

It seemed God had giveth and God had taken away. Finally, after a year of night waking, Chickie was sleeping through. And our punishment was that he now woke up at 5.59am every morning.

Later that day, I patted myself on the back for showing such enterprise. ‘That should do it’ I thought as I practiced locking the new gate on Chickie’s bedroom door. All his toys were in there so I could see no reason why he shouldn’t happily while away those pesky twilight hours playing with Buzz Lightyear instead of mummy.

05:59am the next morning. “MMMUUUUUMMMMMMYYYY! LET ME OUUUUTTTTTTT NOW!!!”
I grunted in shock. “What? Erm?” I floundered in confusion, lost between sleeping and waking.

“OUT NOW!” Chickie reiterated loudly.
“Just play.. wiv.toys....” I mouthed into the darkness.
“IT’S NOT FAIR”
I opted to ignore him, confident the futility of his efforts would soon find him lost in a world of imaginative play.
A strange scratching started. Then a pinging noise.
“Stop it” I shouted. It got louder.
I scrambled out of bed just as a car flew over his gate and down the stairs.
“Sorry mummy” he said, grinning at me from behind the bars. “Can I come in your room now?” he smiled smugly.

As he burrowed down the middle of the bed, he placed two ice cold feet on my bum, I yelped. Then followed a sharp blow to the back. “NEE NAW NEE NAW”. Chickie off roaded his ambulance down my spine.

“Give daddy cuddles” I suggested, trying to roll Chickie over to face Accountant.
Accountant rolled him back, Chick’s nose now pressed up to mine.

“It’s 20 o’clock, Mummy. Are you getting up?”
“Yes” I groaned, accepting yon merging of mother and child. Sleepy, sleep, never sleep.

Spicing Things Up!

2009-03-24T10:41:00.001Z

Although we were still experiencing the odd derailment, Chickie seemed to be getting back on track. As such, I turned my attention to the other problem in my life. Also male.

After catching Accountant reading over my shoulder as I stood cuddling him, I politely enquired as to what he was looking at, peering back past him to check out his laptop.

“Nothing” he’d spluttered, pulling me closer whilst making desperate ‘mmmming’ noises.

I leant back further for a better look. Accountant’s grip on me tightened. My mouth fell open in horror as I looked up at him, my confusion clear.

“Is that a balance sheet?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s a set of accounts.”
“Oh, much better” I cried, wondering if it was as bad as it seemed and whether my next door neighbour might have a textbook on the subject.

Thirty minutes passed in which he ate his dinner, still perusing company accounts and I, sat staring at him from the lounge, arranging a babysitter. We were going on an emergency date.

“Be home by 6pm, mum and dad are coming round early tonight” I reminded him when the big day arrived. He grunted his affirmation, cycling off in the pyjama trousers he always mistook for jogging bottoms, towards the Downs.
At precisely 6pm, the phone rang. Praying he wasn’t down A&E like last time, I answered tentatively.
“Hi, it’s me” he said. It was a good start, he sounded unharmed. “I’m just at a pub in Steyning.” My mind began to wonder how that could be - what with him due home and all. I articulated my concerns.
“You should have told me I had to be home by 6pm” he growled.
“I DID!” I screeched, thinking how much easier life would be if men came with even basic functionality.

Afterwards, I sat fuming, when my mobile phone beeped. A photo message awaited. The screen revealed Accountant, sat in the pub, smiling broadly. In his extended hand, he held up a full pint in ‘cheers’ mode.

“Why that good for nothing, ggrrrr....” I muttered, pulling off my wedding ring before placing it on top of the toilet seat and photographing it with my phone. Send. (Apologies to our marriage preparation course leaders, I know this isn’t what you meant by positive acts of love.)

Romance was not in the air as we drove over to Brighton. We were seated opposite each other in the restaurant and Accountant began playing with his mobile which he’d upgraded that day to include internet access.

When he popped to the loo, I ordered our dinners, making a slight alteration to his usual Sloppy Guiseppe pizza. Accountant didn’t notice as he tucked in. He noticed soon after though as he began taking long, slow, swills of beer. His eyes gently watered as his ‘Etna’ pizza erupted in his mouth, spicing up ‘date night’ splendidly.

I've Got A Secret!

2009-03-19T11:00:00.000Z

It was official - Chickie had crossed to the dark side and my neighbours had begun works to block up the chimney on their side of his wall. Whether it was his sheer volume or concerns he may actually crash through into their spare room, I didn’t know but I decided it was time to do something drastic to help guide my toddler back to the light. Typically, I had no clue whatsoever what I was meant to do but hoped my prayers alone may cause a solution to present itself.

And, they did. Like a golden angel sent by Supernanny herself, my lovely neighbour stood before me, shrouded in a Ready Brek style glow, holding out the answer to my prayers. A book.
I like books. Especially ones that promise big answers to big problems. Happy little faces beamed back at me from under big, blue words - “The Secret of Happy Children”. And what a well kept secret it had been. But now, 145 pages later, I’m in on it.

In fact, this actually happened this morning.
Mummy: “Don’t eat my cardigan please, sweetheart”
Chickie: “I’m sorry, mummy. I won’t do it again. I love you, mummy!”
Hugs, twirls and kisses followed.

Chickie then fetched his stool and began preparations for breakfast, popping the toast in the toaster, getting the butter and filling up drinks. He chatted whilst he worked, informing me that he was married to Elizabeth and Hannah from nursery and telling me how the donkeys at Tilgate Park had been his favourite (there weren’t any donkeys).

I watched him as he waited for the toast to pop up. He stood statue still, his eyes never looking away. When it finally popped, he turned to me, giggling.

I felt like Ben, Elizabeth Jim Bob, Mary Ellen, and John Boy might just skip through my door at any minute.

Coupled with the relief that Chickie seemed much happier when engaged in activity from the moment his eyes opened in the morning to the moment they shut at night, came the guilt that I kept having to refer to text books to navigate my way through something I’m sure was supposed to come much more instinctively.

Accountant was quick to encourage. “So, it was all your fault then?”
“Probably,” I accepted, now completely comfortable with being inadequate.

Whilst I cooked dinner, he gave Chickie his bath. What seemed to start as some low-level squealing soon developed into some high-energy interaction between father and son.
“Stop that splashing right now!” warned Accountant in his bestest stern voice.
“NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo” splashed Chickie.
“If you do that once more you’re going straight to bed!”
“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
“One more time and you’re going to bed, do you under.......”
“.........NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo”
“Stop......”
“...NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

I took a long sip of Martini, and pretended not to hear Accountant’s anguished cries for back-up. Picking up ‘The secret ...’ book, I placed it on the table, popping it down, next to his Shepherd’s Pie.

It's Not Going Well

2009-03-12T11:01:00.002Z

“He’s obviously in one of his moods, so adapt!” said Accountant, shutting the door as he went off to work.

I wanted to snarl at him in much the same fashion as Chickie had been snarling at me lately. I turned around to find him watching me. Feeling much like the pork chop that got shoved through the feeding hatch at the lion enclosure, I wondered how I was going to get out of this one without a tranquiliser gun.

It had been two weeks and there were no signs of any uplift in Chickie’s mood. Relations were strained. I was being bullied by a three year old.

"Oh, my niece was like that” soothed my friend as I described his behaviour, “and she was fine by the time she got to eleven!”

“ELEVEN!” I yelped. I hung my head in despair, wondering if she might let me spend the next eight years at her house.

“How’s he been?” enquired Accountant on his return home.
“Swell” I mumbled, picturing his devilish grins as he’d tormented me for hours.
“Where is he?” Accountant asked.
“On the naughty step” I replied.
“Why?”
“He won’t come off”
“Why?”
“I don’t know” I cried. Why did everyone expect me to know how he worked? Supernanny never mentioned what to do when poppet pants wouldn’t come off the step. It wasn’t like he’d come with an Owner’s Manual. My mobile phone had come with more instructions and you could restore the default factory settings if you made a programming error!

I needed a psychology degree and a martini.

The next day I ate a whole packet of Party Rings for lunch whilst I retraced my parenting footsteps. I’d obviously gone hideously wrong somewhere.

Then I collected my son, with trepidation, from nursery. “He’s so lovely isn’t he?” one of the ladies said to me.
“Sorry?”
“So sweet natured!”

I got her to point out the child she was talking about, to clear up the confusion. She identified Chick from the line up.

He bared his teeth when he caught me watching him but she wasn’t looking. I felt like tugging on her sleeve and telling her he’d just been horrible to me before remembering I was 32 and no one could help me. It was just him, me and 7 hours until bedtime. Or was it?

“I know” I said to Chickie, who ignored me, “let’s go and visit Nanna and Grandad!”
He almost smiled.

When Nanna produced ginger biscuits, he became polite and loving. Until they ran out. Nanna was packed off to the kitchen and told not to return until she’d baked a week’s supply.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday for more” I instructed as we left. “And don’t even think about changing the locks.” I added.

Mum and dad exchanged glances, no doubt wondering when their daughter was ever going to grow out of her ‘difficult’ phase.

Break Away

2009-03-05T10:10:00.002Z

Stuck in a 12 mile traffic jam, somewhere on the A30, east of Cornwall, two sets of parents, in two separate cars, were experiencing two very different starts to their short ‘break’ away.In the precision packed Vauxhall Estate, an impeccably coiffed 3 year old girl was perusing her mobile library, contemplating whether “Cornwall: Leisure Walks for All Ages” or “Truro and Falmouth – Roseland Peninsula” would be stimulating enough to amuse her for the rest of the journey.

In the VW hatchback behind, it was hard to tell just how many people were in the car thanks to Accountant’s ‘ram and squish’ packing policy. Despite the limited amount of air pockets available, the smallest, yet most audible, passenger was selfishly gulping up all the oxygen as his initial grumblings developed into howls of general outrage.

By mile 11, the little girl put down her book which she’d found to be a thoroughly informative read. She couldn’t wait to tell Mummy about the route she’d planned for the family hike but she’d wait until Mummy finished her nap.

In the other car, Accountant and I were enjoying an in impromptu game of dodge ball as Chickie launched his toy collection at us. Although I knew that hitchhiking was illegal, I was keeping an eye out for a lay by, imagining myself leaping out of the passenger side of the car ‘fugitive’ style, rolling down a side embankment before coming to a neat stop outside a health spa.

Unfortunately, I was scuppered by the child lock and arrived watery eyed, avec dependants, for our relaxing seaside break. Chickie, indisposed to alterations to his established routine, repaid our kindness of allowing him to remain in the car despite my suggestion of giving him some “time out” on the roof rack, by going on sleep and hunger strike for the rest of the week. Every night he would appear in the darkness at 2am, before circling me twice and curling up on my head.

Then came the conjunctivitis. Two more outlets to add to his ‘oozing illuminous yellow goo’ list. Eye drop administration proved a two man job and could take anywhere from 15 minutes to a whole morning. Accountant was employed as resident heavy, instructed to sit on all flailing bits whilst I jimmied his eyes open.

By the end of the week, tired and withdrawn, we presented the “Best in Show” Award for the third year running, to his little girlfriend who had outperformed in every category. Compliance, Attitude, Slumber, Sanitation & Hygiene, Regularity & Ease of Bowel Movements, Consumption, Vocabulary, Critical Reasoning, Congeniality and General Well Being.

As she took her lap of honour, hindered slightly by her covering of red rosettes, Chickie was too busy to care as he took to peeling off the sellotape now covering all the plug sockets after his foiled attempt to stick a key into one earlier in the week.

Is It Just Me?

2009-02-26T10:00:00.000Z

“You must be looking forward to half term” my friend said.

I tried to rearrange my expression which had been well on its way to ‘grimacing horror’, when I’d realised that she was actually being serious. Whether my sudden “mmm” whilst choking on my custard cream was convincing, I doubt.

I vaguely listened as she told me about the bird boxes she and Maya would be making on Monday, pottery-painting on Tuesday, candle-making on Wednesday, blah blah on Thursday. All the while my brain reverberated with the knowledge that there were real, live women out there who weren’t scared of the prospect of a week alone with their children. They were actually excited.

I looked at Chickie whilst my friend provided details of blacksmithing on Friday. He sat grinning atop his castle of sofa cushions. I counted 20 in total. I wondered where Maya was?

“What plans have you got?” she enquired, taking a sip of peppermint tea.

What had I got planned? Besides my stash of 35 Disney dvd’s, 20 packets of Percy Pigs and the Pro Plus? I struggled to remember and that muffled squealing noise wasn’t helping my concentration. “He’s going round some friend’s houses and he’s seeing Bolt on Thursday!” I replied triumphantly. She didn’t look impressed.

I wondered whether to explain that craft projects and Chickie didn’t mix. I had found he had little interest in painting anything other than his friends (and I don’t mean portraits). On the basis he ate ear wax, candle making was probably out. And handing him a red hot poker to play with went against all my natural survival instincts.

Movement from under the heaving pile of cushions sent Chickie tumbling from his throne. He cried heartily as Maya crawled through a small air hole at the bottom of the heap, her hair static and her face purple.

After they’d left earlier than scheduled, I kept seeing my friend’s eyes filled with genuine expectation that a magical seven days of fluff, love and gluing was there for every mother’s taking.

Were they? Or was I missing something? Perhaps I was approaching this week all wrong? I suddenly felt inspired. I’d once subscribed to the idea that motherhood could be a calm, ordered affair all tied up in a big, blue, gingham bow. Of course, that was before I’d actually had a child but she’d made me feel like it was definitely worth trying again.

I entered the week full of renewed hope. I would be that crafty mummy and Chick would spend a contented week carefully gluing sequins and beads onto pieces of felt. Or my tablecloth. And the curtains.

Perhaps a puzzle would play to his strengths? It started well. It ended badly with pieces of jigsaw being snacked on in between discussions about not eating cardboard.

But now pre-school is but a breath away and the twitch that I’ve developed on my right eyelid has begun to subside.

Thank you Walt Disney and Marks & Spencer - I couldn't have done it without you!

Les Miserables

2009-02-19T09:38:00.000Z

It was a day that had started early and hysterically. I could see my heart thumping through my winceyette pyjamas after picking up the phone to my sister’s frantic ramblings.

“Liz?” she gasped breathlessly. My heart stopped altogether as I imagined what could be coming. Dad better not have clambered onto that glass conservatory roof again? I’d kill him myself. Surely, after the telling off I’d given him, he could be left under no illusion about his physical limitations? What about mum?

“What is it? WHAT? WHAT!?!” I shrieked, pulling the phone away from my ear, scared of her answer.

“I’VE WON, I’VE WON!” she yelped.“WHAT?” Dad’s alive? You’ve won? Mum’s okay? Oh thank you God, thank you!” I kissed the phone.
“I’ve won!” she re-emphasised, clearly displeased with my lack of enthusiasm and trying to refocus me on her achievement.
“You’ve won what?”
“That Theatre Trip Competition I entered” she replied.

I couldn’t actually believe that she was surprised as she’d entered over 200 times, in a variety of voices using different names and addresses and even made her children ring on her behalf as she didn’t want to appear “pathetic” (think that ship might have sailed). Her phone bill probably cost more than the theatre trip itself.

“Congratulations” I managed, releasing my grip on the bedside cabinet, and slowly sinking on shaking legs, towards the bed.

My sister loves theatre trips and every family member has fallen foul of one of her “special theatre trip gifts” at some point or other. She’s so extremely thoughtful that she even buys a ticket for herself to ensure you don’t have to worry about who to take. The fact that no one else in the family actually likes the theatre doesn’t phase her at all.

My Brother-in-Law bravely raised this with her after enduring a gruelling three hour production of “Blood Brothers” – his birthday present. She was apparently “stunned” by the revelation that her husband of ten years didn’t like the theatre and surely no one would think she would purchase gifts for others that she secretly wanted for herself?

After buying her a bikini trimmer last Christmas, he knew he was on shaky ground so it fell to me to let her know that her husband wasn’t the only relative that didn’t like watching over-dramatic performances of ridiculously smiley people randomly bursting into song and prancing around for no reason.

My sister was agog – how could I, a blood relative, not appreciate the performing arts?

“I really prefer the cinema” I whispered, unable to meet her glowering eyes.

It would seem that was irrelevant as my birthday envelope was placed in my hands.

“A trip for two to see Chicago” I smiled through the pain. “How wonderful!”

My Brother-in-Law smirked at me from behind my sister’s back as she produced her own envelope containing our coach tickets and her ticket for the seat next to mine.

2009-02-13T17:50:00.001Z

Our unscheduled trip to France had been a flight of whim and fancy on my part.

As we entered Pas-de-Calais under the cover of darkness, it was only a matter of minutes before we were lost, repeatedly driving past a man balancing one legged on a 3ft wall, arms outstretched as if negotiating a death defying tightrope without the safety of a net. To be fair, when you’re that drunk, it’s quite an achievement. Each time we passed, he bowed theatrically, pleased that we appreciated his talent so much, we kept driving back for more.

The scenery wasn’t as attractive as I’d hoped, the chateaus and vineyards I’d envisioned replaced by giant sardine cans of industry. Sardine cans, it would transpire later, that were home to shops. Big ones!

We awoke the next morning to the familiar pitter patter of tiny feet and rain. An intolerable combination. Accountant’s sorrowful face as another day of trawling retail outlets lay before him was almost too much to bear. Thankfully, I’m highly skilled in the art of ignoring him, so shopping recommenced with gusto. When Chickie’s face took on a similar droop and I’d tried on enough pairs of trousers to realise that, in France, I was a size bigger and a foot shorter, I knew the gig was up. A nice lunch would lift our spirits and give us a chance to rethink activities.

“I think I’ve ordered a hamburger” said Accountant, having panicked under the waiter’s glare, ordering in haste. One circular portion or raw mince with a raw egg garnish later and Accountant realised a hamburger, it most definitely was not.

“What am I going to do?” he whispered, leaning in, keeping lip movement to a minimum so as not to attract attention from the adjoining table. Discretion being my middle name, I zoomed in with my camera to capture the moment. As the flash went off, two more pairs of eyes watched the show. Now under intense scrutiny and needing to act, he moved his hand slowly towards his fork. One lump of raw mince made its approach and in it went.

Whilst I appreciate that ‘Steak Tartare’ is a delicacy to the cultured, to the e-coli / listeria / cjd / salmonella (delete as applicable) fearing British Accountant, it holds little appeal. At this point, our French neighbours intervened, helpfully pointing out that the egg (raw) and accompanying green stuff needed to be mixed into the mince (raw) before consumption. Personally, I’d have recommended 30 minutes at 190°c before consumption, but who was I to interfere. Thanking them for their input and encouragement, Accountant knew he now had no choice but to eat it and, bless him, he did. The French ladies were very proud of their ‘big, brave man’ as they liked to call him.

The rest of the trip was spent monitoring big, brave man’s vital signs to ensure his bacteria burger didn’t require treatment with antibiotics.

Just Desserts

2009-02-05T13:40:00.000Z

It was high time my mother got acquainted with the highly disapproved of Chickie following her smug delivery of a reprieved toddler who had behaved impeccably at her house.
It’s annoying when you bemoan to your family that your child has been tormenting you endlessly with behaviour befitting an appearance on the “House of Horrors”. Then, suddenly, he throws the horns, cape and three pronged fork to one side, buffs his dusty halo, and spends his visit quietly plucking out the tune to Greensleeves on his harp.When it comes to parenting, everyone within earshot believes that they could handle the situation better than the screaming child’s mother, even if they’ve never spoken to a child before.
Hence, if baby is good at Nanna’s house, the good behaviour can be directly attributed to her calm and patient manner which was clearly just the approach baby needed to get back on track.Gloaty Nanna reeled off how he’d eaten all his dinner (specially formulated to contain exactly the right balance of soluble and insoluble fibre), filled his potty right on cue (thanks to dinner), slept through the night, even lying in until 8.45am without a murmur. Feeling betrayed, I praised my treacherous child for being such a ‘good boy’.When she came round the next day, she enquired as to Chickie’s spirits following his return. “He woke up at 4.45am and had a tantrum when I offered him a biscuit” I replied.
“He slept in until 8.45am at our house” she said.
“Yes, you mentioned that”.As Nanna pushed a chirping Chickie off down the road she was still enjoying a self-congratulatory repartee with herself about his reformation.
When she returned, an hour earlier than scheduled, she looked different.
“I let him out of his buggy for a walk” she gasped.
A rookie mistake of course.
She explained how she’d found him less than flexible when it came to getting back in. Forced to sprint the 100 metres after him, she finally cornered him in a lift. Whilst she prayed for breath, Chickie pressed all the buttons, including the alarm.
With the promise of ice cream, he agreed to accompany her to the cafe. Just as Nanna’s top lip touched the froth on her large cappuccino with extra chocolate sprinkles, Chickie finished his ice cream and began to twitch. Then came the writhing, then the shrieking. Nanna could see nothing wrong. “He’s 3” I answered in my head. “That’s what’s wrong.”As Chickie livened up the plans of all those enjoying a relaxing morning coffee, Nanna tried the Twinkle Twinkle routine that had worked so beautifully the night before. He sobbed uncontrollably. Amidst the glares of the entire cafe, Glam-Nan quietly collected her things and made for the door, which the pushchair got wedged in.“Oh no, that sounds awful” I sympathised, loving it.
The smug Nanna of earlier replaced by a dishevelled heap, collapsed on the sofa, with a big bit of froth on her lip.

Bad Mamma

2009-01-29T10:00:00.000Z

I’d been a bad mummy. I told Chickie that we’d bake some dinosaur bibbicks. Then I went and cleaned the kitchen. I took a deep satisfied sigh as I viewed the sparkling taps, spotless floor and perfectly buffed worktop. It was beautiful and I was happy.

Then Chickie tugged on my cardigan and enquired as to when all the baking was going to begin. I pictured a mushroom cloud of icing sugar engulfing the house, buttery stalagmites being squished into the floor before being padded around the rest of the house by two small, sticky feet. Hundreds and thousands of hundreds and thousands would still be being discovered in three years time.

Biding for time, I enthusiastically redirected Chickie’s interest to Scooby Doo. “Wow look Chick, a ghostie!” By the time he’d tired of it, I’d come up with a cunning plan. “Let’s go to Waitrose and buy a choo choo bibbick!” He liked that idea and off we trotted.

Unfortunately, my conscience wasn’t so easily appeased. ‘It’s only a biscuit’ I told my inner ‘Bad-Mummy-Monitor’.
‘You broke your promise’ she replied.

After that, ‘Bad-Mummy-Monitor’ was on high alert. “He needs some fresh air” she said as Chickie sat watching telly.

I looked out of the window at the endless gloom. “But it’s so cold and he’s so quiet. And he’ll want to jump in all the puddles”. She reminded me of the dinosaur biscuits and dragged me off of the sofa to prepare a small suitcase of munitions. Spare trousers, spare pants, spare shoes, wellies, plastic bags, towels, wipes, hypothermia blanket, pressure washer hose and scraper.

“We’re going on an adventure” I informed Chickie as I vacpacked him into his old coat, one size too small. He couldn’t move from the neck down, but at least he was snug.

“Where we going?”
“To the best puddles in town” I replied, already planning the five stage clean-up operation in my head.

As we pulled into the Bluebird Cafe car park, puddles as big as paddling pools rippled in the icy winds. Within approximately two minutes, Chickie was lying on his back in one of the larger ones. He turned his head, like a robot, to see how mummy was going to react to his baptism. His first of three as it turned out.

As I skidded along behind his mud caked frame, watching him testing puddles with his special ‘adventurers stick’, I knew these were the memories I’d dreamt of making before being introduced to the magic of antibacterial wipes. We watched the river for crocodiles, poked the unblinking frog (gently) to check his vitals and had sword fights with our sticks. I even jumped in a muddy puddle.

We returned home with red cheeks, runny noses and muddier than a pair of pigs.

It was probably the messiest day of my adult life, but it’ll be the one that I remember long after my son considers going anywhere with his mummy an ‘adventure!’.

The Beer Chart

2009-01-22T10:55:00.000Z

As Chickie and I sat at the dining room table, gluing together our latest craft project, he looked up at me like a dog about to go walkies.
“Daddy’s going to love this, isn’t he mummy?”
“Yes, he’s going to love it!”
Rather ungratefully, I thought, it turned out that daddy didn’t love it all that much. He mumbled something about reward charts being for children before wandering off to examine the inside of the fridge.
“But we made little beer glass stickers” I chimed, holding them up. “To motivate you.” He stayed in the fridge. “When you get 5 stickers, you get a real beer!”
Chickie and I looked at each other, wondering how long one man could survive inside a fridge freezer.
“All the jobs are listed down the side. Put the bins out. Don’t leave scissors in Chickie’s room. Wash the car etc.”
Still nothing. Chickie and I went to play in the other room. “He’ll come round to the idea” I told Chickie.

He didn’t. Apparently he had his own system and my thoughtful attempts to stimulate productivity were not required. I didn’t exactly agree as I considered my car wash request of five months ago but thought it best, at this point, to stay quiet. By the next morning however, I was ready to reveal my plans to excavate Accountants inner dynamo. He was less keen. As I began talking about prioritisation, multi-tasking and the perils of procrastination, he made his way back to the fridge, where he remained until he was quite sure I’d gone away.

It was like school assembly all over again. Left to do everything myself. Who turned the music on when everyone came in and went out? Who’d put the date and composer of the day up on the board? Who checked the rain fall and temperature and coloured in the weather graphs by the assembly entrance? Who tapped the barometer and stood outside in the rain with the anemoter collecting wind speed data? Who then compiled all this information into a thrilling report which she also presented each day to keep all informed of the latest weather conditions? Who sat at the front, facing the whole school, in her special chair, wearing her music monitor badge? And I played the recorder along to the hymns. And the clarinet. And all by 9am. Every day, aged 9 years old.

How annoying. Hand higher in the air than all the others, mouthing, “pick me, pick me” as my bum bounced up and down on my little chair. Thinking about it, even my teacher looked irritated by my enthusiasm asking if anyone else, preferably without a lisp, would like to read the weather report. Sadly for him, only Lispy Lizzie was available.

When Accountant returned home, I showered him with kisses, feeling sorry for the poor man that had been too kind to leave the hyperactive kid bouncing on her chair, picking her over a quieter life.

Oh No!

2009-01-15T10:43:00.000Z

Somewhere amidst 1976 and 2009, a big dent had snuck up on my face and wedged itself deeply between my eyes. I scowled at it, before realising that was why I had started to look like ‘Churchill the nodding dog’ in the first place. I stopped scowling at once, experimenting instead with pulling my eyebrows up and across my forehead.

Downstairs, Accountant cranked up his piercing ‘whistle while you laze’ routine and I watched my eyebrows ping back together as if joined by elastic. ‘Of course’, I whispered to myself, stroking my sagging jowls, as a decade’s din from Accountant’s internal wind instruments assembled in my head. “It’s all his fault”. Living with Accountant, the one man band, was like living with a human bagpipe that never runs out of air. Previous lodgers used to comment before they moved out. No wonder I was wrinkling around the edges.

Now Chickie had joined the Tinnitus Two supplementing Accountant’s bluebottle style ‘bzzzing’ with velocity and determination. Whilst Accountant would whistle ‘Go West’ in the upper register, clicking his tongue between key changes, Chickie would roar a la Godzilla in accompaniment. Then Accountant would spend forty minutes perfecting his ‘dripping water’ impression.

I don’t know if it was the water torture or acoustic shock that sent me flying down the stairs crying, “JUST BE QUIET!” but, it worked. For about twenty seconds. Then it began again with renewed impetus, now that a reactive audience waited in the wings.

Feeling sorry for myself, I went back to the mirror, to review my situation. The scowl was so big now, it had been joined by two smaller scowls that stood like a pair of bodyguards either side of it. I wished I wasn’t too scared to Botox them to hell, figuring the suspension of all facial expression at this age, could leave my face frozen in 2009 forever. I liked that idea but stopped myself from smiling. Nor would there be any more laughing, talking or raising of eyebrows.

The evening was spent online reviewing ‘Miracle Creams’. “Hope in a Jar” caught my eye. Add to basket. Next - “Treats for Tired and Puffy Eyes”. Two hours later, my basket overfloweth. I just needed an investor. I proposed a mutually beneficial deal with the root of my problem, reminding Accountant that Valentine’s Day was looming and I could take all the hassle and romance out of it for him with just one click. I closed by mentioning that if he didn’t comply, he would have to move out.

I now await delivery of my fresh new face. In the meantime, I’ve been using Sudocrem as it used to work wonders on Chickie’s nappy rash. It has dual benefits – not only is it so thick you can no longer see your face underneath it, it would seem that, smelling like a bottom is also an excellent Accountant deterrent.

This Little Piggy Shouldn't Watch The Crime Channel

2009-01-08T10:41:00.001Z

Despite knowing myself well enough to realise that watching endless hours of the Crime channel might not be the ‘healthiest’ outlet for someone with a colourful imagination and neurotic tendencies, I did it anyway. It left me altered.

I changed my walk, adopting a self-assured swagger that alluded to martial arts expertise and my ability to transform from housewife into ultimate fighting machine in just a jiffy. I scrutinised new acquaintances for signs of imbalance. Familiar people too - for if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it is that you’re more likely to get disembowelled by your local lollipop lady than a stranger. And that is my excuse for what happened next.

When our post arrived with the word “Pig” scrawled on the back of one of the envelopes, I thought it was something to do with Accountant. Whilst other husbands sweetly refer to their wives as ‘darling’, my husband has branded me ‘Pig’ by way of endearment. I did wonder fleetingly how Accountant could have intercepted a utility bill delivered by the postman, but, when the thinking all got too much, I concluded it was his fault, as all things were. Two days later, a Christmas card arrived with ‘Pig’ on the back. I put it with the other piggy post and waited for my husband who denied all involvement.

“But that means someone else is writing ‘Pig’ on my letters!” I whispered, sitting down as I contemplated what this could mean for my future. I looked out the window, into the darkness, wondering what might be looking back in. A flashback from a Ted Bundy documentary came to mind. The one with all the pre-murderous stalking.

“It could be the Postman” deduced Accountant. I gasped.
“We’ll have to move” I responded before considering the problem of redirecting the post when your stalker works for Royal Mail. I pictured myself setting up multiple PO Boxes all over the country and devising elaborate postal pick-ups using zipwires, body doubles and a spandex cat suit.

I spent a fretful night next to Accountant who masked his concern with instant unconsciousness whilst I contemplated my new life as Mrs Smith of no fixed address.

Long, jittery days crept past with no further ‘incidents’ but, now living with a simmering sense of foreboding, I decided to confront the problem - postman on.

As I stood on my drive clutching the ‘evidence’ and my personal attack alarm, listening to him politely explain how P19 was an abbreviation for ‘Packet 19’, I should have quietly skipped away. Instead, I said how I had misread it as ‘Pig’.
He shook his head.
I then told of how my husband called me ‘Pig’.
“Nice” he said.
In conclusion, I rambled about how nice it would be to live again.
“Right” he said, slowly backing away.

So now, whenever he sees me, the Postman looks scared, clearly unable to fathom how I ever got released into the community.

Bah Humbug!

2008-12-18T19:46:00.000Z

As I came to an emergency stop outside the dazzling facade of a semi-detached house in Durrington, Chickie let out a small gasp in awe. It was an impressive display. Reindeers pranced, Santa scooted up and down a ladder and snowmen vied for attention amidst the festive anarchy. There wasn’t a blade of grass or roof tile left in darkness.
I looked back at Chick, his nose moisturising the car window and his mouth ajar, the reflection of thousands of lights twinkling in his eyes and potentially doing long-term damage to his retinas. For him, the magic was just beginning.
I drifted back to my own childhood, remembering staying awake to stake out Santa. The anticipation overwhelming as I crouched behind my door wearing night vision goggles and a balaclava, vowing quietly in the darkness to wait –“no matter how long it takes!”
Mum and dad’s weary little faces as they took it in turns to traipse back and forth to see if I’d fallen asleep, their pitiful pleas that I return to bed, minus the facemask, ignored. “I’m in stealth mode. Sleep is not an option” I explained without moving my lips. Their foiled attempts to turn my clock back in the vague hope I might consider 3am an unreasonable hour to start opening presents. The promise of all those wishes just a sleigh ride away. The whole world captivated, as we all waited and watched to see if the story would come true.
Chickie had begun stuttering an inventory to ensure that I hadn’t missed anything. “There’s an angel mummy and ..a....a reindeer and a ....a. snowman and....” I nodded along as we built our memories, wishing whoever lived there could see him delight in their sense of fun. I loved them and all those like them. Clambering onto their roofs with sleighs and 3ft reindeers, risking their lives to make their little part of the world twinkle. Those people who could still be bothered to go all out, staplegun at the ready, when it’s so much easier not to.
And, admittedly, it would be easier not to have to cook dinner for 18 people, especially when you don’t particularly like half of them (all direct blood relations excluded!). And not to have to search for presents for people who already have more stuff than Argos. And yes, it is commercial and starts in autumn but, the beauty is, it doesn’t have to be - it can be whatever you make it! (and just think how drab October would be without baubles!)
So to any bah humbugs out there- why not get your ladder out, fling a reindeer on your back and shimmy onto that roof? (taking all necessary Health and Safety precautions of course!)
It may bring a whole new perspective and perhaps a festive smile! You may even find a sad mother and son combo, pulled up outside, smiling gaumlessly back at you.

Sweet Dreams

2008-12-11T11:57:00.000Z

The solemn vows Accountant and I committed to on our wedding day were swinging in his favour. Whilst he seemed to be basking in all the ‘for betters’, I was up to my neck in ‘for worst’s’.
He lay sprawled diagonally across the bed, splayed out like a tubby starfish, his hot pink ‘sweet dreams’ eye mask protecting his delicate eyes from any disturbing lights and his ears plugged tight against any noise that may jeopardise those sweet dreams.
I, however, lay curled up like a hedgehog, driven into a far corner, Accountant’s knee wedged into the base of my spine, his elbow burrowed into my cheek. However, it was the snorting and disturbing imaginary chewing that found me reaching for the elastic on his mask, pulling it back like a catapult and releasing it with a satisfying snap. With no girlie scream forthcoming, I set forefinger and thumb to mega-flick before aligning them with the most sensitive part of Accountant’s upper ear.
Every night, without exception, I use these gentle ‘coaxing’ techniques to rouse my beloved and, every night he gasps in shock, peers at me all bewildered from under his mask and enquires as to why.
Keen to discuss, I begin, “Did you know that your snoring costs me, on average, 49 minutes sleep every night? ” He turns over, outraged, and recommences his snoring.
I was very pleased with just how far I managed to get his earplug up his nose before he was peering at me again. I took the opportunity to mention that lack of sleep can contribute to mood swings.
As he re-homed his ear plug, I wondered who exactly had thought co-habitation was a good idea and, with a potential 18,250 nights of this still to come, wasn’t there somewhere better Accountant could sleep? Was that new Travelodge on the seafront open yet?
When he awoke for the third time to question why I was applying sellotape to his nostrils and stretching them across his face, I kindly offered some words of support. “Snorers should lose weight and reduce alcohol intake.” I pictured Chickie’s forlorn face earlier as we searched for chocolates on the Christmas tree.
“Where’ve they gone mummy?”
“Have one of your special dinosaur sweeties instead!” I tried. Except daddy the truffle pig, had scoffed them too.
With that in mind, I took the opportunity to experiment with Accountant’s air supply, in the vague hope that a more lasting solution might present itself. Fortunately, inspiration hit as my hand hovered over his mouth. The hippo and duck from the bed adverts – they were an equally disproportionate couple yet always seemed well rested!
Online, I added one super king snuggle memory deluxe bed to my wish list and emailed it to Accountant at work, accompanied by a short prayer that a Silent Night, all calm and bright, might be mine, all mine, this Christmas.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town...

2008-12-07T18:08:00.001Z

“Any special delivery instructions?” said the screen as I concluded my on-line Christmas decoration shopping.
“Yes, DO NOT deliver if husband at home!” I typed before clicking “Confirm Purchase”.
Chickie and I had been excited for quite some time. Our Christmas cards had been sat in the drawer, all stamped up and ready, since October. Netted bags of M&S chocolate tree puddings had been purchased in triplicate and were stroked daily and my fabulous glass star lights had arrived along with three decoupage baubles, one felt angel and my Miracle on 34th Street dvd. Yes, we were definitely ready, we were just waiting for Christmas to catch up.
Then, finally, it did. On 1 December, Chickie and I were granted £30 for a tree. Chickie cuddled it, declaring it ‘boot-i-ful!’
Then, time for my favourite part of the Christmas ritual, sending Accountant into the loft with a ridiculously small torch to find the decorations. Chickie and I stood at the bottom of the ladder, enjoying Daddy’s festive expletives as he cracked his head on various beams.Before delving into the boxes with Chickie in search of yuletide treasure, I gave Accountant a very special box of his own. After all, there was nothing like the untangling of Christmas lights to inspire festive cheer. As Chickie and I laughed and cuddled by the tree, it was much like a scene from a Werthers Original advert. Except for the bitter background ranting from Accountant, now entangled in 12ft of green electrical flex and bleeding from the forehead.
An hour passed and Accountant had retreated into a dark world of rage. He hadn’t spoken for half an hour but had managed to work his left arm and a leg free. When he eventually suckered the hanging star lights onto the window, he exhaled deeply and plugged them in.
“Why they not working daddy?” A disappointed Chickie looked to his father for answers. Forced to appear calm in front of such a sweet face, Accountant guaranteed his son that the house would soon be transformed into a twinkling winter wonderland. Chickie waited as daddy patiently tested each bulb in turn and then resuckered them into position before turning them on.
Chickie gasped, “Well done Daddy!” Accountant lapped up the praise. He was less smug when Chickie began eating the lights and realised he’d have to relocate them.
Occasionally, as Chickie and I snuggled under a blankie on the sofa watching Miracle on 34th Street, we would glance over to see daddy licking, relicking, suckering, licking and resuckering his way across the French doors.
To give Accountant his dues, he spent another 20 minutes watching all those little suckers ping off before throwing the whole lot on the floor and stomping upstairs to sulk.
Unfortunately, his son, promised a spectacular display, followed him up the stairs. So he came back, the familiar sound of pinging and swearing lighting up my face at least- if nothing else!

Performance Review

2008-11-27T09:00:00.000Z

“Appraisal time” said Accountant, producing an A4 pad and a sour expression. He’d come from the laptop so I’d concerns he’d checked the joint account.
“We’ll start with development areas”.
“You’re supposed to start with the positives.” I countered.
“Ironing” he began. I crossed my arms, lower lip protruding. “You don’t seem to be doing any”. I remained silent . “Well?” he coaxed.
“Sorry, I thought it was a rhetorical question”. Shake of head.
I pictured the dreary hours I’d spent hunched over his shirts and the resulting boredom. “I didn’t really like it” I answered.
“But I bought you that new ironing board” he responded.
“When I asked for a motivational gift, that wasn’t what I meant.” He seemed perplexed by my lack of drive.

He moved on. “Overspending” he barked. I avoided eye contact as he presented our latest statement and a pink highlighter. “£50 in Shoots, £60 in Next ...” I went to the happy place in my head as he reeled through, highlighting as he went, his voice and eyebrows rising incrementally with each transaction.
At the point I was imagining my former self floating through the golden doors of Bloomingdales armed with the wild and reckless credit afforded by my gainful employment, I could almost smell the Gucci ebony tote bag with brown trim and gold hardware.
“CREDIT CRUNCH” snapped Accountant, forcing me back to the place where a Bag for Life was supposed to provide fulfilment. His face was pink much like the statement he was waving.

I began my defence with some scene setting, sinister undertones in my voice. “Imagine you’re in a deep sleep that’s taken hours to achieve thanks to your partner’s snoring. Finally, exhausted, you’re at peace”. I smile, before contorting my face dramatically, ”but, wait, what’s that? Torturous screams ripping you from the depths of unconsciousness, dragging you to the surface where, for the 99th consecutive night, your master demands your presence. Then, just when you’ve fallen asleep again thanks to your child’s inability to differentiate day from night, he’s back, using your prematurely ageing face as a track for his cars”. Deep breath.
“Three hours of high-energy role play follow featuring mummy as Trevor the Triceratops and Chickie as Troy the T-Rex. Then 75 small cars, 92 kitchen utensils, 50 Thomas books and 6 boxes of toys need handpicking off the carpet, whilst Chickie sits on your back pretending you’re a horsey, using your hair as reins”. Accountant looks unimpressed.
I continue, frowning. “Then it’s question time. Why’s it raining? What’s p’ercipitation? Where’s Father Christmas? Why you yawning? Why? Verbal abuse set against a backdrop of noise you can still hear when it’s stopped plus relentless menial toil completes the cycle”.
Accountant waits for me to close.
“Perhaps these development areas could be viewed more positively,” I pause, “more as perks of the job?” I conclude triumphantly, pleased with my pitch.
Accountant refers me to eight separate transactions at Costa Coffee.
Busted.

Tumble Tots

2008-10-25T11:31:00.001Z

On Saturday morning, two boys entered the woods on their bicycles. “I saw some other kids doing a jump over there” said one to the other, pointing to a grassy knoll in the distance.
“Cool. Do it!” instructs his friend.
The boy lines his bike up whilst his friend stands and eggs him on from the side lines. “Really go for it!” he says.
“Okay” he shouts back over his shoulder as he mentally prepares himself, speeding up for take-off. And take off he did, flying through the sky like a big, pink torpedo before landing face first in the undergrowth.

Dog walkers, hearing what they assumed were the frantic screams of a young girl, rushed over to see what had happened. To their surprise, the high pitched whimpers were coming from a 32 year old male who looked up at them pathetically through mud splattered glasses. And that’s how Accountant broke his collar bone.

As we had 3 hours to spare whilst waiting in A&E and Accountant was a conveniently captive audience, I decided to raise some discussion points.

1. What was a 14 stone grown man who had never gone out on his bike without falling off thinking - dirt jumping in the woods?
2. And, why was he catapulting himself across the countryside at the very moment he’d promised he’d be arriving home?

Turning toward me like a robot in a neck brace, Accountant winced as he explained that it was all my nephew’s fault for showing him the jump and then went on to blame his friend for making him do it. I mustered an eyebrow raise, marvelling at how little the adult male develops from childhood.

“And you weren’t home when you promised because....?” I prompted.

Accountant suddenly took a turn for the worse, sucking in air through gritted teeth at just the same time his name was called over the tannoy to attend minor injuries.

One hour later, with no operation or plaster required, I could tell Accountant was very pleased with himself as the pretty young nurse lent over him to tie his sling instructing him gently to take it easy for the next six weeks. He nodded seriously, a smug smile tugging at his lips. I resisted an urge to poke his shoulder.

Back at home, I began to get a taste as to what my life would be like for the next month.

“I need a beer” he hollered from the sofa. It was hard to hear him above the footie. “Can you turn the tv up too? I would do it but I can’t move” he added, pointing to his sling.

Once Chickie was delivered back from Nanna’s, he was briefed on daddy’s minor injury. “Poor daddy” he sympathised, bounding over to cuddle him.

Accountant’s screams were delightfully shrill as he realised that recuperating avec toddler might not be as cushy as anticipated.

What's Motherhood Really Like?

2008-10-16T09:19:00.000Z

“So, what’s motherhood really like?”

As I looked into the well-rested eyes of the girl I’d just met at a friend’s birthday party, I considered how best to respond as she went on to explain that she was considering having a baby but had concerns about her white carpets and matching sofas.

As I listened to her talk about the protective blue plastic socks that were issued to her guests and the drawer dividers she used to keep her blacks knickers separate from her white, I was beginning to feel a dastardly longing for her to have a baby immediately.

To be honest, I’d put more thought into purchasing my fridge freezer than into having a baby, and had simply assumed it would comply on the basis I was bigger. Baby would while away its days looking like a model from the mini-Boden catalogue whilst I baked cupcakes and praised it occasionally from the kitchen for sitting so nicely for a whole seven hours. The labour was going to be all drugs and no pain and baby would respect the home that mummy had spent two years renovating. It would eat, sleep and behave impeccably at all times because I’d read its instructions, twice (Contented Little Baby Book). Baby would enjoy international travel and adapt effortlessly to changes in routine. Baby would always use a coaster.

The nice girl’s husband stood by her side, a loving arm around placed around her waist. They were waiting for me to say something.

What’s motherhood really like? The question danced around my few remaining brain cells.

“Well”, I tried to focus on their content little faces through eyes that hadn’t enjoyed a full night’s sleep since July. “Take photos of your little white house then at least you’ll have your memories. The plastic slipper socks shouldn’t be a complete waste of money, they’ll probably be quite useful to wear on your head during the reflux stage, when you start weaning and for potty training too. You might want to consider an extra drawer compartment for disposable pants and giant nursing bras. Then, once you’ve finished breastfeeding, a padded bra section might be useful.” I took a deep breath.

“Once baby’s mobile, the game changes. You need to put everything you own in storage. I’m not just talking ornaments. Curtains, sofas, rugs, bedding, lampshades, literally everything. Keep the tv though, it’s essential.”

The husband’s arm fell from his wife’s waist. They exchanged glances.

“The word ‘holiday’ will no longer apply to you. Wipe it from your vocabulary and your memory” I continued.

“Perhaps we’ll wait a bit longer” she interjected.

My mobile phone beeped and I showed them my ‘Chickie in his Spiderman outfit’ screensaver, followed by my gallery of Chickie photos from birth to date. By photo 64, their interest was waning. I kept going though, every photo reminding me that my little boy is the greatest thing I’ve ever done.

The Leggy Legacy of Mushroom Packing

2008-10-13T09:16:00.001Z

“Is that a varicose vein in your leg?”, my mother enquired, squinting at Accountant’s lily white leg poking out of the end of his shorts.
“Yes it is” replied Accountant proudly, perking up at her interest in the long term condition that had never caused him a day’s discomfort.
“How’ve you got that then?” she continued, not as savvy as I at avoiding any interest in Accountant’s bodily functions.
“I don’t know really” he replied seriously, rubbing the offending vein as if to ease the pain he’d shouldered silently for so many years.
“Has anyone in your family got them?” I rolled my eyes at Dad, who I assumed was finding the pointlessness of her enquiries as tedious as I.
“No, I don’t think so” said Accountant, his brow furrowed with the concentration of a man working his way back five generations for any history of knotted legs. “I did work in a mushroom factory once though.”
“Really?” replied my mother who I knew was working up to the disclosure of her very own varicose veins, waiting for the optimum moment to reveal her own hideous suffering as she stood for years, without breaks, hairdressing for a shilling a week.
“Yes. There were men and women who had worked there for thirty years and I always remember their legs were all gnarled up from standing for so long” said Accountant, his words tinged with concern as to the toll his time at the factory may have taken.
"How long did you work there?” I enquired, momentarily interested.
Accountant took time to calculate, delivering his answer with the utmost gravity, “About four weeks”.
Laughing at Accountant continued for about an hour. It stopped for X-Factor, and then recommenced in earnest.

As soon as the front door shut behind mum and dad, Accountant turned. Apparently I never took any of his medical conditions seriously. No one else, apart from his mother, would either but I vowed to pretend to in the future.

Somewhat conveniently, the next day he awoke with stomach pains and conjunctivitis. “I’ll need some water, a cup of peppermint tea, five cracker breads with butter and cream cheese, complete bed rest and a cold compress” he whimpered, searching my face for any sign that I wasn’t fully invested in his recovery, through his one good eye.

For the rest of the day, I sourced DVD’s, turned the pages of magazines, double checked with NHS Direct that his ‘localised’ stomach pains (as he liked to call them) weren’t appendicitis and applied eye drops every three hours.

And then, on my way to plump up his highly infectious pillows, I overheard him organising a trip to the pub the next day.

That’s when I soaked a towel in icy water and, just as he drifted into his 19th hour of sleep, laid it lovingly over his poor little tummy.

The Dangers of Hormone Imbalance

2008-10-02T11:47:00.001Z

It all started with some serious PMT that had reduced me to tears as I read my friend’s sample wedding invitation. “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, which I gaze so fondly today, were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms, like fairy-gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored...” It was all so loving and hopeful.

I thought of Accountant’s endearing young charms – or at least I tried to, but images of his ridiculously loud and excessive nose blowing and inane whistling pierced my romantic bubble prior to inflation. And the way he pressed the ‘information’ button whenever I was watching something on telly so I missed it all. Not to mention his ‘digestive’ troubles...

Not endearing and thou wouldst be adored much more if all those young charms changed tomorrow. That said, I felt the stirrings of inspiration and set about reacquainting myself with all of Accountant’s long lost fairy-gifts.

To charm out the charms, I did something I personally considered hugely magnanimous. I popped my last Thornton’s cappuccino chocolate into Accountant’s lunch box, which, short of donating a lung, was about as grand a gesture as I could ever bestow on anyone.
In an office far away, the sweet fluffy centre of the best coffee truffle available in Europe, didn’t even graze a taste bud as it was swallowed whole. The email I received at 13:56 simply said, “Thanks for the choccie”.

“Thanks for the choccie!” It wasn’t just a ‘choccie’! It was a luxury aromatic coffee and double cream truffle swirl, sprinkled with ground Brazilian beans. And it was my favourite. And my last one.

I felt disheartened and much the same as years before when I’d discovered all the greeting cards I’d ever given him heaped in the rubbish bin.

Naturally, when he arrived home, I was sulking. Naturally, he had absolutely no idea why.

“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” I replied.

He went to watch football. I sulked some more before realising I couldn’t educate my husband on his shortcomings silently. I reappeared in the doorway.

“Do you remember when you threw my cards away?”
“Did I?”
“Yes” I confirmed, setting my face to ‘how could you’.
“Is that why you’re upset?”
“No, this is about charms.”
“Charms?” He looked more confused than ever.
“Yes, and chocolate”
“I said thank you for the chocolate”.

I wondered how to phrase that, whilst technically he was correct, it hadn’t been the right kind of thank you nor had he grasped the deeper message of my cappuccino-truffle-fairy-gift. By the time I had formulated my thoughts, Accountant was shouting at the TV. Convinced that true romance could never be mine, I trudged up to bed, sniffing loudly.

At half time, he stood before me with a glass of water and some maximum strength Evening Primrose capsules.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t come off them again?” he suggested softly.
I nodded, deciding I adored him after all.

Chickie's First Wedding

2008-09-25T08:54:00.000Z

“You’re brave bringing a toddler to a wedding” said the lady in the silk gown. Reading between the lines, I think what she really meant was, “You silly, silly girl!”

I didn’t mention I’d invested many hours trying to redeploy Chickie to a more suitable venue but Nanna was busy (something cappuccino related). My sister was also busy (something about washing hair) and Grandma and Grandpa were smearing clotted cream onto scones in Devon.

Through my tears, I stressed upon each of them that this was a ‘posh’ wedding, requiring female participants to feature in cocktail dresses and that Chickie wasn’t trusted within 10 feet of dry clean only fabrics. They made sympathetic noises, but all felt that if children were invited, it would be fine. I countered their arguments with the fact that neither bride nor groom had children of their own, so couldn’t possibly comprehend what they’d gone and done.

A day of genteel elegance and refinement beckoned and I was expected to seamlessly blend my 3ft minion of mass destruction into proceedings.

I wore an apron over my dress in the car. Chickie was changed into his tux on arrival and after some initial grumblings about wanting to wear a dress too, he charged off to explore the Manor. Accountant trotted after, thoughtfully leaving me to retrieve my bulging sack of munitions. An essential selection of apparatus– toys, snacks, chloroform...

“Where’s daddy?” I asked as I tugged my sack through the topiary fronted doors.
“Bar” said Chickie, pointing to Accountant’s retreating form as he scurried off down a corridor.

We took up pursuit. “Is it a ghost tunnel mummy?” he asked as we entered the dim hallway. I nodded seriously. He did his penguin dance, delighted by the scariness, before grasping my hand.

By the time we’d negotiated the labyrinth of corridors, we’d lost Daddy (who I know had started running), and found ourselves in the gardens. Vast and wooded with bridges and secret bits, Chickie’s eyebrows nearly fell off his head. “Let’s find dinosaurs mummy” he said, letting out a roar. My heels began their descent into the mud.

We returned for the ceremony looking much like we’d been landscape gardening. We took our ribboned seats, next to the exit. Accountant reappeared with a rosy glow. I glared lovingly at him before showing Chickie just how many packets of jelly babies could be his if he could just be quiet for the next three hours. He nodded his affirmation. He liked the deal.

And then something amazing happened. He actually was really quiet. It lasted throughout dinner. Then he was adorable as he laughed in all the right places during the speeches.

Once the disco lights began to twinkle, Chickie was up and everyone wanted to dance with the little boy who had so loved his first wedding. The one with the dinosaurs and the troll bridge and all the ghosties.

The Pressure

2008-09-19T09:10:00.001Z

I remember a time when you could accept a friend’s dinner invitation safe in the knowledge you could look forward to an evening sat on your bottom, gorging yourself on After Eights. Sadly, it would seem those blissful days are gone.

Now that everyone owns such useful ‘gadgets’ as Nintendo Wiis and Brain Trainers, after dinner mints and digestion are out and physical and mental torture are in.

Last week, we went to Accountant’s boss’ house for dinner. Filo pastry with feta cheese for starter, chicken curry for main and a blood pressure test for pudding. His boss stood over me sipping port as he pumped all of the blood from my left bingo wing with his new birthday present. The other guests watched in terror, knowing their turn was coming. He instructed them to relax – it could affect their readings.

“Ooh, that’s very low” he informed me seriously. My curry started to curdle as a familiar terror crept through my stomach.
“It is?” I wondered whether it was a good time to introduce my health anxiety?
“Yes. Let’s do it again!” He sounded excited and pressed the button again for another go.
The other guests look relieved as they enjoyed a momentary reprieve.

Three days later and awaiting my doctor’s appointment to check my low blood pressure, I’d just finished my friend’s risotto when I was plucked from the sofa and deposited onto a white plastic board. She busily waved another device at the tv which beeped a lot. She then turned to me, looking delighted, as she informed me that I was unbalanced, overweight and physically eligible for a free bus pass.

“Now let’s do your mental age” she said, handing me a tiny console. A three stage mathematics and logic challenge followed. “Ooh, you’ve got the brain of a 65 year old!” she cooed. She concluded her findings by softly mentioning that she, 12 years my senior, had the brain age of a 30 year old.

I drove home panic struck. Accountant pretended to listen as I ran through a carefully considered list of degenerative brain diseases.

“Test me. Ask me a maths question” I urged him, desperate for it not to be true.
“What’s 4000 x 0?” came the response.
“That’s not fair! You know I never know the answer to ‘x 0’ questions!”
“Perhaps you should go and see the doctor after all” he suggested helpfully.

In the cold, terror filled hours that followed, I slept fitfully in between reciting my 2, 5 and 10 times tables. When Accountant brought a puzzle book home the next day, I sat down with pencil in hand and my bottom lip sucked in between my teeth.

Five minutes later, staring blankly at all the empty boxes, it struck me that the blinding mental agility I was no doubt capable of would surely be a waste at this stage of the child rearing process. I put the pencil down and watched Peppa Pig with Chick.

Hi Honey... I'm Home

2008-09-11T09:52:00.000Z

Although my parents swear that their house is still my ‘home’, I can’t help but think they slightly regret not getting their front door key back. Even if they’d tried, they wouldn’t have succeeded. To me, it’s not just a key to my childhood but to a whole other world where life is sweet.

Each time I let myself in unannounced, they look startled and guilty. Although they also swear that they’re far too busy doing DIY to be watching Countdown, there always seems to be lots of scurrying and cushion patting as they scoot out of the living room when I arrive.

To be fair, it took them a long time to get me out in the first place and I think the fear that I might return on a permanent basis still lingers.

At 21, I bought a house which needed ‘work’. I then made my dad do the ‘work’ and my mum sew all the soft furnishings whilst I considered fabric samples and drove to B&Q to get sandpaper and new drill bits for dad. After six months of ownership, I finally slept there.

Three miles away, my parents could hardly believe their luck. 21 years and now dad could finally watch what he wanted on tv. Mum could have a lie in now that she was no longer required to kneel at her adult daughter’s bedside each morning, posting marmite on toast between the gap in her front teeth.

Halfway through their satisfied sighs, they heard a noise. It sounded very much like a key in a lock. They exchanged glances, hoping it wasn’t burglars. Unfortunately, it was far worse. It was me. Mum made me a cup of tea whilst I reclaimed the remote and explained to my despondent father that I just wasn’t cut out for living alone.

Two years later, I was bound for Spain where I’d live for a year. My dad’s hand twitched in anticipation of all the golf and snooker he could soon be watching. Arrival at my final destination was via Holland, where a de-briefing conference thing was to be held first. Dad dropped me off at Church where I boarded a mini-bus.

Eighteen hours later, via lots of other countries where we picked up lots of very excited people, we arrived. Tired and feeling less exuberant than my associates, I stood before my accommodation. Think big scout hut, made of corrugated iron. I looked around the field I was sinking into, regretting my recent life choices.

The inside was worse. Steel bunk beds were lined up under fluorescent strip lights. Having never owned a sleeping bag, it hadn’t occurred to me to take one. But with no bedding provided, I realised my mistake.

The next day, as I boarded an aeroplane back to England, I clutched my front door key hardly able to wait to see my fully furnished home and mum and dad’s happy little faces.

Nobbled

2008-09-06T08:31:00.001Z

“Oh bless him!” said my Mother.
“Mum, come on!” I implored. I’d been convinced she’d bless me this time.
“It’s not so bad” she said.
“He bought me a packet of hobnobs for our anniversary!” I squeaked.
“They were chocolate coated!” she pointed out helpfully.
“I want diamond coated, set in platinum!”

I leant against the kitchen worktop, holding one up for inspection before biting it with as much resentment as I could muster towards something so rich in coca-solids.

“This is bad” I warned. I honestly hadn’t realised it could get any worse than the dog coasters he bought me in 2001. Although, that wooden box with the miniature duck and fishing rod on the lid I’d got for Christmas had been horrifying at the time. I hid it in a cupboard.

“Just be thankful” mum said.
I didn’t want to be thankful. “I’m going now. It’s my wedding anniversary and I’ve got 15 hobnobs to eat”. I put the phone down as she began instructing me to eat an apple instead.

That night, as Accountant snorted beside me like a walrus with dodgy adenoids, I couldn’t sleep - partly due to the snoring, partly because I couldn’t help but think that anniversary hobnobs were just one present away from divorce. It was if he’d just given up on me altogether.

At least with the coasters, weird wooden box and dog breeding book, he’d shown some sort of originality and somehow thought that I’d like them. Of course, it just served to prove that, despite all the years we’d been together, he didn’t know me at all but, even so.

What would next year’s present be? A packet of Bourbons? Custard creams? That’s if we even made it to next year. I logged onto the Relate website and clicked on the Frequently Asked Questions. There was nothing about biscuits.

I decided it was time for a little chat. Accountant hates ‘chats’, so I eased him in by presenting him with his favourite dinner when he arrived home. Whilst his mouth was still full, I seized my opportunity.

“You still love me don’t you sweetheart?”
He glanced heavenward before nodding cautiously.
I tried for a more emphatic response. “You do really, don’t you?”
He swallowed his chicken kiev. “Of course I do” he said before cramming eleven chips into his mouth. Knowing that was as good as it got, I left him be.

When he sat down later that evening, I handed him a cup of tea and a coaster. A poofy dog one, retrieved from under the sofa wheel, where it had lived happily for seven years. He didn’t notice and plonked it on the table, next to a hideously unattractive trinket box with a duck on it.

Weeks have passed and, although I notice the coasters and duck box everyday, Accountant still hasn’t. My mother, however, noticed immediately.

“Oh, bless you” she said to me. Finally.

Fancy Fiasco

2008-08-25T19:57:00.000Z

There are moments in every childhood where your parents unwittingly do something that scars you forever. The 12 August 1984 was when it happened to me and I was eight.
I was invited to a fancy dress party at the Village Hall. Everyone was going to be there including James Grey, the boy I loved. It was a big deal. I gave my mother a specific design brief. Something classy, not too girly (I was a tomboy) and cool. Above all else, it must be cool. Mum looked suitably contemplative as I ruled out dresses, ra ra skirts, ribbons, sequins, catsuits or anything with ears. She didn’t write anything down but assured me she’d work magic.
The big day arrived and my costume was still to be revealed. I imagined myself strutting in as Minnie the Minx, a red and black striped beacon of super cool. James would see me and realise he loved me too. I got my Gnasher badge out ready (available to Beano fan club members only). Or perhaps ‘The Naughtiest Girl in the School’? - I loved her. She was the reason I’d requested to go to boarding school, to which my mother ran out of the room sobbing. I went to Chatsmore when they told me I’d have to wear a straw hat.
Then my mum appeared clutching yellow crepe paper, a stapler and a pair of scissors. I was confused. I couldn’t remember her mentioning any pending craft projects? When she whipped out the tape measure, I realised with a cold, creeping horror that I was the craft project.
What happened in that kitchen that day, and later at the party, has never left me. Why she stapled me into a tissue paper mini skirt and matching tankini I’ll never understand. I still don’t even know what I was supposed to be. She’d had three weeks notice and I know she got housekeeping money, and yet I was sent into a hall with all my polyester clad friends in a yellow tissue bikini.
After five minutes, it became clear that not only had my costume failed on every count of style, it wasn’t winning any durability contests either. Everywhere I went, strands of yellow tissue paper floated in my wake. Before long, there was more on the floor than me. Kindly helpers began to bring over cardigans and blankets as exposed and humiliated, I shook in the corner, waiting to die.
I had to give the blankets back when we left, so walked home through the village in just my shoes, a pair of white pants and a solitary yellow band of yellow crepe paper stapled around my waist. The only suggestion that I’d ever been wearing more.
So mum, fifteen years from now, when it’s the ‘Senior Citizens Fancy Dress Day’ at the retirement home, I’ll be sure to buy a lovely packet of lilac crepe paper just for you! I almost can’t wait.

Hide And Seek

2008-08-25T19:56:00.000Z

“SSSshhhhh!” I whispered, burrowing into the bush.
“Dadddddddddyyyyyyyyy!” yelled Chickie.
“Be quiet!” I firmly reiterated the rules of hide and seek.
“DAADDDDYYYYYY!”

And that’s when I did it. Much like Moses, Chick was wrapped up (in leaves) and left in the reeds. He’d left me no choice, he’d compromised our position.

Days later, Accountant is still going on about the moment he found Chick, abandoned. When he tells the story to friends and family, he winces, to fully convey his deep regret and shock over the ‘abandonment’.

“It’s not like I left him on a doorstep” I pipe up. Everyone looks at me as if I did.
“We were in my parent’s garden not a National Park. I was only on the other side of the bush!” Glances are exchanged.
“He knew the rules and I asked him to be quiet” I grumble as I get up and leave the grand jury to their deliberations.

It wasn’t fair. Being partnered with a two year old is much the same as being painted fluorescent pink and having a siren stuck to your head and then being told to ‘hide’. Whilst the rest of the family were all neatly tucked under tree roots and wheelbarrows, I was left running around in circles, wondering whether scaling a tree with Chickie hanging from my neck was viable?

With time running out, and Chickie unwilling to even try to climb onto the shed roof, I panicked and ended up cowering behind a bush. Feeling exposed (not helped by Chickie’s, “We’re over here!”), I buckled. The coveted title of “Best Hider” could NOT go to my sister for a second year. It was to be mine. I just had to ditch the toddler.

The fact Accountant found me sprinting away just seconds after locating Chickie didn’t really make all the scandal worth it. Once the gig was up, I started towards the sofa to watch ‘The Chipmunks’ but a little hand grabbed mine. The toddler was back, this time in ‘seek’ mode. I hoped it was better than his ‘hide’ mode.

We ventured into the undergrowth to excavate my sister and nephews. The nephews were easy but my sister taunted us for over an hour from wherever she was. She still won’t say. Every so often a ‘hurry up’ would be heard and we’d all go running towards the voice but no one was ever found.

I suggested that, since it was nearly dark, we should all go and have a nice cup of tea. “Leave the ‘best hider’ in the bushes, she’ll come out eventually!” I shouted, knowing she was listening from somewhere poky and heavily populated by spiders.

Accountant looked at me as if he’d never seen me before, horrified that I’d so readily give up both my son and sister when the going had got noisy or boring.

I bid him ‘toodle pip’ as I left them all to seek out chocolate biscuits instead.

Who's The Mummy!

2008-08-25T19:55:00.000Z

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?

Nothing But Worry

2008-07-24T12:05:00.001Z

“No binge drinking, dancing with girls/near girls, or swearing and don’t forget your inhaler, which you shouldn’t need because you’re not to smoke or get over-excited” I said. “Run from fights. Don’t get stabbed. No motorbikes. And stay away from Peanut!” Accountant’s best friend and a social menace.

Accountant nodded, edging towards the door. “You’ve packed your inhaler?” He held it up. “Anti-histamines? Savlon? Imodium?” Accountant had inched his way onto the doorstep.

He kissed my cheek before telling me not to worry, and then was gone. We watched him skip down the road.
“What about your eye mask and ear plugs?” I hollered down the empty street.
“Where’s daddy gone?”
“On a stag weekend. Which, by the way, you’re never allowed to do” I replied, stroking Chick’s hair. He felt very hot.

If temperature goes over 39 degrees or remains above normal for more than two days SEEK MEDICAL ADVICE. I re-read the box. Did that mean his temperature had to be over 39 degrees for two days or just over 39 degrees? I hated maths and thermometer boxes. That’s why I married an Accountant. An Accountant who pretended I was a wrong number when I phoned him at work to ask how to work out a percentage, whether 4000 x 0 was 4000 or 0 and, if I folded something smaller, would it weigh less in my suitcase?

A 39.9 degree Chickie whined feebly as I grappled with the logic. I patted him with a cold flannel, sending him into orbit with outrage. As he writhed, I read again. Why was SEEK MEDICAL ADVICE in capitals? I panicked. No wonder my poor baby was screaming – he was so ill he was UPPER CASE. I rang the doctor who was all lower case. Chickie was to be stripped, monitored and medicated.

5ml. Up to 4 times a day. Don’t give more than 4 doses in 24 hours. Don’t give for more than 3 days. That was the Calpol but the Nurofen was different. My head span. Different doses, different 24 hour thing, no more than 3 days. The numbers and letters jumbled in front of my eyes. It was like High School algebra all over again. A + B = C. Where did all the numbers go? Why are there letters in my maths? I asked my teacher who subsequently lowered my predicted grade from a B to a C. Added together did that make an A?

For the next few days, Chickie’s temperature bopped around like a Tellytubby. His father, clubbing in Edinburgh, did the same. On Day 3, the doctor was consulted as per the Calpol instructions. When he went all clammy, the Doctor listened graciously to my concerns about cholera contracted from the fountain in France.

Once Accountant returned in one portly piece and Chickie descended to a toasty 36.6 degrees, I finally relaxed.

Happy Chick + Happy Daddy = Happy Mummy.

Oh La La

2008-07-21T12:05:00.001Z

The scene was practically perfect. I stopped my bike and watched as the swans glided past on the river. Butterflies waltzed around the wild poppies and the long feathery leaves of the willow trees swished on the gentle summer breeze.

All until a piercing scream cut through the valley, alerting me, the fishermen down river and all local wildlife that Chickie had caught up on the back of daddy’s bike. I ignored his dramatic entrance, allowing the mellow setting to soften my parenting style. “Are you enjoying your cycle ride?”

Chickie’s expression reminded me of one of those unsavoury characters from middle earth in Lord of the Rings, just moments away from gouging out the eyes of some nice little hobbit.

“I WANT MY DUM DUM NOW!” More birds flew the nest as news of Chickie’s arrival at the lakeside got round.

I tried a more educational approach. “Look at the buzzy bees”. I pointed to the only creatures remaining in the area.

“DUM DUM NOW!”

This wasn’t the touching family day out I’d planned. Inspired by the Loire Tourist Board brochure, featuring a wholesome family all smiling happily under their cycling helmets, it had all seemed so achievable. One daddy, one mummy, one toddler, two velos and voila.

“Be kind sweetheart”.
“No chance” came the reply.
Accountant, wholly responsible for the introduction of ‘no chance’ to Chickie’s vocabulary, amongst other choice phrases that shall remain unwritten and, please God, unspoken, smirked at the floor.
“I think I need a holiday” I whined, massaging my temples.
“We’re on holiday!” replied Accountant.

This was no holiday. At least, it was nothing like the one I’d enjoyed three weeks ago. I was clearly being punished.

In the car on the way home, I wondered what all those French mummies had done to get all their petit filous scented children to bid us ‘Bonjour’ as they’d all trotted past earlier in a neat little row. All perfectly presented, not a smudge on one of them - and all so horribly polite.

I viewed Chickie via the safety of the wing mirror. Finally unconscious and sporting a fine film of filth from running off to wedge himself inside a tractor wheel, he wasn’t looking very French.

The next day ended with a soggy Chickie who’d sampled every puddle and attempted to climb into the village fountain, topped off with a thick application of strawberry ice cream from eyebrows to trousers.

Whilst, admittedly, some days I long for a clean child that will consider at least one of my suggestions, how vibrant the memories of this particular childhood will be. And in forty years time, I know I’ll be smiling as I look back at the photos of my mischievous little boy, beautiful and exuberant, enjoying his holiday in France.

Chickie's Sleepover

2008-07-10T20:09:00.000Z

“He’s 2. He doesn’t even know what a sleepover is!”
“It’ll be fun. Go on, he’ll love having Bella to stay” replied Accountant.

Accountant and son gave me their best “you’re no fun, but here’s your chance to redeem yourself” faces.

I asked what I thought was a sensible question. “Why would we want to borrow more children when we still can’t work the one we’ve got?”

Four big, imploring eyes stared at my bewildered face. Was I being dull or was I right to be wary of Accountant’s latest great idea? I cast my mind back to his previous strokes of genius.

1. “Let’s go to St Ives for the weekend”. A round trip that took longer than the holiday itself.

2. “Let’s go camping”. A night of sheer misery.

3. “Let’s have a baby!” A lifetime of sheer ....bliss. Bliss!

I asked another sensible question. “Won’t she get upset and wonder where her mummy is?”

“She’ll be fine. Plus, I’ll be there to help!” His enthusiasm was touching.

That weekend, I sat rocking a puce little girl who, between those high drama moments when you wonder whether they’re actually ever going to breathe again, managed to wail, “I...sob....sob..... WANT ...deep quivery breath.....MY ...face contorts to expression of deep sorrow...MUMMMMMYYYYYY!!....”

Had Accountant actually been in the house, this would have been precisely the moment I would have hunted him down and hurt him, lots. However, he was a whole postcode away, swigging beer and watching football whilst I enjoyed the upbeat mood of the little ones in my care. I’d get him later.

Much ssshhing and hair stroking later and Bella was tucked up neatly in her Barbie Princess blow up bed next to Chickie. Stories were read, promises were made by two little people who vowed to go straight to sleep. I tippy toed out of the room thinking how adorable they were - all giggly and snugly.

By 9pm, I was finding them less adorable. Chickie was bouncing on Barbie’s head whilst Bella had reached a dizzying height of frenzy. I pictured Accountant far, far away, wishing I hadn’t been forced to look cool in front of his friend who could see no reason why Accountant couldn’t come out to play. Surely I could cope with two little toddlers on my own, couldn’t I?

No, no I couldn’t. “Please go to sleep. PLEASE? Mummy’s tired. I’ve been up here 432 times in two hours.”
“I need a wee wee” said Chickie the merciless.
“Yes, so do I” chirped in Bella.
No sooner were the necessaries done.
“I need a wee wee!”
“Yes, so do I”
“You’ve just been. Go to sleep”.
“Wee Wees!”
“Yes, wee wees!”
“GO TO SLEEP!”
“No!”
“Yes, No!”

When Accountant returned home at midnight to find one snoring mummy and two toddlers all squeezed into one Barbie Princess inflatable bed, he knew he was in trouble.

A New Chick In Town

2008-07-03T18:28:00.000Z

There are some people you should never shop with.

1. My mother, who says things like, “Do you really need it?” Who cares? I really want it and that’s what matters.

2. My husband, “Why spend hundreds on tasteful garden furniture when that yellow plastic set over there costs just £9.99? And it comes with a free terracotta fringed parasol and avocado seat pads”.

3. And me. “Go on, buy it! Who cares about the mortgage? That’s why God invented overdrafts!”

“God didn’t invent overdrafts.” My friend was sure on this point. She’d worked in a bank.
“Whatever. They’re divine and it would be sacrilege not to use them!” I wafted the gorgeous red bag under her nose, recognising the wanton glimmer in her eyes. She was wavering and just needed a helpful nudge. Her future happiness depended on it. “It can be your break-up bag.” She reached out tentatively and stroked it.

“I deserve a break-up bag” she whispered.
“Yes, you do. It’s an essential part of the healing process.” Modelling it for her, I tried not to get too attached as whiffs of fine leather tantalised my nostrils.

I demonstrated its many features. “It’s fully lined, with mobile phone holder, inner pocket and matching mirror.”
“Ooh, look at the mirror” she cooed with big, round eyes.
In her trance like state, it was easy to discreetly ditch her tartan flannel satchel and replace it with the real handbag.
“See how it transforms your outfit” I said, repositioning her in front of the mirror.
She nodded, dumbfounded. She was like a chick that had just peeked out of the nest. Teetering on shaky legs, on the cusp of a new world she’d never known. Fortunately, I was there to direct her straight from the treetops and into the shops.
“This white one would look fabulous too”. I swiftly installed it on her shoulder.
“I didn’t think I liked white handbags but now I think I might” she said with reverence.

It had taken eight years, but I felt we might just be on the brink of a retail revolution.

“And we could straighten your hair and put it in a tousled side bun”. I demonstrated as I spoke. She was glazed from the information overload. A classic tomboy with no sisters - I had so much to teach her.

That night, coiffed to within an inch of her life, and 6ft in her heels, the promenade was her catwalk. She was like Pretty Woman, when she gets the credit card and I was Barney, the one who encouraged the spending.

However, by the end of the week, Glamour Chick was higher maintenance than the Chick I’d left at home. Chirping at 7am each morning for her feathers to be de-frizzed and unable to grasp the most basic of grooming theory, I felt it was time for a chat.

“I’ve been thinking, I actually really like your hair curly!”

Practically Horizontal...

2008-06-26T11:59:00.000Z

What are good friends for if not to point out when you’re being completely delusional?

I didn’t realise there were any personality flaws left that hadn’t already been brilliantly and publically illuminated upon my grand entrance to motherhood. Patience? Didn’t have as much of that as I’d hoped. Tolerance – no, none of that either. Selflessness – it’s a daily struggle. Materialism – I just like pretty things, preferably luxury goods, purchased in bulk.

But there was one redeeming quality I still possessed. My laid back attitude to life.
“Where shall we eat?” my friend asked as we tottered precariously over the cobbled streets of Bellagio.
“I don’t mind” I replied. “I’m laid back”.
“No you’re not!” she laughed, scanning my face for signs it was all a big joke.
“I am too!” I exclaimed, outraged.
“Name one thing you’re laid back about!”
I took a moment. “Excess baggage charges” I replied triumphantly. I’d hardly batted an eyelid when slapped with a £35 charge and a ‘heavy’ label for my bulging suitcase.
“That doesn’t count! What about the fact you were praying in tongues on the flight and went to the loo six times? ”
“Aeroplanes are unnatural” I responded, cursing as one of my heels got caught in a drain. “And I have a sensitive stomach”. I clung to her arm whilst bending down to yank at my most recent purchase currently being mauled by one of the most impractical walking surfaces I’d ever encountered. I muttered under my breath –“stupid place for a drain...cobbles...rubbish...haven’t they heard of tarmac?”
“You were like it on the ferry too!” her voice badgered me from above, unwilling to let the debate slide.
“Same principle. The science is all wrong. Big, heavy items, constructed of metal, are not suited to floating.”

With an almighty effort, my shoe came free. I spent the next five minutes mourning the savage attack of my innocent shoe and ranting about suing the Mayor and the Town Planners office.

“What about that guy you had a go at for pushing in the queue!” She was back again, like a mosquito desperate for blood.
“He had it coming “. Appearing from nowhere and sidling up to us as if he were a long lost friend after we’d been queuing for check-in for an hour, was a mistake on his part. I merely pointed this out to him, and the people behind us. They told the people behind them, who told the people behind them. There was a ripple of applause as he skulked to the back of the queue, with his little wheelie case between his legs. I smiled all the way home (between toilet visits).

“And the fact you left your husband a 20 page typed and bound manual entitled ‘Housewifery for Morons’?”

I looked at her calmly before saying. “You can cite examples all day, my dear friend, but I don’t care because I’m sooooo laid back!”

It'll Be Fun! (Not if I have anything to do with it!)

2008-06-19T09:47:00.001Z

We’ve got to check out Disco RanDan!” my friend’s voice squeaked with excitement.
“We do?” I hated the sound of it. ‘Disco’, ‘Ran’ and ‘Dan’ all sounded horrid.
“It’s only 200m from our hotel”.
“How convenient” I mumbled, wishing I hadn’t given her the website address of our hotel in Italy.

I hate clubbing. When all my friends were out bopping away years ago, I could be found on my sofa, scoffing egg foo yung, eagerly memorising all the items passing by on the Generation Game conveyor belt. Truthfully, I’ve been ready for middle age since I was about ten.

My friends tried hard to squeeze me into lycra and onto the dance floor but the fact I was prone to nodding off amidst all the snogging, still wearing my duffle coat, made me something of a party pooper. My love of comfortable shoes and warm clothes coupled with strict views on noise levels and reasonable toilet waiting times soon found me reunited with Brucey.

“We’re going” my friend said. “It’ll be fun”. I groaned inwardly and then outwardly before looking up to find myself caught in her most serious ‘single woman’ glare. Telling me, without words, that her future husband could be just a RanDan away and I, all selfishly betrothed, was not to stand in the way of continental romance.

I nodded in resignation, picturing the passive smoke clogging my bronchial tubes whilst cheesy Euro pop ravaged my ears and left me humming ‘Macarena’ for weeks. But it was a price I would have to pay. This was my friend who, despite everything I had shared with her about marriage, still insisted she wanted a man.

Having been to Italy before, I researched some useful phrases. ‘Vada prego via (Go away). I underlined it. ‘Penso che sia ora di partire’( I’m afraid we’ve got to leave now). I highlighted it in pink.

Now for clothing. Were velour tracksuits hip in Clubland? Probably not. I reached into the depths of the wardrobe, returning with an oldie but a goodie. Yes, the serious perfunctory blandness of my little black dress made it perfect. It said, ’I am no fun’. ‘No fun at all’.

One week later, I did an excellent impression of a girl disappointed when informed that RanDan had closed down. My friend’s lip drooped further when I pointed out we could now get in an excellent night’s reading.

After repacking the dress, I lay in my bunk feeling slightly sorry that she was in her No-Fun-pyjamas by 9.30pm. “We could try and find George Clooney’s villa tomorrow?” I suggested.

It worked wonders. Her book was launched across the room, instantly replaced by maps and a compass. I rechecked my phrase book, suspecting that tomorrow would require a new approach. George, sei stupendo – George, you look great. George, ecco il mio numero. George, here’ my number. George, posso baciarti...

Yes, I know he’s American but when in Lake Como!

Little Miss Wincyette

2008-06-14T17:29:00.000Z

Stood in front of me in the queue at Costa’s was gorgeous girl. Teetering on fabulously high heels, wearing dry clean only fabrics and organising social engagements on her mobile, minus the toddler screaming, "Chickie talk to Nanna" "CHICKIE TALK TO NANNA!". I admit it, I was jealous.

I knew I was being shallow - a shameful state when you're a mother, but, at that moment, I wanted a Furla handbag stuffed with dosh instead of a potty in a plastic bag, I wanted to be wearing perfume instead of Vanish spray and I wanted to be 6 inches taller and 10 years younger. When life still had to reveal who I'd love, what I'd achieve and whether I might have a daughter or a son. It was all there waiting to unravel.

Whilst I hoped all the exciting events of my life weren't behind me, it did feel a bit like the best ones were taken. First kisses were gone, the wedding day done and the sproglet duly extracted.

I watched Chickie stir my cappucino with his finger. Gorgeous girl was accompanied by gorgeous boy and she sat twiddling her chestnut hair, fluttering her long black lashes. I raised a hand to my own eyelashes, stumpy and curled to within a millimetre of their life since the age of 12. I disliked her even more.

Chickie had begun lapping at the froth of my cappucino like a stray cat. Catching my glare, he bolted. Fifteen laps of Costas later and my spirits and eyelashes were drooping. Gorgeous girl never became unseated and her eyelashes were almost touching her eyebrows.

My best friend called me that evening. She’d let her boyfriend go. Commitment phobic and eating into her fertile years, she'd finally kicked him to the kerb.

"I know it sucks now, but, just think, it's all ahead of you" I enthused to her sobs, picturing how exciting her life would be.
"I'm so tired of this. I just want to settle down".
"But you're free. You can go on fabulous holidays, have fun, do whatever you want"
"I want to get married and have babies" she wailed.
"Are you sure? There's snot, lots of it. Not to mention ridiculous amounts of laundry, over familiarity and poverty to consider"
"I don't care. I don't want to be on my own anymore. I want to share my life with someone".
"You've got your budgies" I offered.
More crying.
As I nestled on Accountant’s chest that bedtime, he told me that my Velcro hair rollers were itchy and enquired as to their purpose.

“Volume” I told him, without mentioning it was part of my ‘revamp’, inspired by Little Miss Lashes.
“You look sweet”.
“Really?”
“Yes. Even sweeter than normal”.

My vintage love. Perhaps not as exciting as when it first fluttered, but as snug and cosy as the pink slipper socks and winceyette pyjamas I was wearing.

My Little Holiday

2008-06-05T20:45:00.002Z

It turns out Chickie hadn’t given me chicken pox after all. My bountiful spots were just an allergic reaction to the thought of having chicken pox. I therefore remained hopeful enough to forcefully request Accountant stay home and tend to Chickie instead of going cycling in Wales as he’d planned.

Leaving Accountant holding a spotty yet otherwise unfazed baby, I sped off to B&Q to buy provisions. Although tempted, I decided that the full body suit could be seen as excessive, so opted for heavy duty vinyl gloves and a dust mask with contoured nose bridge. I drove home feeling my chances for a healthy future were significantly improved.

It proved quite tricky getting into my face mask and rubber gloves on the doorstep without the neighbours seeing. Trickier still to get from the front door to my bedroom without breathing. Plus the mask was uncomfortable and messed up my hair. In the end I went out after sealing off the bedroom with masking tape.

Whilst slurping my French Onion soup and reading the paper, my mobile rang. It was Accountant.
“Where are you?”
“Cafe Rouge”. I answered, feeling a twinge of guilt.
“Enjoying yourself?” I was rather but felt it best not to mention it. “No, I’m sat all alone and I’m missing you so much” I said, trying to sound genuine.

The next day, I was in Zara, loaded up like a shopaholic mule with a delicious assortment of belts, bags and other essentials, when the mobile rang.
“Where?” said the despondent voice of my housebound husband.
“Oh, just in Brighton.”
“You’re not buying anything are you?”
“No”. Well, it wasn’t technically buying when it was already bought.

Day 3.
“Where?”
“I can’t talk now Sweetheart, I’m under the dryer!”

Cruising home with the windows down, bopping along to Rhythm is a Dancer, intermittently checking out my new highlights in the rearview mirror, I felt twenty two again. I looked over at the passenger seat and placed a loving hand on my shopping bags letting happy little endorphins whiz around my body.

The next day, the mood changed. Chick was no longer amused by his circumstances, nor was Daddy and nor was I. I missed my family. The husband who gave up his holiday for me. The big spotty baby. I rang downstairs from upstairs.

“Love you Sweetheart” I said when Accountant answered.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me!”
“I’m not bringing you any more cups of tea”. I let his cynicism slide.

One week later, with Chickie nicely scabbed over, I resumed my housewifey endeavours with renewed vigour. I even baked cup cakes.

Whilst Accountant sat eating them, I thought it a prudent time to point out the morale boosting benefits of my three day shopathon. However, as fluffy as the cupcakes were, my motion was denied.

The Chickie Pox

2008-05-29T22:16:00.000Z

Chickie was thrilled this morning to see his mummy dressed as a Ninja in a black hood and mask.

Having suspected his suspicious rash from the day before might be thinking about being chicken pox, I was taking no chances. My Italian girlie holiday was just a 21 day incubation period away. Without a anti-contamination suit handy, I got creative, fashioning a balaclava out of a pair of knickers. Accountant peered at me from underneath his eye mask as I crept out of the bedroom wearing my new frilly high leg hat. He let out a snort before turning over to resume his snooze, uncaring that this might be the day I’d been dreading my whole adult life.

Wearing woolly gloves and, using extreme caution, I lifted Chickie’s pyjama top. “Baddies” confirmed Chickie excitedly as I scowled at the sinister gathering of red spots scattered across his torso. I retreated slowly.

“Chickie’s got chicken pox” I informed the back of Accountant’s grunting head.
“Chickie pox?” he drooled into his pillow.
“This isn’t funny. I haven’t had it”. Or at least I didn’t think I had.
“You’ve had glandular fever. Oh, and whooping cough” said my mother.
“Yes but what about chicken pox?”
“Ohhhh, I don’t know?”
“How can you not know? Everyone knows whether they’ve had chicken pox?”
“Well, you’ve definitely had glandular fever and your father had scarlet fever and double quinsies”.

It seemed no one was taking this seriously. The pox at my age were no laughing matter if the images on Google were to be believed. Not to mention that flesh eating scabs were not considered lakeside chic.

“Would you mind if I moved out this week?” I mumbled through my pants to a sleeping Accountant whilst Chickie counted his dots. “That was the Emergency Plan in the event of an outbreak”.
Ever the forward planner, I had considered this scenario and remembered Accountant vaguely nodding along to my suggestion that, in the event our child contracted any infectious disease to which my immunity wasn’t guaranteed, a quarantine period would apply.
“2, 8, 7, 3”, said Chickie poking his finger into each of his new blotches in turn.

Resigned to the fact I wasn’t going away, Accountant turned toward me. Accepting of my eccentricities concerning preventative health measures, he made no comment about my homemade face mask. “You’ve probably already got it. You’ve been with him all week” he said reassuringly.

I thought back, reliving the moment Chickie sneezed into my beef sandwich and when he’d tenderly kissed the end of my nose. A heart warming gesture I’d thought at the time but, no, just the point of entry for his infected airborne respiratory droplets.

Some days later, I sat counting my very own batch of Chickie pox. “145, 146, 147...”. I sighed, wondering if God had chuckled to himself when I’d bought a polka dot swimming cossie in anticipation of my holiday.

Not So Magic

2008-05-21T23:13:00.000Z

Recently, whilst watching the Gardening channel, I began wondering what it was about Alan Titchmarsh that was so appealing. Was it his soft Yorkshire accent, the way he filled his wellies or how tenderly he handled the delphiniums in his care? I couldn’t tell. I flicked over to the Hallmark Channel to see if there were any cheesy Canadian straight-to-TV films on. Disappointed and not in the mood for spending my time productively or like an Under 50, I trawled the channels, finally landing on ‘How to Look Good Naked’.

It left me with a burning question that needed answering. Can any woman really live happily ever after if, behind her glamourous new facade, she’s secretly been compressed into a punishing polyester/elastane mix body suit with out so much as an air hole? Wouldn’t she feel like a fraud – knowing that beneath that washboard stomach and super pert bottom was a suffocating weeble desperate to get out? Wouldn’t she always worry about that unexpected gust of wind that sends her skirt flying around her ears and publically outs her Spanx flesh coloured power panties? And how good for your internal organs can it really be?

In the name of research, I decided to find out.

One ‘Better Bum Control’ expense claim later and I had the perfect occasion to trial my new ‘wonderwear’. A wedding.

At 7am, I tucked flabby tum tums into the ultra snug pants and, for security reasons, wore two vests that got tucked in too. Underneath, a padded bra, for propping and inflation. And finally, a pair of tights, pulled up to my armpits. Et voila. The foundations of my new fake body were built.

The chafing began at midday, a numb right bottom cheek followed at 3pm and complete loss of circulation in both legs at 8pm. Toilet visits took ages as the unpeeling, untucking, repeeling and retucking ritual left me considering flushing the lot down the loo. It was only the thought of the astonished gasps of my fellow guests as I returned to the table one stone heavier that stopped me.

Dancing was out of the question with such a strong chance of severing a leg, plus I was dizzy from all the shallow breathing. I longed for a deep breath but the pants forbade it.
Tired and bleeding, I hobbled back to the car where, under the cover of darkness, I spent ten minutes negotiating my release from my elasticated nightmare. It was with gratitude that I received the feeling back into my legs and my lower respiratory tract began to function again.

So, whilst magic knickers may flatten out those lumps and bumps, proceed with caution. Or, even better, let’s love our lumps – we’ve all got them after all! Let’s embrace our mummy tummies, use the damned pants to clean the windows and all enjoy a wobble around the dance floor together with a full oxygen supply!

Laid Back Mummy

2008-05-15T10:15:00.000Z

I’ve become disenchanted with housewifery. Specifically, the maintenance of the house, husband and toddler part.

My days are whiled away mopping up substances not meant for home furnishings, trawling round supermarkets whilst Chickie clobbers me with whatever he considers will cause the most pain from the trolley and ironing clothes so they’ll look their best when thrown on the floor. All of which prevents me from fully engaging in more enjoyable activities, such as shopping, reading and eating out.

Stuck in a rut and in need of a plan to inject some excitement into Groundhog Day, I secretly remortgaged the house and booked a one way flight to Rio. Okay, not really. Instead, I pondered my predicament whilst standing at the end of my road watching a cement mixer go round and round whilst Chickie pointed out the 136 litre drum capacity and patented mix and tip design. Three builders looked back at the gleeful toddler doing his excited little penguin dance and the glazed mummy who they all thought fancied them. The Refuse Collectors also cast me sorry glances as, every week, I wait outside (with Chickie!) to bid them good morning and wave at the driver of the truck as he crawls past.

Yes, it was definitely time for a lifestyle review. But first I had to deal with the time consuming and inconvenient problem of domestic responsibilities. It proved easier than anticipated. I stopped ironing altogether and adopted a new approach to housework. I called it, “The Speed Clean”. You dust only when others are due round and then, only the bits from their eye line down. Then, invigorated by three Red Bulls and two big bags of Skittles, you do it really, really quickly – shaving three hours off of the weekly dust.

Next I rescheduled supermarket shopping to the evening. Genius on three counts. One, Chickie can’t attack me when he’s at home asleep. Two, Tesco’s half empty so it’s twice as fast. Three, I get to go out after 6pm!

That just left my small, but time thirsty, companion. He turned round, on cue, his “I’ve just been naughty” face set to “extremely naughty”. His lips and nostrils sported a heavy layering of sand and bark and his eyes sparkled with anticipation as he waited for the fireworks.

And that’s when the brainwave hit. If my calculations were correct, I could save a whopping 70 hours a week by disregarding discipline altogether. Round trips to the naughty step alone took up 3 hours a day, tongue scraping a further 30 minutes, not to mention the endless negotiations and blackmail necessary to ‘motivate’ my poppet to comply with any of my suggestions.
Chickie, perplexed by my lack of interest, began filling his pants with sand.

I lay back in my deck chair, opened my magazine and took a long sip of lemonade, surprised how easy it was to be a Laidback Mummy after all.

All Sewn Up

2008-05-08T19:25:00.000Z

It’s amazing what you can come to consider as normal because you’ve grown accustomed to it.
A husband snoring by your side sporting a lime green eye mask with ‘Sleep Tight’ printed seductively across the front in a girly font. A Nanna pretending to be a Smash Robot, jerking around the lounge in pursuit of potatoes for peeling (Chickie’s the potato). Or even your child nestling down to snoozies with three pairs of socks on each hand and a t-shirt with the sleeves sewn up.

Fortunately, I have a sister who monitors the family closely to nip any disturbing new trends in the bud. In my defence, and this is exactly what I’ll tell Social Services, my child’s homemade straight jacket was fashioned out of necessity and, I like to think, an element of cunning.

My research proves that it’s very hard for a child who pulls his hair to do so when wearing his entire sock drawer on his hands. Even harder when the sleeves are sewn up too. And so the ritual began. I rather liked it. Chickie averted an incoming comb-over and the socks were proving excellent value for money.

My sister wasn’t so keen. “What if he gets attached to the socks?”
“He doesn’t care about the socks”
“But he might think he can’t go to sleep without them?”
“He has no interest in the socks” I reiterated.
“What if he develops a sock fixation?”
“Isn’t it better than a hair pulling fixation?”
“I don’t like the socks”

Months passed with my sister not liking the socks. She recruited mum to her cause. A weekly enquiry would be made as to whether they were still in circulation and disapproving grunts made upon confirmation. Renewed hair growth and Chickie’s complete disinterest in his alternative nightwear did nothing to reassure them. The tuts got louder until the day my sister presented her findings following her extensive research into compulsive hair pulling, or Trichotilomania, as it’s known officially.

Whilst the prognosis for younger children was encouraging and likely linked to habit, it was a habit that needed breaking. My sister closed with her recommendation.

The following morning, Chickie sat statue still in the Barber’s chair whilst I ordered a Number One all over. The Barber raised his Number Five eyebrow. “It’ll look quite severe” he warned. I nodded gravely before giving the order to proceed.

Ten minutes later, a fuzzy Chick checked out his new do, stroking a curious hand over his bristles. He attempted a small tug but, being male, soon lost interest when it became clear pulling it would now require effort.

Sister was thrilled to hear that Chickie went to sleep that night a free man, all ten digits released into the evening air thanks to her relentless campaigning.

Now freed up for other projects, it seemed an excellent time to mention Accountant’s worrying new attachment to a ladies eye mask.

So ‘Sleep Tight’ Sweetheart, while you still can!

What's Up With Chickie?

2008-05-01T16:29:00.000Z

Motherhood is a common phenomenon with lots of women producing at least one child at some point. A portion of these women will go on to appoint themselves expert child psychologists. Even some with no parenting experience will find something helpful to add.

New mummies to the market are particularly vulnerable. Thrust into a chaotic Sudacrem scented haze, they’re confused and highly absorbent. Even 2½ years into my house arrest, I remain bewildered. The passing of time serving only to dish up fresh challenges at precisely the moment I think I’ve got it sorted.

Last week’s internet searches focused on summer getaways, swimwear suggestions for the pear-shaped and seasonal accessories. My most pressing concern, whether the tummy control panel in the new knickers I’d just ordered, could really pass me off as having stomach muscles.

This week, hair pulling, separation anxiety and sleep apnea were gingerly typed into the computer by someone who promised her G.P. and family that she’d never Google symptoms ever again.

Chickie, sensing mummy’s attention wandering, began the transfer of mud from pot plant to carpet. Finally turning from the laptop to find Chickie standing atop his new indoor flower bed, I felt too sorry for him to be angry. According to on-line experts, I’d been right to be worried.

I phoned my sister. “It’s just a phase”. I felt better.
I phoned my mother. “You do cuddle him a lot and I’m sure he could still use a nap”
I spoke to friends. “Perhaps he’s on the cusp of a developmental leap? Or his blood sugar levels have dropped?”

More followed. “Has something happened?”
“Nope. Everything’s exactly the same”.
“He could be under-stimulated, do you play with him enough?”
“Does he have enough independent play without you?”
“He’s over-tired”
“Try a swimming cap?”
“Perhaps he went to a big bed too soon?
“Too much chocolate?”
“Dehydration?”
“Demonic possession?”

Then came the article. ‘Successful Parenting’. Reading about mothers neatly categorised into Tuned-in, Sorted and Laid-Back– I hated them all. No mention that laid-back mummy, whilst chilled and trusting of her child’s judgment, sits back mutely whilst her free range poppet destroys property, freely attacks others and uses smaller children as trampolines.

I devised my own category. “Uptight Mummy”. I had 2,986 potential triggers to deliberate before I could become “Tuned In Mummy” and instinctively understand all the reasons behind my child’s behaviour.

Whilst considering the merits of Trigger No. 1823, ‘Overuse of the naughty step’, I made a decision, all by myself.

If I’d considered the obvious and still didn’t know why my child had suddenly decided to vacpac himself to my leg, then no one else was likely to know either. It was time to have confidence in my own judgment. I was ‘Uptight Mummy’ after all. Besides, I really liked my sister’s suggestion. Trigger No. 1. “It’s probably just a phase”.

The Worm's Turned

2008-04-23T14:02:00.000Z

If there’s one thing guaranteed to upset the smooth running of my marriage, it’s the undertaking of a joint DIY project.

After the IKEA flat packing incident of 2004, where things were said that can never be forgotten, all manual endeavours have been lovingly redirected towards my father. As much as I know he enjoys the scale and range of DIY challenges presented, I’ve noticed my mother isn’t particularly supportive as she rants bitterly about the outstanding jobs in their own home. Plus, an increased interest in golf has caused service levels to drop and it can sometimes feel a bit mean eating Custard Creams at the base of the ladder whilst the senior citizen at the top sways perilously in the breeze.

So, this week, I ignored my better judgement and appointed Accountant as my labourer, to assist in the makeover of our front garden. To avoid arguments, I reiterated that I was Project Leader and he was to do what I said. He looked at me with the same sad eyes as when I’d informed him his holiday was to be usefully applied to hard labour. I handed him his spade.

As I managed his days sawing out thick tree roots, digging trenches and lugging heavy bags of gravel, I took to the serious work of designing my new feature garden. As tiring as the internet research was, I devised a perfect plan.

Chickie, entranced by all the mud, followed daddy round with his little wheelbarrow, helpfully collecting all the snails and worms who had lost their homes and relocating them to a happier place. Well, most of them - apart from the ones he ate. But even Chickie’s disturbing new hobby couldn’t dampen my spirits. My creative juices were pumping and I was about to spend a lot of money. I was very happy. Until I took my labourer with me to B&Q. Again, I was specific as to his function. He was to provide a carry to car and investment service. No more, no less.

On the way there, my previously meek employee became difficult when talks turned to budget. Accountant’s suggestion that we revamp the garden for 50p or less didn’t allow for the 100 box hedges, 2 topiary trees, 4 tier traditional water feature and hot pink gardening gloves essential to creating the classic English garden.

As I put my case forward to the man I’d hoped to have broken by now, I was battered with intense questioning and forced to present a cost/benefit analysis. Wishing more than ever that I could generate my own income without compromising my cushy lifestyle, I conceded the hot pink gloves in the hope of winning him over.

Thanks to Accountant’s audit and subsequent negotiations, planting commenced hours later than scheduled. Looking up from my trench, Accountant’s smug face peered back through the window. His first self-appointed task as New Project Leader, to watch Arsenal v Liverpool from the comfort of his sofa.

Teething Troubles

2008-04-17T10:51:00.000Z

Peeling my son off of the paving slabs outside McDonalds whilst dodging the flailing limbs propelling around my head, I wasn’t the only one who noticed that motherhood wasn’t going as well for me as anticipated.

Nanna looked on with furrowed brow whilst my sister bit the lip which was quivering with the satisfaction of a woman who would never again endure such torment. Passers-by scowled as I struggled to restrain my portable delinquent.

A month after the arrival of the terrible twos, I’ve become accustomed to the disapproving stares of those who’ve never experienced or forgotten what it is like to be on the receiving end of a toddler.

When Chickie hatched, he showed all the signs of being a timid soul. He’d cry when he came into contact with other children. If the other child cried too, he would become inconsolable. Loud noises upset him, as did quiet ones.

Then, inexplicably, it all changed. We all sighed with relief, happy that he’d come out of himself. Now talks are being held to see how to put him back in.

In-depth analysis of sleeping patterns, diet, bowel movements, peer group, parenting style and Accountant’s gene pool proved inconclusive. Although, I had strong suspicions a rogue chromosome from Accountant’s side of the family was to blame, I had no evidence. Yet, all those critical eyes remained fixed on me - expecting reformation.

In desperation, I consulted Accountant, recounting colourful examples of the verbal abuse and anti-social activities his son was engaged in whilst he spent his days sipping coffee in his tranquil office. I tried to keep the bitterness from my voice as I remembered my own tranquil little office of three years before. Accountant chuckled. “Chickie” he said lovingly, shaking his head before wandering off to who knows where.

Easter holidays meant my temperamental companion was due to spend some 336 hours by my side. With public outings now a perilous minefield fraught with humiliation and condemnation, there was a strong chance they’d all be spent in the house. I begged Accountant not to leave me alone. He agreed, then ‘forgot’ to submit his holiday form.
T
Dejected and at a loss as to why my son had chosen the wrong road so early in life, I let the guilt I’d been trying to ignore wash over me. I was the mother, I should have done something.

It was my Mother-in-Law who eventually suggested he might be teething. At last, a tangible reason that wasn’t my fault. I felt much better. Once confirmed, I rang up stakeholders to redeem myself and my offspring. My sister sounded unconvinced but played along.

Then I stopped to consider why I hadn’t noticed his new molars. Red cheeks, runny nose, disrupted sleep. Oh God, this was basic stuff.

I went to bed that night wondering when I might hope to grasp the basic principles of parenting, and what on earth I was going to do if the Calpol ever stopped working.

Chuckie

2008-04-09T09:55:00.000Z

A hush fell over the room. Nanna looked at Grandad. Grandad looked at Mummy and Mummy stared at her son. Grandad’s hand hovered over a bowl of fudge. No one moved, fearing the slightest stirring may re-detonate the puce toddler currently eye-balling us through the glass bowl.

Regrettably, the silence was but a fleeting interlude born of Chickie’s need to refill the small but forceful lungs he had drained of all oxygen. As he picked up where he left off, this time accompanied by a dramatic full body drop to the floor, I had to admit this performance was impressive.

Grandad remained frozen. “Put the F-U-D-G-E down” I spelt. He did. “Look, Grandad’s put it back.” I offered the bowl. He took a brief moment from pounding the floor to swipe it out of my hands causing him to head butt the chair. Then, from somewhere deep within, a repellent screeching began that just wouldn’t stop. Concerned he might pop something, I looked to my parents, with their combined eighty years experience, for suggestions.

“He should have had a nap” said Nanna.

Not as useful as I’d hoped. I turned to my father for something more solution orientated but, it was hard for him to speak through all the fudge that was swelling his cheeks. It seemed the distraction caused by Chickie’s second meltdown had suited one particular senior citizen very nicely. Grandad was heading for the naughty step but not before Chuckie.

A rigid Chick was folded into a seated position, read his rights and deposited onto the step. Where he remained for two seconds. When the door began shaking on its hinges as Chickie rammed it from the other side, Grandad, finally swallowing, spoke, “Perhaps you should call the police?”

I’ve noticed that those family members who are just a free bus ride away from freedom, find these situations more amusing than the parent. I mustered an eyebrow raise before deliberating my next move. What would my Supermum friends do?

They’d drop to their knees, maintaining a soothing yet authoritative eye contact whilst explaining in tones straight off a relaxation tape why the behaviour was unacceptable. Child would then nod in mute agreement, apologise to the family for any unpleasantness before sitting down quietly to read “Expressing Your Feelings: The Alternatives”.

I had a better idea. “Chickie?”
“NO!” said the door.
“Grandad’s been very naughty”
Grandad frowned.
“I think he needs to go on the Naughty Step”
Silence.

I opened the door and a delighted Chickie strutted in to collect his bewildered prisoner. From the comfort of our respective sofas, Nanna and I watched Chickie lead Grandad away, gleefully explaining how naughty he was.

The rules of the Naughty Step are simple. One minute spent on the step for every year of age. Which meant a fine vintage like Grandad required ‘guarding’ for exactly 1 hour and 9 minutes!

Mum and I thought of him briefly as we sipped our tea, dunked our biscuits and watched Deal or No Deal.

Rain on Mummy's Parade

2008-04-03T10:45:00.000Z

It was a morning, much like all the others, with a sky the colour of old knickers spitting a fine drizzle over the lucky occupants of Southern England. Chickie looked up at his Director of Entertainment, expecting to be amused.

I racked my brains for alternate options to spending my day buried up to the eyebrows in plastic balls, whiling away the dreary hours in the technicolour nightmare that is an Indoor Children’s Activity Centre. Whilst I had no doubt Chickie would happily amuse himself feeding mummy through the giant mangler and making her swing from the monkey bars, I fancied something less energetic.

Eventually, a cunning plan developed. It was risky but filled with possibilities. M&S Holmbush - undercover shopping.

Chickie was wedged into the trolley seat at the front. His new potty, a full range of snacks and his toy car collection, placed in the compartment at the back. I was prepared. How bad could it be?

After a successful start that found my trolley brimming with summer wear, things took a downward turn in Home Furnishings when, entranced by loo roll holders, I made my first mistake.

Never position toddler within two metres of anything you don’t wish to be harmed. A kind lady picked up the pile of towels Chickie had swept onto the floor. As Chickie loudly informed her that she was a ,” NAUGHTY LADY”, I muttered my apologies and pushed him away. Straight into the toy department.

Mistake Number Two. Avoid the toy department at all costs.

“Choo Choo!” screamed Chickie at the first sight of Thomas and his friends. After Chickie had made a full appraisal of each and every toy, mummy was losing interest. It took an Emergency Vehicle Set and a packet of chocolate biscuits to secure a quiet exit.

Next came, “Potty Mummy”. A twenty minute round trip that produced nothing other than a fully mobile Chickie who refused to get back into the trolley once released. A 100m sprint through menswear, finally led to the changing rooms and Mistake Numéro Trois.

Avoid changing rooms with curtains. I had just stepped into the pencil skirt when Chickie bolted. Ignoring my shrieks, he ran straight out, past the assistants on the desk and onto the shop floor. A little pink bullet, cackling like a looney.

In hot pursuit, came mummy, sporting grey ankle socks set off beautifully by the knee length skirt she was holding up like a towel. “Come back here NOW!” I said, trying to convey my utter seriousness whilst pretending to be good humoured to my fellow shoppers. Chickie picked up speed.

By the time I returned to the changing rooms, flushed from exertion and humiliation, the assistant had kindly moved my belongings to a new changing room with a lock. Chickie pressed the ‘Assistance’ button on entry and there his finger remained.

Chickie slept soundly that night, having had a lovely day at the Indoor Children’s Activity Centre that is Marks and Spencer.

Super Chickie

2008-03-26T15:11:00.001Z

To ensure the preservation of any male child, communication between parents is vital. That’s why I like to think I would have mentioned to Accountant if, on my watch, Chickie had decided he could fly.

So, when I opened the gate at the top of the stairs to find Chickie soaring through the air towards my folded arms, I was unprepared. Chickie, realising from mummy’s horrified expression that daddy hadn’t informed mummy of his new super powers, began flapping desperately.

Fortunately, since becoming a mother, my body has been on constant high alert and adrenalin levels have never dropped below ‘very anxious’. As my adrenal glands pumped into action, I caught a swooping Chickie, before he began his descent.

“Again!” exclaimed Chickie, thrilled by the near death experience and mummy’s screams of pain as her shoulder pinged in three places.

Mummy lay shaking on the step, waiting for her heart beat to regulate.

Chickie made his way back to the launching pad.

“No Sweetheart, you mustn’t jump off the stairs. It’s really dangerous” I pleaded, trying to grab him as he wriggled away.

“Okay mummy” he said so earnestly, I almost believed him. Until he started positioning himself for take off.

“NO!” I screamed, slamming the gate shut as he began his run up.

Looking at his disappointed face through the bars, I wished he could stay there forever. Protected from danger.

Taking his little hand in mine as he padded down the stairs at my side, I looked down at the top of the fluffy head I’ve spent hours sniffing because it’s simply the best fluffy head in the world. Fluff wasn’t enough to protect that precious head. I wondered if his neck muscles would be strong enough to support a motorcycle helmet yet and whether it’s constant use might single him out as ‘different’ at playgroup? Plus, as he’s never even going to be allowed to look at a motorbike, perhaps a cycling helmet would be fairer?

Chickie, unaware of my inability to relax since his birth and my plans for him to become ‘that weird kid in the headguard’, chatted about ‘daddy’ and ‘jump jumps’.

I rang my mother and sister to inform them Chickie now had wings and Accountant had been implicated. Then followed a call to Accountant to update him on how we both nearly died and to question his involvement.

Consistent with the behaviour I have come to expect of all men (with the exception of my father who’s been lucky enough to enjoy an all female household for 40 years) Accountant’s concern was masked brilliantly by his thorough enjoyment of my story. At times, he even sounded proud of his playmate’s irresponsible attitude towards health and safety.

After hanging up to his denials of all involvement, I wished I was a boy. Free to live life like a lemming, knowing some tormented woman somewhere would do her best to catch me.

The House Of Poo...

2008-03-18T20:58:00.000Z

Take one bored toddler, one steaming nappy and a small pair of wandering hands and you too could have the type of morning that I enjoyed last Monday.

It's rare that I'm rendered speechless but the sight of a nursery and its accompanying toddler repainted using botty dumplings will do that to you.

For the first two minutes, I just stood staring at my son as he held his two makeshift paintbrushes up to me. "Cuggle?" he offered. I gagged in response.

Aware that I'd much rather someone else deal with the horrific scene that confronted me, I fetched the phone and pressed one on the speed dial. "Hi Mum. It's me" I said, attempting to sound like a contented little mummy who had just woken up naturally to the scent of Johnson's baby powder and the gentle cooing of her toddler's affirmations of love and appreciation.

"Hello Darling. How are you?"

"Fine thanks. You okay? Good. Are you doing anything at the moment?"

"I've got some friends coming round for tea and scones. Why?"

Tea and scones! I longed to retire. "Oh, no reason. Just thought you might like to pop round and see Chickie but not to worry."

"Sorry. Can't today. But perhaps another day?"

I considered how long you could legally leave a fermenting child locked in his room. "Can you make tomorrow?" I tried.

"No, sorry. Can't do tomorrow"

"More scones?" I enquired.

Drat and double drat. With my 'Head of Sanitation' too busy enjoying her golden years, I was all alone. Unless, of course, you counted the newly tanned menace watching Mummy pace up and down the hall with her head in her hands. Unnerved by mummy's deep brooding, Chickie broke the silience, "Poo Mummy!"

"Poo" I confirmed, holding my nose whilst opening the window.

If only I owned a pressure washer. I would have enjoyed nothing more in that moment than blasting his over productive little bottom with a high pressure detergent gun. Instead, I trudged to the cleaning cupboard, returning with antibacterial wipes, marigold gloves, face mask, wallpaper scraper and a plunger.

Chickie, happy to see I'd come back, helpfully pointed out all the creative little smudges that required mummy's attention. "There Mummy, there, other one Mummy." The curtains were a delightful challenge - being white linen and all!

One hour later, as Chickie sat decontaminating in a very bubbly bath, I wondered whether the morning's activities were something a mother might mention to a child pyschiatrist? Probably. I decided to add it to the list.

Despite thorough exfoliation of both mother and child, I sensed there was a strong chance that I might never smell truly clean again. At just the point I was warming to the idea of speaking to Chickie again, he pointed to the carpet and said three little words that almost found him posted on e-bay with a Buy-Now price of 50p.

"Wee Wee Mummy!"

Bog Off

2008-03-13T10:53:00.000Z

Whoever said that being stuck between a rock and a hard place was a bad thing clearly never found themselves stranded in the middle of a bog. Unlike me.

Reviewing my situation from my mossy perch, I wondered why my brain hadn’t stopped me before I reached the middle. Watching my favourite trainers and new jeans begin their descent into the sludge, I wished that I’d worn more sensible shoes. I made a note to buy some wellies. Spotty ones.

Half an hour before I found myself in my little predicament, I’d dropped Chickie off at playgroup. Armed with three hours free time and inspired by the rural scenes in this month’s Country Living magazine, I decided to escape the soiled streets of Worthing. I headed West, where the scent of Poop Freeze floated by on sea air and the rustle of Scoopy Doo Doggy bags accompanied the trills of local residents as they bid all a ‘Good Morning’.

And a good morning it was too. The sky was brilliant blue, unveiling a sun that looked vaguely familiar and Chickie was destroying someone else’s stuff. Yes, I felt fabulous as I skipped off for my country stroll and to relive happy childhood memories of Ferring.

As I came to the River Rife I remembered my mother expressly telling a ten year old me not to go near. I would have got away with it too had I not fallen in. I would have had even more chance of getting away with it had I not put all my wet clothes into the laundry basket. I don’t know who I thought did the washing, but, after that day, I was left in no doubt.

And now, 21 years on, I was, again, in a spot of bother at the Rife (on the boggy bit on the West bank to be precise). I was quietly scared as I suddenly realised how isolated I was and how perfect the landscape would look on my Crimewatch reconstruction. I took solace in the fact any would-be-killer would need a canoe to reach me.

Knowing that I needed to move from my three inch square marshland patch, I deliberated my next move. The main problem was the long reeds that made it impossible to gauge whether ground, ditch or River lurked beneath. Plus, if I fell in the River again, my mummy would be cross.

I looked around to double check no one was available to phone the Coastguard to airlift me to playgroup before leaping. It was a perilous 15 minutes of hopping around the quagmire in search of solid land. Finally, exhausted and, feeling like a woman given a second chance at life, I reached some.

Whilst I might not be ready for ‘Country Living’ just yet, I still couldn’t resist buying a pair of black wellies with hot pink spots, just in case!

Well Slap My Smaller Thighs!

2008-03-08T12:58:00.001Z

You may recall my recent whining about toddlers being germs on short, chubby legs. Well, it transpires, every virus has a silver lining!

My very own pair of short, chubby legs now fit into a pair of size ten jeans. A sight that hasn’t been seen since I was twelve years old and, even then, they were a ‘snug’ fit. It would seem the appetite suppressing qualities of your average cold are not to be sniffed at.

Naturally, an urgent shopping trip was in order to showcase my new assets before my bottom grew back. I could tell from my mother’s worried expressions that I might just fit into something from Top Shop so off I skipped to see how the perter half lived.

Making my way to the stumpy legged selection, I picked up some ‘skinny’ jeans. My child had given me the gift of smaller thighs (further to his gift of massive wobbly tummies) and this would finally be their moment.

Or not. The skinnies never reached my new thighs, or my knees. They became very un-cooperative round about my calves. Determined and stupid, I continued to heave in an upwardly direction. It wasn’t long before the denim noose around my ankles left me bouncing around the teeny changing room like a space hopper. I knew the ten year olds in the adjoining cubicles would recognise the delusional grunts of a middle aged flump, entangled in a pair of jeans not meant for legs the shape of pork chops.

Tired from all the jumping, I took a moment to lean, ponder my predicament and regain my strength. Did customers have to pay for jeans that they had to be cut out of? I started to regret the fact I hadn’t shaved my legs for a week and had opted for my ‘comfy’ knickers. That’s when I decided it was well worth another effort to heave in a downward direction.

I finally emerged from the changing room, twenty minutes after entry, my legs red raw under my trousers, my hair a fuzzy halo and my eyes wearing that look of alarm that only a woman ensnared by a pair of skinny jeans can understand.

“Any good for you?” asked the assistant who would never understand what I’d just been through.

“No thank you” I said, handing back the jeans that had held so much promise just half an hour before.

Despite my trauma, I pushed through and returned to the stumpy rack. There was no way I was leaving without something in a smaller size. I owed it to my bottom.

And that’s when I found them. Boy fit jeans. As soon as they negotiated their way past my footballer’s calves, I knew they were the ones.

As for the impending re-inflation of my bottom, I’m hoping a calorie controlled diet and big long sniffs of snotty totties will deflate it again.

No Nap Chickie

2008-03-03T12:57:00.000Z

Many (men) think that being a full time housewife is just an endless rotation of coffee mornings and fluff filled fun with one’s little poppet. Before I had the poppet, that’s what I’d banked on too.

Now two years and three months into my incarceration, my friends in the free world still scoff at the days I would sit at my desk, using work time and resources, to plot my escape. It was a simple plan.

‘Get: 1 diamond ring (a big one), 1 husband (a big one), 1 baby (a small one)’. Et voila.
Of course, it all started to go wrong when the baby was nearly as big as I was and the husband started demanding laundry services in return for his investment.

Then my stash of cash dried up and I was forced off the High Street and into Tesco where Accountant was less likely to detect that £50 of the ‘food’ shop wasn’t so much ‘food’ as ‘shoes’.

Whilst always happy to indulge my tidying compulsion, it transpired I didn’t much care for ironing. Nor did I particularly enjoy Chickie’s devil may care attitude towards table manners which left me scraping spaghetti off of the ceiling and feeding him wearing wellies and a kagool.
I didn’t take well to the unauthorised interruptions to my nine hour sleeping schedule either. I’m sure there were coffee mornings, I just can’t remember them.

Looking back, those were the good old days. Those were the days when he would sleep for up to three hours a day. This week we’ve got a new ‘No Nap Chickie’. A phenomenon that has mummy hiding in the understairs cupboard come 4pm whilst her abusive and burnt out toddler hunts her down.

I’ve tried to be patient and empathise with Chickie’s distress over Postman Pat being in the wrong side of his red van but I’ve discovered he’s not a reasonable child. I discovered this when Postman Pat and his red van were subsequently torpedoed at my head. Followed by his drum, Thomas the Tank Engine and Bertie Bus.

His morning greeting is ,”go away”. His answer to every question, “no”. His general chit chat during car rides, “Don’t like Mummy”.

My family all thoroughly enjoy it. Allegedly, I was ‘full of character’ myself as a child and my parents smile happily as I recycle their old chestnuts. “Just do as you’re told!”

Morphing into your parents is just one side effect of parenthood along with realising just how much you made them suffer. Accountant now does unto me as I did unto my mother, throwing rarely, yet freshly, ironed clothes onto the floor because hanging them in the wardrobe is just too much effort.

So to my lovely mummy and daddy who repeatedly informed me that, “one day you’ll understand”, that day has arrived and will be back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the one after that...

A Total Eclipse of The Wallet

2008-02-25T12:11:00.000Z

It wasn’t that I was intentionally deceiving my husband so much as the optimum moment to tell him I’d just frittered away hundreds of pounds on a whim of fancy hadn’t yet presented itself.

It was all the shop assistant’s fault anyway, her hand slithering through the changing room curtain every two minutes bearing another fabulous silk shirt or tummy disguising belt or cowl neck jumper I simply had to have. I tried so hard to resist, telling her at least once that I really shouldn’t before handing over the emergency credit card.

Fortunately, my sister was with me. Keen to share her extensive experience in the field of smuggling illegal shopping past her own Purchase Prevention Officer, I listened intently to her genius plan.

When we got home, I’d distract Accountant whilst she commando rolled down the hall, scaled the stairs and dived under the bed, taking all my bags with her. It was simple but highly effective. Accountant lapped up my sudden interest in corporate taxation.

Confident I could go out dressed as a dry roasted peanut and Accountant wouldn’t notice, I wore my new outfits without fear of discovery. Whilst such disinterest could be upsetting to some, it has paved the way for all manner of illicit acquisitions to come and live wish us: new bedding, a rug, cushions, a fridge freezer; a baby.

After a week, I began to wonder whether he really needed to know. He’d made such a fuss when I bought a new pot plants for £2.99, my guilty little secret could well pop something.

Eventually, an opportunity arose during a long car journey. Encouraged by the fact both his hands were busy steering the car and therefore unavailable for throttling, I bit the bullet. “Sweetheart, I have something to tell you” I said gravely enough to suggest I’d done something truly terrible. This strategy had worked well in the past when Accountant was so grateful I wasn’t about to leave him to live with a new toy boy, that he barely heard me telling him I’d just emptied the joint account.

“What is it?” Accountant asked, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
I considered the best way to begin. “You know the emergency credit card?”
“How much?” he asked, shattering my big build up.
“£100?” I offered to a sharp intake of breath.
“Times two” I whispered.

No reaction. “It was a woolly jumper emergency. I was really cold” I whimpered into the prickly silence filling the car. Accountant remained focused on the road. I was beginning to feel slightly scared so snuggled deeper into the murky depths of my new cowl neck.

“If you needed some new clothes, then that’s fine Sweetheart” he said sweetly.

My mouth fell open as I digested his approval. I couldn’t believe it. My one true chance to max out the credit card and I’d missed it. Much like a total solar eclipse, I doubted very much that I’d be seeing the opportunity again in my lifetime.

Blind Fear

2008-02-21T12:06:00.000Z

“Just calm down” my dad said shaking his head. My teeth chattered by way of acknowledgment.

“Why do you get yourself so worked up?” he muttered in bewilderment as he pulled into the doctor’s surgery car park. It’s a question my father continues to ask me whenever I have one of my little episodes and, as I keep telling him, I can only blame the parents.

Checking my eye balls in the overhead mirror for the twentieth time, I hoped blindness wasn’t imminent. When my eyes had first started to itch thirty minutes before, I hadn’t thought much of it, continuing to write birthday cards whilst giving them the odd rub. When they’d started to feel peculiar, I’d gone to investigate. Stood in front of the mirror, I watched two swollen bloodshot eyes widen in horror.

Within seconds, my emergency doctor’s appointment was booked and my parents were on their way to perform counselling. As I sat on the bottom step praying in tongues, I scurried back and forth to the mirror to watch the redness spread across my eyeballs. Each visit crazed me further and by the time my parents arrived, my eyes were clamped shut, too scared their horrified reactions may send me over the edge.

I should have remembered that many years experience has left them highly adept at playing down my latest life threatening discovery and pretending everything is fine. More than happy to go along with it, I let their nonchalance calm me for a moment before running back to the mirror to work myself up again.

To help me gain some much needed perspective, my parents told me a story about a girl, who upon waking from her teenage slumbers, had removed her nightie to find her torso had turned blue. Alone in the house, she ran from room to room, mirror to mirror, appraising her organ failure from every angle. She was discovered by her parents an hour later, rocking at the end of the bed cuddling a Good News Bible. It was her father who had suggested it could be dye from her blue nightie rather than congestive heart failure. Yes, the girl might have been me.

Then there was the time something bit that same girl’s bum on holiday. Something that had been laying in wait under the sea as she’d taken a reluctant swim. She watched in alarm as a blotchy rash spread across her cheek. Surprised that she didn’t die immediately, she gave herself an extra week to live, monitoring her bottom at half hourly intervals over the course of the next seven days.

Exactly one week later, the doctor was called to her bedside following the onset of fever and aching. As she provided extensive details of the attack and her envenomation symptoms, he announced she had a virus and went on his way. She remained unconvinced that the doctor had taken her probable box jelly fish bite seriously.

Whilst I appreciated my parent’s efforts to demonstrate my melodramatic tendencies, it wasn’t until the swelling started to subside whilst sat in the surgery waiting room that I finally accepted that I might not lose the sight in both eyes after all.

My doctor prescribed an anti-histamine for my allergic and over reaction. I was happy as could be until he mentioned they could flair up again.

Teaching An Old Chick New Tricks

2008-02-04T11:25:00.000Z

Chickie has two party pieces.

1. Eyebrow Push-ups
2. A choice phrase triggered by the words 'excuse me'

We first heard it when Chickie was returned to us by certain family members after an overnight stay. It was all the more shocking for the fact that these family members have never sworn. So when Chickie began using the 'f' word, it was hard to imagine them looking anything other than appalled. However, they seemed highly delighted with the speed in which Chickie had grasped their new expletive.

Admittedly, it was quite amusing and I may, or may not, have practised it with Chickie daily, to the point he no longer needed the trigger to perform on cue. Friends were treated to free demonstrations and the nephews simply loved Chickie's naughty new word.

Of course, when he told the doctor, it was less funny.

And then my Mother in law, who informed me very seriously on my return home that Chickie had just told her that he farted.

Emergency talks were held to discuss how Chickie might be reformed. Pop Pop was deemed a suitable alternative and is slowly being introduced until the 'f' word is phased out completely.

Dehydrated?

2008-02-02T12:15:00.000Z

Are you dehydrated?” enquired the dolly behind the Chanel counter.

“Erm... I don’t know?” I answered, thinking that I must be if she was taking the trouble to ask.
“Are you usually this colour?” she leaned down for a closer look. Leaning backwards to her forwards, I enquired as to what colour that might be.

“You have heightened colour in your cheeks” she informed me seriously.

“Oh!” was all I could reply. Normally I’m sallow shade of jaundiced so was quite pleased to have a ‘rosy glow’ for a change. The look on her face made me realise it wasn’t a good thing as she bent closer still and declared ‘dryness’ be added to my growing list of complexion problems.
I’d only popped over to grab a face powder, hoping to point, pay and spend the rest of my day posing with my little white Chanel bag.

As she began dabbing colour corrective products onto what I now appreciated was a flaky, red face, I was scared. Her precision painted talons lightly clasped the powder puff which was flitting around my face like a bluebottle. She shook her head and reached for corrective powder No 2. My uncooperative face peered over at my friend who was smirking back; enjoying my impromptu makeover and associated line of questioning immensely.

“What are you using on your face at the moment?” the shrill tones of Ms Coco asked disapprovingly. Flustered by the intense scrutiny, I tried to remember.

“Erm, Max Factor foundation and lots of concealer?” I offered, hoping that this was acceptable.

“Hmmmm. You do moisturise everyday don’t you?” she enquired like a distrusting headmistress.

“Yes. Yes, of course” I confirmed enthusiastically, hoping this would redeem me. I could tell she didn’t believe me. No doubt reasoning that nobody this far gone could be putting in the necessary skincare regime hours.

“Well, I think this one does wonders. What do you think?” she asked, handing me the mirror and beckoning my friend over to agree with her. My matted face looked back, every clogged pore highlighted splendidly by the fluorescent lighting. I lowered the mirror to see my friend’s face peering back; smirk still firmly in place. I wondered if there was a corrective powder available to wipe it off.

“Yes, that’s fine” I whimpered, handing the mirror back. With a ‘confidence shattering’ spring in her step, she fluttered over to the till to ring up her sale.

Clutching the purchase to my slumped body plus the three free samples she’d thrown in out of sympathy, I decided no white paper bag was worth it. I trudged out of the shop, vowing to drink eight bottles of water before bedtime and to really moisturise every day.

One Way Ticket To Florida Please

2008-01-29T12:14:00.000Z

Whilst babies may look like adorable little balls of chub, something sinister is lurking beneath those gummy smiles.

Whilst nothing can compare to how you’ll feel about your very own sproglet, no one told me that having one live with you is like being shacked up with the virus carrying monkey from Outbreak.
It’s been a good nine months since I’ve had full use of both nostrils, my glands are constantly swollen in anticipation of the next sinus infection and I spend more time inhaling Vicks Vapour Rub than I do oxygen.

In the good old days, my annual cold would find me tucked under my duvet watching Doris Day films, a tissue plug up each nostril whilst sipping hot Ribena through the straw provided by my mummy who would stroke my brow and tend to my every whim. At times, it was actually quite enjoyable.

Now that I’m the mummy, the gig is well and truly up. Toddlers don’t authorise sick notes. Neither do husbands. Family members are still recovering from the last thing they caught from your child and attending any social function is considered bad form if they appear contagious.
After a week of solitary confinement, I did wonder if my new corrective powder might just reduce his heightened colour and, with a bit of concealer dabbed on his nose, no one might notice that I’d just unleashed something small and highly contagious upon them. Thinking better of it and unable to stem the flow of luminous goo, Chickie, millions of germs and I opted for watching Postman Pat for eight hours stints.

Eventually, food and decongestant supplies began to dwindle. Looking like an advert for Beecham’s Cold and Flu with streaming eyes and red crusty nose, I dragged me and my snotty sidekick to the Supermarket. We were on our second packet of tissues by the time we got to tinned goods.

At just the point I was feeling my very worst, Chickie began to show a marked improvement. His energy levels rising to the point he was feeling well enough to throw everything out of the trolley. Such a fun game warranted the shrillest of shrieking. As I was bent over retrieving my shopping from the floor, grateful for the sinus deadening my ability to hear, a packet of Honey Roast Ham bounced off my aching head. As Chickie, delighted with his achievement, giggled menacingly from the trolley, a single self pitying tear rolled down my flushed cheek.

As I looked into Chickie’s unmerciful eyes, I tried to explain that mummy didn’t feel very well and just wanted to go home to bed. She wanted to watch old movies. She wanted hot Ribena. She wanted a big fluffy duvet and complete silence. She wanted to be the one high on Calpol.
Chickie began to sob as he realised he was ill too and shrieking and throwing stuff was tiring. “Cuggle Mummy” he cried, before flinging his little arms around my waist and rubbing his nose on my jumper.

“Cuggle Mummy” I whispered, wishing mine was there for me to wipe my nose on.

Chickie Wins Again

2008-01-21T10:37:00.000Z

Chickie's transferal to a big boy bed didn't go as hoped. His nightly pilgrimages to his stairgate, where he would stand and howl whilst attempting to squeeze himself through the bars, proved relentless. After totting up just ten hours sleep over the course of a week, an executive decision was taken to disassemble the bed and reassemble the cot.

"It'll only take me ten minutes" said Accountant, allen key in hand, as he ushered Chickie and I out of the nursery so he could concentrate on his man's work.

Historically, I have undertaken all DIY activities at Chez Chickie as Accountant proved time and time again why he was an Accountant in the first place. On this occasion, the sleeplessness left me to weak to argue and so Chickie and I snuggled into bed and watched Columbo.

Twenty minutes of swearing and banging later and two inquisitive heads were poked around the nursery door. A puce Accountant was undoing the frame. An enquiry as to why, turned him pucer. 'I put it on the wrong way' he admitted quietly before shooing us out again.

A further twenty minutes passed, a further enquiry as mummy was tired and wanted Chickie behind bars as quickly as possible. I kindly reminded Accountant of his ten minute promise and pointed out that forty minutes had now elapsed.
As helpful as I knew I was being, Accountant reacted badly so Chickie and I returned to the waiting room.

1 hour and 22 minutes later, Chickie's cot was proclaimed ready. The reunion was emotional.

Chickie snuggled down without a murmur and slept the night through, and so did Accountant.

A Walk To Remember

2008-01-20T12:01:00.000Z

The beauty of being the younger sister is that you can learn from your sibling’s mistakes, heed her advice and, every year, point out in her birthday card that you’re still ten years perkier and perter than she. That’s why I can’t really blame my sister for being as smug as smug could be.

It hadn’t been a good day. I was tired, I was grumpy and my arms were dragging on the floor. It had all started when I agreed to meet her for a stroll. Chickie was in attendance, summoned as entertainment for the nephews. Nephews who later decided tennis was more interesting so wouldn’t be coming after all.

Upon discovering that the buggy wasn’t actually in the back of the car, I was optimistic in the face of my sister’s concerns. “It’ll be fine. He’ll enjoy the walk” I said. She look unconvinced. “I’m sure the gale force winds, freezing temperatures and swamp like terrain will all add to the sense of fun” I enthused.

Chickie was keen. “Careful” I said before watching him skate through a mud pool. The inevitable kasplat roused a gasp of horror from all watching. I peeled him up, leaving behind a Chickie shaped cast in the ground.

“Carry Mummy” choked a setting Chickie, reaching up a pair of mucky arms as tears cleared a path down his mud packed face. Looking down at my clean coat, I tried to encourage more walking. Chickie became hysterical. Although I repeatedly told my sister I was fine, the second mile of carrying a toddler mistrusting of walking felt like a feat of endurance.

On arrival back at her house, Chickie was finally set down to the sound of my back breaking. He immediately went on one of his 2008 rampages. Chasing him around my sister’s front garden, I politely requested he come back. Chickie ignored me. “COME HERE NOW!” I shouted in my best no nonsense voice. Chickie laughed before screaming, “NO!” and pegging it down the side of the house.

My sister stood on the doorstep. “I told you” she said. I knew exactly what she meant. Admittedly, prior to having my own child, I’d spent a lot of time watching her raise hers. Whilst she was despairing about less than desirable behavioural developments, I’d offer trite parenting advice from the comfort of the free world. Such little gems as “don’t worry, he’ll grow out of it”; “It’s just a phase” and “he won’t still be doing it when he’s eighteen”.

As Chickie reappeared and dived into a nearby bush, she chuckled. “You saw what mine were like” she said as if that should have been enough to put anyone off reproducing. I got ready to pounce.

“Yes, but I’d assumed it was all your fault” I shouted back as Chickie shot past me shrieking with dastardly delight.

“Well, now you know” my sister chirped, finally redeemed and deliciously self righteous as I rugby tackled Chickie to the floor and awaited his wrath.

NO BED!

2008-01-13T17:20:00.001Z

Transferring Chickie into a 'big boy' bed seemed like a great idea. Next would come college, then marriage and babies. A time when I anticipate sitting back smugly and watching him be tormented by his very own toddler inbetween my frequent and lengthy holidays abroad. Hopefully, he too will be more interested in squeezing between the bars of the stairgate barring his bedroom door than spending any time actually sleeping between the cold, dark hours of 12am and 7am.

Tonight, he was so tired from his all-night stairgate vigil that he fell asleep in his fish pie. He managed a whimper of distress as he was tucked into bed at 4.30pm before his little body, covered by his new baby duvet, succumbed to utter exhaustion.

Of course, once he wakes up and realises he's in his "big boy bed" they'll be trouble. I'm just hoping that'll be at 8am not 3am.

Chick Wrangling

2008-01-07T14:08:00.000Z

It's been a dull one. It was time to see a new set of faces, to hear some new stories and to put an end to the hyperactivity of a toddler so high on chocolate he was functioning on just three hours sleep a night.

Unlike Chickie, I was feeling less energetic. That depressing post-Christmas phase where all children's entertainment stops and the child itself has turned into the anti-Christ thanks to the chocolate buttons selection pack and renewed expectations that life should be an endless cycle of opening presents.

Chickie has also entered his most destructive phase ever. Nothing is safe. Not even me as swiping has begun in earnest. "NO MUMMY!" swipe swipe. "NOOOOOOOOOOoooo" SWIPE. Daddy really gets it as Chickie doesn't take anything he says seriously. "No Chickie" "OW!" "Stop That NOW!" swipe swipe.

When his friends Annabelle and Titch arrived yesterday for a playdate, Chickie wasted no time in showing everyone just how excited he was to see other children again. Annabelle cowered in the corner of the room, fear filling her eyes as Chickie began his rampage. Toys went flying as Chickie kicked them around the room to a tribal war cry, scaring Annabelle into the foetal position. Titch, a younger boy, looked on in admiration at what, with an adjusted attitude, he too could become.

Chickie spent the afternoon boomeranging off the naughty step which he thoroughly enjoyed.

Mummy spent the afternoon desperately leafing through "Kid Wrangling" in pursuit of survival tips.

The House of the Tiny Tearaway

2008-01-03T21:10:00.000Z

School holidays are bad. Bad because Chickie has no planned activities, leaving him to prowl round the house destroying all in sight.

Now that Chickie is stringing words together, a trend is definitely developing. "Do as told" he shouted at me today (his way of telling me to Do As I'm Told). "NO Mummy" is another favourite. Followed by "NO! Don't like it". Chickie's enhanced vocabulary comes with accompanying expressions of outrage, distaste and horror.

In Beales on Friday, a kindly lady made the mistake of smiling at him in his pushchair. "NO!" he shouted, glaring at her and swiping at her with his hand. Apologising profusely, I suggested Chickie might like to do the same. "NO!" he screamed before swiping at me.

His destructive streak has also reached epic proportions. He's posted the remote into the video. Snowy had to unscrew it to get it out. Each morning he empties every toy onto the floor before driving his little red car through the wreckage. When told off, he begins throwing his selection of toy cars at the furniture.

To the bearer of the FIFTY little cars (you know who you are) whilst Chickie loves and deeply appreciates them, we need to have a little chat.

At mealtimes the fun continues as he empties the yoghurt pot onto the table before scooping it up with his hands. Pinging his food around the room with his spoon is another favourite pasttime.

Naturally, I'm coping brilliantly with all the mess and attitude and can generally be found, head in hands, surrounded by various forms of transportation, gently rocking as toy cars whizz past my throbbing head.

Christmas Chickie

2007-12-25T12:04:00.000Z

I think my coughing fits might have irritated my brother-in-law as I was handed a dog lead. “But it’s dark” I whined, “and cold!”. A scarf and a plastic bag were provided before I was shoved outside. As the front door slammed behind us, a reluctant husky who had been happily chomping her 2ft Christmas bone on her leopard skin rug before befalling the same fate, looked up at me with sad eyes.

Venturing into the darkness, I waited for Toula to follow. When she didn’t, I looked back to find her stuck to the doorstep. “Come on Touski” I said encouragingly, patting my knees. Touski leaned backwards. As I dragged the four stone husky, a breed apparently renowned for its love of the great outdoors, around the unlit village streets, I pictured my family all snuggled on the sofa, stuffing their fat faces with Milk Tray. I knew they were enjoying my absence.

Admittedly, Chickie and I hadn’t proved to be the easiest of Christmas guests this year. Earlier in the day, the tree had been twinkling and the fire had cast a cosy glow over Christmas morning. The self appointed keeper of the presents sat guarding his treasure. I’d sat poised with the camera as Daddy had negotiated the release of the hostage parcels. The family had looked on, awaiting that warm fluffy feeling that only a toddler discovering Christmas can bring.
Chickie’s terms were straightforward. No one else was to touch the presents, no one else was to open the presents. Reading the gift tags proved tricky but, it didn’t really matter who they were for as Chickie was thoughtful enough to open everybody’s.

As the giving and receiving of gifts slowed down, a demonic voice that sounded much like Darth Vadar crossed with a Gremlin, rose up from under the tree. “MORE PRESENTS!”. I looked at Chickie’s menacing little face, half expecting his eyes to glow red and his head to rotate 360 degrees. “MORE PRESENTS” he shouted impatiently before snatching another from under the tree, frisbee-ing it at Grandad when it became clear it wasn’t on his list.

We don’t know at what point Chickie had crossed to the dark side but Mummy took evil Chickie aside to reiterate the Christmas message. He didn’t take it well, flinging himself to the floor and wailing for five minutes before continuing his reign of festive terror. Everyone was grateful when all the angst finally tired him out and the two foot terror was put away.

Then my cough really got going. Sympathy had been forthcoming initially, until my barking had drowned out Finding Nemo and Shrek II. Now banished to wandering the streets, I pulled Toula to the side of the road. At least I tried to. Peering through the middle of the collar where Toula’s neck was supposed to be, I wondered how my sister would take the news that, after finishing off her son’s pet hamster, her prize pooch was now stood smirking at me from her revised location; facing oncoming traffic, on a bend, in the dark.

As headlights approached, jumping up and down whilst waving my arms in the air seemed like the only logical thing to do. Thankfully, the mini saw the mad woman doing star jumps in the middle of the road. The mini then spent a further ten minutes crawling along after said mad woman as she chased her sister’s runaway dog all the way home.

My chocolate covered family barely looked up from their Bumper Selection Packs as I staggered through the door.

Holidays Are Coming!

2007-12-23T21:36:00.000Z

Chickie is officially 'cited'. Roughly translated, he's very excited. Although not fully grasping the deeper Christmas message of saviour, star and wise men, he has definitely got to grips with one part. Presents!

Each time another brightly wrapped parcel is delivered to Chez Chickie, he wets his nappy with joy. A brief penguin dance follows before he waddles over to carefully carry the cherished cargo and place it under the tree where it is precisely positioned. He then pokes it, prods it, resumes the penguin dance with accompanying squeals of sheer excitement and then recommences the poking.

He doesn't know what Christmas is, but he knows it's coming and he knows it's going to be good.

Where's There's A Joint Account There's A Way

2007-12-19T14:58:00.000Z

Lying in bed at 7pm last night, as an unexpected relapse replenished the mucous that was meant to be subsiding and breathed a barking cough into being, I did seriously wonder about secretly remortgaging and spending the money on a three week trip to Florida.

Three weeks in a hot place instead of a snot place. Three weeks with warm air circulating around my bronchial tubes. Three weeks to recuperate.

I imagined Chickie sat on the doorstep clutching a note. Accountant would find it when he got home. "Feed me and wipe my bum" it would read. "Lots of love Mummy xxx". "P.S I'm in Florida".

Yes, it was tempting. At the point, I was imagining myself sipping a Pina Colada, swinging on a hammock strung between two palm trees, breathing through both nostrils, a screaming Chickie was plonked onto my sick bed.

Accountant, unnerved by the bizarre gurling coming from Chickie's chest, wanted a second opinion. Whilst rubbing Chickie's back and sniffing his head, I ran my Florida dream past him.

"No chance" he said simply. I handed Chickie back to him before burrowing under the covers and pulling the duvet over my head.

I suppose he was right. Who would Chickie pass all his germs onto if I wasn't around?

Whilst Shepherds Abandoned Their Sheep By Lunchtime

2007-12-13T19:04:00.000Z

Glam-Nan, Snowy, Grandma, Grandpa and I sat on the edge of our pew, eagerly awaiting Chickie in his debut performance as a Shepherd in his pre-school nativity. We hoped he wouldn't be scared by all the people. What if he started to cry?

As the music began, Chickie the Shepherd made a cautious entrance. As the sweet little face encased in a golden teatowel caught sight of his fanclub, it lit up before starting to scream, "Nanna" whilst jigging on the spot and waggling his arms in delight.

With that, Glam-Nan, Snowy, Grandma, Grandpa and mummy spontaneously burst into tears, each of us overcome by the cutest little shepherd in the history of nativity and his fluffy sheep.

Chickie's performance, whilst restricted to lobbing his sheep across the stage and gnawing on his percussion instrument, was just fabulous. A shining example to all would be Shepherds!

Like Father, Like Son

2007-12-10T10:38:00.000Z

Chickie was booked in at Nanna and Grandad's for a sleepover and Accountant and I were booked in at Cafe Rouge at 8pm. I'd only allowed myself to get excited about the prospect of a night out because Chickie's vital signs were good with no suggeston of pending illness that usually turned our plans for a night out into a night chasing him round with a thermometer.

Watching Chickie totter excitedly into his Nanna's arms, pulling his little Thomas the Tank Engine overnight wheely case, I almost couldn't bear to leave him. Five minutes later as he frisbied jigsaw pieces around their lounge, almost decapitating Grandad, I found the strength.

Then the phone rang. It was Accountant, his bestest sick voice proclaiming that he was on his way home. He didn't feel well. His tummy hurt. "No" I wailed selfishly, as my dreams of release from my nightly prison went poof.

Ransacking the medicine cupboard, I took out all the drugs that caused drowsiness, hoping that I could dose Accountant into a state whereby he wouldn't notice me bundling him into the boot of the car, driving him to Brighton and tying him to the chair opposite mine in the restaurant.

As Accountant hobbled through the front door an hour later, his teeth chattering for added effect, I knew we weren't going anywhere. By 5pm, Accountant, wearing his suit, shoes and coat was tucked up in bed snoring.

At the time I should have been slurping my French Onion soup, followed by Croque Monsieur and chocolate crepes, I was sat alone at my dining room table, eating fishfingers in my pyjamas.

A nappy bag landing in the hall indicated that Accountant was conscious. I wandered into the hallway, intrigued as to its contents seeing as the filler of the nappies wasn't in residence. A pair of Accountant's boxer shorts lurked within the polythene.

I didn't ask, although I had a hunch. I trudged back to my fishfingers.

Tis the Season to be Snotty... Tra La La La La La La

2007-12-03T13:29:00.000Z

The big day had arrived. All my super efficient organising had led to this moment. 1 December - the day when being super excited about christmas becomes legal. And super excited I had been - pre-writing all my Christmas cards, sorting them into alphabetical order, stroking all my new christmas decorations stashed away in the airing cupboard. But instead of smugly posting my cards and hanging my beautiful fuzzy felt decorations on the tree, I was in bed with a tampon stuck up each nostril.

By 2 December and inspired by my beloved Coca Cola Holidays are Coming advert, I heaved my snot ravaged body out of its pit, determined to be filled with Christmas cheer, god damn it. Accountant was sent into the loft to retrieve the tree whilst Chickie and I stood at the bottom of the ladder, our watery eyes, filled with excitement. After nearly being crushed to death by the Christmas Tree falling from the hatch, we stepped back and remained excited from there.

Whilst Chickie emptied all the boxes onto the living room floor, giggling with delight, I began the hideous job of untangling the lights. Half an hour later, they were plugged in and, naturally, didn't work. Half an hour of bulb testing and we still didn't know why they didn't work. The spares were brought into play and Chickie stood and stared, appreciating for the first time, a twinkly, winkly Chwistmas Twee. More giggling and a lot of arm flapping showed he likey.

Accountant discovered another set of hanging star lights and enquired as to what I was going to do with them. Reminded of the year before when I'd spent every day in December licking and relicking the suckers, suckering and resuckering to them to the window, I advised him to put them back in the box and tape down the lid. Programmed to do the exact opposite of whatever I advise him, Accountant says, "I'll do it then" in a "I'll show you!" kind of way.

I continued hanging my gorgeous little baubles to a Festive soundtrack of coughs, splutters, hoiking and throat tickling. Muttered expletives added to the whole family christmas atmosphere as Accountant learnt what happens when you ignore your wife. Chickie began to sob as helping daddy wasn't that much fun and a falling star had just come unstuck and bopped him on the head. Daddy swore some more. Chickie cried some more.

More coughing. Some nose blowing. A decision that the lights would be better placed on the back window where Chickie couldn't eat them and then, more swearing.

To give Accountant his dues, he spent a further twenty minutes licking those little suckers, pressing them on the window pane and then watching them ping off, before he threw the whole lot on the floor and stomped into the lounge to watch the football.

Once mummy had sorted the twinkly lights with the patience of someone highly delighted at just being so right, so often, Chickie and I stood back and admired all the twinkling. Chickie did the little penguin dance he does whenever he gets too excited to hold it all in.

Yes, Christmas was off to a great start at Chez Chickie.

There was a time I had full use of both nostrils

2007-11-28T20:06:00.000Z

I'm too busy sniffing olbas oil and sipping paracetomel based fruit drinks to write anything. Chickie sneezed in my face too many times for me to possibly have avoided my 8th sinus infection of 2007.

Chickie The Unmerciful

2007-11-21T18:52:00.000Z

The other great thing that happened last week was that Accountant got a taste of 'full time' parenting. After just one day of sole Chickie charge, the cracks beneath Accountant's "skipping through daddydum" facade were starting to show.

Previously, before I knew better, I turned to Accountant for comfort after Chickie had been in one of his unco-operative moods. "He's two, what do you expect?" came the comfort.

Determined to be just as supportive as him, I sat chuckling to myself from the other room, thoroughly enjoying the girly sound of his pointless pleas for his son's mercy.

"NO!" "PUT THAT DOWN!" "STOP IT!" "GET DOWN!" "OW!" "SAY SORRY" requested to a backdrop of slapping, drumming, thudding and shrieking. Poor Accountant could barely keep up with his own list of orders. At one point I thought he might actually cry.

Of course, the three packs of Smarties I gave Chickie for breakfast could of been a contributing factor but hopefully Accountant learnt his lesson.

P.S. Dear Social Services, I didn't really give him three packs of Smarties. He had Weetabix x

I Want My Daddy!

2007-11-19T14:35:00.000Z

The past week has been fabulous. Accountant had the week off and rather than being the horrifying bickerfest I'd anticipated, it turned into a nice little break for me!

I cha cha cha'd, foxtrotted, waltzed and quickstepped at my new ballroom class. I sipped tea and came over all creative at my creative writing class. I went out with my friend and her two year old to heighten the enjoyment of being the one not having to deal with a tantruming toddler. All whilst Accountant got reacquainted with weekday Chickie.

I took a long, hot, bubbly bath. I went out with a handbag. I wore heels. I wore dry clean only clothes. I applied make-up. I did my hair. I did my nails. I lay in. I went a whole day without touching poo.

And the best bit? Chickie now screams for his "daddy" when he wakes up in the night and wants "daddy!" to put him to bed and "daddy" to play with him and his choo choos. So the holiday continues for "mummy" who watches on smugly, not the least bit jealous to be second in her baby's affections.

That said, I'm confident by the end of this week, I'll be straight back in at Number One!

Stunt Baby

2007-11-12T11:10:00.000Z

Nearly two weeks after Chickie decided to swallow a practically whole Babybel, I have finally breathed out. He hasn't missed a single opportunity to exploit my post-traumatic shock, even fake coughing whilst tucking into his dinner so he can enjoy the sight of mummy running around in circles again.

At playgroup, he's taken to licking the playdoh provocatively, his mischevious eyes dancing with delight as he smells mummy's fear. Taking full advantage of mummy's complete and utter attention, he's added a whole range of kamikaze inspired activities to his repertoire, guaranteed to shock. Attempting to climb onto the dining room table, swinging from the stairgates one handed, using the sofa as both trampoline and mounting block to tightrope along the windowsill.

He, in short, has become a health and safety nightmare. Wherever he is, I'm worried. When he's at pre-school, I'm worried. When he's eating, I'm worried. When's he sleeping, I'm worried.

On the plus side, the constant anxiety has lost me half a stone.

Fabulous.

Chickie Rules The Roost

2007-11-08T14:09:00.001Z

Chickie's going through a delightful 'scream first, ask questions later' phase. Whether his choo choo has got stuck at the crossing, the bridge has collapsed(again!), mummy has refused to let him go to sleep with the Fat Controller or service levels have dropped to a shocking 2 second wait for his choc choc bestowal, he is not a toddler to be trifled with.

As I'm still in the 'very, very grateful' honeymoon period, I can't quite bring myself to deal with his minute-ly meltdowns just yet, opting instead for a cuddle and sniff policy.

Whilst I appreciate this approach may well find him and I featuring on Brat Camp in ten years time, I'm just so happy he's still having strops!

To all of you (Snowy!) who are going to remind me of that last sentence next time he's throwing himself on the floor or kicking me in the stomach, I don't want to hear it!

Let Go Mummy!

2007-11-05T10:23:00.000Z

Life is gradually returning to normal after Chickie’s brush with a lump of ‘moon’ cheese as he likes to call it (it’s shaped like the moon, or at least it was before I shredded it all in a fit of dairy induced rage). After his tour of the ambulance he was merrily scooting around on his bunny bike with three quacking ducks tied to the back of his trousers, hurridly waddling in his wake.

Something else waddling in his wake is me, now that my neuroses has been validated by a near death incident, I’m finding I have a serious case of separation anxiety and can generally be found clinging to Chickie’s legs crying, “Don’t go. Please don’t go”. I think Chickie was slightly embarrassed by my excessive clinginess at pre-school this morning, as the helpers prised me off and whisked him off to play with the ‘choo choos’. Choo choos I was eyeing up suspiciously to make sure they couldn't become ‘chew chews'.

Normally, a free morning would be a blissful experience. A spot of shopping, a cup of tea in the morning sun, a chance to catch up on my 5ft pile of ironing (yeah right!) but instead I’m mulling over potential health and safety risks, checking and re-checking cupboard catches and counting down the minutes before I get to follow him around again. Even when he’s asleep, I can now be found staring through the bars like a stalker, grateful beyond explanation that my beautiful little boy is breathing in and out, just as noisily as his daddy.

For family members reading this, don’t worry, I do realise that I can’t follow him around forever. So I’ve come up with a cunning plan. Gorgeous oversized leather tote bag, lined with bubble wrap. Pop Chickie inside like a designer Chihuahua and Bob’s your Uncle. Short of a strap breaking, nothing can get him.

On a serious note, when Chickie was a newborn I did a first aid course and would recommend it to everyone. Whilst I found it hard to remember everything after two years (will be booking onto a refresher course now!), it definitely helped me to better deal with the unthinkable happening.

Thank You

2007-11-02T19:49:00.000Z

I’m wanting to write something breezy and rude about my husband like usual but am not quite feeling 'normal' yet.

My Chickie choked last week. It’s hideous to even be writing it down. He's okay now and the sound of his gentle snores at night have never sounded sweeter.

So all I can offer today is the deepest and most heartfelt of thanks to God, the same to the paramedics - Malcolm and James, and to my neighbour Lynn.

I'm sure I'll be back to my usual sarcastic self before long, just not today.

What Happened When I Mentioned Chickie Liked Trains

2007-10-28T21:23:00.000Z

Plastic choo choos. Wooden choo choos. Talking choo choos. Big choo choos. Small choo choos. Choo choo placemat. Choo choo toothbrush. Choo choo pyjamas. Choo choo scarf. Choo choo socks. Choo choo suitcase. Choo choo blanket. Choo choo helter skelter. Choo choo track. Choo choo books. Choo choo stool. Choo choo ride. Choo choo cake. Choo Choo ball. Choo choo cup.

2nd Birthday

Party Pooper

2007-10-23T12:22:00.000Z

At Party Central, the Operations Manager, was scooting around the church hall like a looney trying to simultaneously assemble tables for colouring, prepare dining tables to look like an advert for the Waitrose Entertaining Brochure, politely chat to the self declared, “bouncy castle man” about placing his flyers in my sealed party bags, hang spotty bunting from the roof tops, blow up balloons and attractively arrange fairy cakes for forty on duck egg blue cake stands and pink love heart platters.

Snowy had left me behind having gone back to Chez Chickie to collect one husband, a birthday baby and all the party food from the fridge. He was instructed to call on arrival to confirm what to bring. When the phone rang and Accountant was on the end of the line, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell Snowy was thinking. He knows full well stressful situations, Accountant and I don’t mix.

“Do you want the crème fraiche?”
“Yes”
“Dips?”
“Yes”
“Two packets of sausage rolls?”
“Of course I want the sausage rolls”
“Cocktail sausages?”
“What do you think?”
“Leftover sausage casserole?”
“What?”
“Do you want the remnants of the casserole?”
“Yes. The buffet wouldn’t be complete without it!”
“What?”
“I don’t want the sodding leftover casserole, you utter baffoon!”
“I can’t hear her, she’s cutting out!” he says to Snowy. The line goes dead.

A withdrawn Glam-Nan arrives, the pressure of supplying a homemade ‘choo choo’ birthday cake, one of her trifles, forty five choc chip cookies and a selection of cream cheese blini’s with parsley garnish all too much. I see the panic in her eyes.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks.
“Erm.... put the crisps in the bowl!”
“Okay, which bowl?”
“This one”
“Is that one big enough?”
“It’ll be fine, just put the crisps in!”
“All the same flavour, or different flavours?”
“I don’t care. Any bowl, any crisps”
“Okay” .... “I’m putting all different flavours in, is that okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine”
“May be we should use a bigger bowl?”
“AARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Accountant, Snowy and Birthday Chickie arrive and unload the food.

"Where are the carrot sticks?”, I enquire casually.
“I asked if we should bring them but he said no” explains Snowy, nodding at the bouncy castle where Accountant, as useful as ever, was diving headfirst into the inflated activity stations.
“Tell me please, what possible reason do you think I could have had for spending half of Friday chopping up 50 perfectly proportioned carrot sticks if they weren't for this party?” I hissed.

Snowy shrugged and wandered away from his mad, red faced and sweaty daughter to start scoffing the buffet, and there he remained with a fairy cake lodged in each cheek for the rest of the party.