This Could Be Love

Okay, firstly apologies to Snowy who was disappointed that I incorporated the word ‘lust’ into my blog but, in my defence, Josef Brown aka Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing – The Musical was just FFFFWWWWOOOARRRGGGHHH!!! Snowy, you may not want to read on.

Sat in the stalls with my equally wanton Sister, I was fifteen years old again and having the time of my life. As the evening wore on, the audience (consisting of 98% middle aged housewives) got increasingly excited as more and more of Josef was exposed to our hungry, hungry eyes and I think we all had a feeling that wouldn’t subside.

Six pack, check. Pert botty, check. Gorgeous manly locks – check. Long, muscular legs – check. Oh, the list was endless. When he bent over in his boxer shorts, we all went unashamedly wild, screaming like hormonal school girls, safe under the cover of darkness. His acting was hammy, his American accent variable but I cared not, he made up for it in soooo many other ways.

After ridiculing Sister for buying everyone theatre tickets when she’s the only one who actually likes the theatre (and including a ticket for herself), I must now issue a retraction as a better present, I've never known.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.

I Had The Time of My Life

I'm too tired from spending four lustfilled hours screaming like a spotty teenager at the male lead in Dirty Dancing - The Musical last night, having four hours sleep and from fighting Chickie off of me now that his clinginess has reached epic proportions.

Full Dirty Dancing update to follow plus Chickie's Day of Naughtiness at Cecilia's House. He showed me right up.

A Labour of Love

Since I became a full time housewife, arguments at our house have dropped by 85%. This is because the undertaking of chores was the main subject of ‘debate’ before I gave up paid employment to lovingly attend to those repetitive, mind numbingly dull little tasks that keep family members clean, warm and fed. However, a new topic is rapidly emerging as a source of contention albeit closely related to the original.

“You do it”. “No, you do it”. “I did the last one”. “Well, I did the one before that”.

After five days trying to catch and maintain a feisty toddler, I’m ready to check myself into a spa by the weekend in the vague hope that some life can be massaged back into my aching limbs and a miracle aromatherapy oil will replace the moisture in my hands that washing them 189 times a day has removed. That’s why I feel Accountant should be grateful that I’m even in the house come the weekend.

He sees things differently. After spending 2 hours a day in traffic and 10 hours at a desk doing sums to provide for his family, his weekends offer the promise of beer and football. This has produced a conflict of interest that has become increasingly tricky to navigate peacefully.

“I’ll do his nappy if you give him his tea”. “That’s not fair, nappies are easier”.

Previous negotiations have given me custody of Saturday mornings whilst Accountant gets Sundays. On his lie in day, I stagger out of bed at Chickie’s first semi-conscious woof, whisking him soundlessly downstairs, carefully closing all doors behind me. On my lie in day, Chickie is left babbling loudly until he starts wailing. At which point, I nudge Accountant to get up and he transfers himself to the bathroom where he blows his nose like a fog horn for five minutes. All doors are flung wide open and Chickie is deposited in bed to give mummy a good morning slap.

However, as it's time I was nice to Accountant, I've decided to be grateful that he's willing to get up at all and is fully trained in every aspect of childcare.

SandPit Chick

There have been some developments at Chez Chickie. One of them goes a bit like this:

“Woof Woof” “Woof Woof” “Woof Woof”

You’d be forgiven for thinking that we’d bought a puppy. Not quite, but it seems our baby has turned into one.

After attempting to teach him that dogs go “woof woof”, cats go “miaow miaow”, cows go “moo” etc. he has taken to barking upon waking, on and off throughout the day and every time he seems any kind of animal no matter what the variety whether it be ceramic, on the telly or in the flesh. Multiple corrections of “No, that’s a cat, cat’s go miaow and dogs go woof woof” don’t seem to register as he yaps away happily.

The next development now finds us fully protected by a puff chested Chick who struts around the house like a power hungry supermarket Security Guard who thinks he’s well ‘ard. He was chuffed to bits to be entrusted with his own special set of keys which he checks all the locks with whilst on his rounds.

An area for development would be fire awareness as he’s slept through every smoke alarm detonation to date, and there have been many although none so good as the time I popped round my neighbours house quickly to carry his suitcase down the stairs ready for his holiday, taking the wrong key with me as I left, locking us out.

Stood outside the kitchen window with Chickie watching the fishfinger I’d left under the grill turn the house into an indoor barbecue, I regretted being neighbourly. I knew it was bad when the upstairs smoke alarm joined in with the downstairs one telling me that the room furthest away from the kitchen was filling up with fish flavoured smoke.

Other changes relate to Chickie’s walking switching to 2nd gear, making him fast, fiercely independent and an outdoor kind of guy. The backdoor has to remain shut as Chickie cannot be trusted not to commando roll out the door and seat himself in the wheelbarrow awaiting a ride.

Chickie loves the garden. Granted, the sandpit and playhouse in his giant cat litter tray aren’t as popular as the swing from Nanna and Grandad and his new set of keys but I’ve informed him that mummy went to a lot of trouble to get that sodding playhouse in the back of a VW Golf and he will like it.

I must admit, his lack of interest in the sandpit is a blessed relief. Accountant informed me that I couldn’t let my OCD prevent Chickie from having one. Knowing in my heart he was right, we bought one. However, each time he goes near it I can't help but think of all those millions of grains of grubby sand sticking to my beautifully buffed baby and then being carried into the house on his leg fuzz and redistributed onto my soft furnishings.

Sorry no photos as can't seem to upload for some reason?

The Great Outdoors

Whilst appreciating there are exceptions, I often marvel about how many times you have to tell the average man something before it actually permeates a brain cell and results in affirmative action. And, why do you even have to tell them in the first place when whatever you’re having to instruct them in words of no more than one syllable, is blindingly obvious? Once they have actually heard you and grunted their understanding, it doesn't necessarily mean you can cross it off your 'House Training' list as, at any random point in the future, they can and usually do revert back to their original behaviour.

For instance, if your or Chickie’s shoes are muddy, take them off before leaving muddy father and son paw prints on every floor in the house. A reasonable request made approx. 50 times. Request honoured approx. once.

Another? Please don’t parp your way around the back the garden like a backfiring lawnmower whilst snorting like a congested pot bellied pig whilst the neighbours rush their dinner guests and bbq back into the house. Request made approx. 250 times. Never honoured.

And Another? The dishwasher isn’t an enchanted washing wonderland where little scrubbing fairies tackle the concrete curry you’ve left to go off overnight with their special magic pneumatic brillo pads. You may actually have to soak it first.

And one more… don’t put half your dinner in your mouth in one go, it’s not attractive and, granted you’ve cheated death thus far, but one day, you will require the Heimlich Manoeuvre and I’m not trained, I can’t reach and you’re the weight of a small hippo.

The real problem is this. If a man doesn’t listen, a woman is forced to reiterate. However, men seem to view reiteration as nagging thus rendering a man selectively and completely deaf.

You do have the choice of simply doing everything yourself and demurely traipsing after your beloved with the hoover and a nose peg, saying nothing, expecting nothing and accepting the fact your weekly household chores have needlessly doubled. Eventually, you go to bed wearing marigolds, your spirit is lost in a haze of dust and your husband tells you he doesn't find you and your overalls very attractive any more.

Luckily, I’m not the demure, silent type so have come up with a new strategy.

Send the slob packing come the weekend! No slob = no trashing = no nagging. Everyone's a winner.

I also have a back up plan should I encounter any problems with my masterplan. Buy shed from local garden centre. Buy sleeping bag, put in shed. Et voila.

He keeps saying he wants to go camping!

Home Alone

There are moments of parenthood that are a delight. Then there are moments that are chilling.

“Turn the key Chickie”. “Open the door, there’s a good boy”, “Turn the key, TURN THE KEY!”.

By 8.30am this morning, after only 1½ hours of consciousness, I had changed four nappies, swept up the remnants of Chickie’s breakfast bowl complete with breakfast, watched three weetabix deposits form crustations on my clean trousers and was now desperately trying to negotiate my way back into the house after Chickie had turned the key in the lock whilst I was outside and he was in.

As he grinned back at me, amused no end by the sight of his mummy bouncing up and down doing key turning actions whilst screaming “turn the key, turn the key… please turn the key”, I considered my options should this become a permanent arrangement. Envisioning myself scaling the fence at speed to use my neighbours phone to call the Fire Brigade whilst leaving Chickie to housesit then watching the Fireman rip my backdoor off it’s hinges to locate/rescue the lone toddler last seen at the back door with a key in his hand, whilst lodging their visit with Social Services, my tone rose to hysterical.

“T U R N … T H E … K E Y … C H I C K I E ! ! !”

The Lord must have taken pity on the pathetic sight of a mother with her nose pressed up against her French Doors whilst her toddler smirked back devilishly with his hand poised on the door handle as, for the first time ever, he did as he was told and opened the door. Such relief I’ve never known. A delighted Chickie giggled with glee, no doubt planning a repeat performance of the brilliantly fun “Manic Miming Mummy” game.

Now late for yet another hospital appointment, ‘Clench and Stench’ required his fifth nappy change. Finally, we arrived on what seemed to be competition day in the waiting room with four women competing fiercely in the “Labour Playoffs”.

“He was one week late - he was sixteen days late – my fourth was one week early but my other three were all late - I had to have an induction - all I had was gas and air - I didn’t have anything - I didn’t even have time to write a birthing plan - I didn’t write a birthing plan as I thought I’d see what happened - she was 8lb 3oz - he was 10lb 5oz”.

Alerted to Chickie’s requirement for a sixth nappy change, I discovered I’d left his nappy bag in the car. Yes, my morning was just getting better and better. Unable and unwilling to go back to the car, I positioned myself far away from a now overripe Chickie who was steaming up the windows of the rapidly emptying playhouse.

Unfortunately, for both the Doctor and I, her office had no window and was on the ‘cosy’ side. I apologised for my baby’s somewhat fruity aroma. My day improved when we found out that Chickie’s blue lips were just a colourful and harmless addition to his complexion. It got even better when Snowy came round after our appointment to amuse Chickie for the day whilst Glam-Nan and I went shopping.

Turf War

Accountant and I both know that, in order to co-exist happily, time spent in each other’s company must not exceed 72 hours per week. That’s why, undertaking a joint project that requires constant togetherness over a four day period was never going to be an enjoyable experience for either party.

All DIY projects undertaken at Chez Chickie have a clear pecking order. I’m foreman, he’s labourer. Accountant isn’t gifted in the ‘practicality’ department and requires specific, precise and repeated instructions as well as constant supervision to ensure he doesn’t kill himself, kill anyone else or wreak complete devastation (much like Chickie). However, Accountant rebels against supervision, reacting especially belligerently to any kind of questioning, interference or instruction. He also despises DIY but despises paying someone else to do it even more.

The final element that made this situation particularly volatile was the budget. Accountant opting for a “revamp the garden for 50p or less” policy whilst I erred on the side of “ooh, I like that. That’s nice. What about one of those?…Look at those yummy pink gardening gloves!”. With all our ‘divorced by Monday’ ducks lined up in a row, we drove to the Garden Centre to buy the turf.

Arguing about a complete returf versus a semi returf began before we even reached the Garden Centre. Debate continued inside and got heated when I started heaping top soil onto our trolley. Intense questioning as to what purpose top soil served and a cost/benefit analysis followed. The next discussion - cheap weed ridden turf versus quality weed free turf. Wishing more than ever that I could generate my own income without compromising my cushy lifestyle, I ran away to the garden hoses to consider my strategy to get one to feature on our till receipt.

After dedicating my evenings to watching Gardeners World and back to back episodes of Ground Force, I now consider myself an expert horticulturalist and Accountant’s tedious, amateur questions about every purchase were stifling my plans to create the perfect seaside country garden.

Thanks to Accountant’s audit, turfing commenced hours later than scheduled. More hours later, I surveyed my work (Accountant had moved on to the less labour intensive job of drinking beer). Whilst the 10 squared metres of new lawn looked lush and fabulous, next to the old patchy lawn, it looked ridiculous. Arguing over returfing the whole lawn recommenced and continued into the night and throughout the weekend.

Eventually, Accountant refused to discuss it any further. I felt like a child being told ‘No’ by it’s parent. “But it’s NOT fair” I screamed, stamping my feet.

As there's no other parent to play him off against in this scenario, seeing how I'm a grown woman and all, I’d like votes (preferably in my favour). Please see photo of our stripey lawn. If you, like me, think it's being shown up by Wyevale's finest and needs replacing, email me at peaseyweasey@yahoo.co.uk


Please note: Accountant's friends and family members need not reply.

Womb With A View

A gruelling day which found me strapped into a stirrupy contraption (and not the equestrian kind) with a strategically placed paper towel which I assume was intended to protect my dignity regardless of the fact I could have been mistaken me for a christmas turkey awaiting the removal of it’s giblets. It wasn’t a day I was looking forward to and, having two months advance notice of the appointment gave me plenty of time to worry that, what was most probably a post-Chickie hormone imbalance, had developed into something terminal.

I did have the nicest nurse in the world though who gave me a copy of “Yours” to flick through whilst I waited and held my sweaty hand through the ‘Womb’ movie. Whilst loving her for her warmth and kindness, I was slightly concerned that she had selected the equivalent of ‘Geriatric Weekly’ for me to peruse. It wasn’t the indepth articles on knitting, Senior Moments, Legal Concerns and Fashion during the National Service years that distracted me from my impending violation so much as the wondering whether I looked like the kind of thirty year old that would enjoy reading Rod Hull’s column.

Despite my Doctor having all the charm of a yeast infection and pulling concerned brow furrows throughout the examination, me and my nurse got through the ordeal by enjoying a witty repartee about how much women suffer compared to men. Despite his ‘ooh, that’s not good’ expressions as viewed from between my knocking knees, it turns out that it was just the hormone imbalance anticipated, leaving me free to worry about all the other symptoms I had relegated to the hypochondria backburner.

Whilst having access to a gynaecologist, albeit a very serious one, I thought it would be an excellent opportunity to share my concerns about childbirth and gain the reassurance that, should I ever change my mind and have another, everything would be just peachy second time around. Really, I should have known better based on the bedside manner exhibited thus far but, no, I plunged ahead regardless. Upshot is, not having another child ever. Reassurance wasn’t really his thing. He was more of a bleak and scary medical fact based kind of guy.

P.S. Sorry for my recent bloglessness, set top box suffered a dramatically named 'fatal' error leaving me without tv or internet. The worst part was being forced to converse with Accountant by way of entertainment.

Independence Day

Now that Chickie is upwardly mobile, he’s changed. No longer in need of ‘mothering’, he has decided he’s of the age where he’s ready to handle things for himself. Whether it’s eating his breakfast, styling his hair, doing his tax return or unloading the washing machine, Chickie knows best and doesn’t need help or advice from anyone. He’s his own man.

The problem with Chickie’s one man show is that, whilst enthralling for him, it can be rather dull, laborious and tiresome for others. As much as I admire his persistence and single minded determination in his repeatedly futile attempts to slot the key into the iddy biddy lock, after the 2000th time and an hour’s wait to open the door, intervention is often necessary. However, Chickie has taken to having breakdowns every time assistance is offered. They're wildly dramatic, energetic and unrelenting.

In addition to his new aggressively executed D-I-Y approach to life, his cautious nature requires his Mummy to never be more than a metre from his side in case he encounters any problems on his path to independence. Trying to do anything without tripping over Short-Stuff has become a problem. If he loses sight of Mummy for a second, the wailing begins.

My usual cunning is failing me and I’ve no more innovative ideas to distract Chickie whilst I make a run for it. It seems my only option is to incorporate The Chick into every aspect of daily routine. Whether hanging from the hoover, the clothes line, my leg or a wheelbarrow, Chickie only really stops crying when he’s supervising mummy’s activities or eating chocolate. However, after finding my ‘groove’ and becoming housewife supremo, Chickie’s new found interest in my domestic affairs is affecting performance levels.

I used to rely on the two hour nap window to whiz around the house like a human duster but even that has come to an end, as all good things must. After repeated night wakings, a two hour nap was deemed too long by all those consulted and so I’m having to do the unthinkable and wake him after an hour. Heartbreaking.

Hopes were hinged on the Adventure Playground being completed at the end of the garden shortly but, it seems the “play bark” I lovingly and knackeringly prepared for Chickie over a three day period, is, in fact, a giant litter tray. Whilst I’m anxious for Chickie’s focus to be redirected, him snacking on cat poo whilst I get on with the ironing isn’t what I had in mind. Why does everything in my life end up revolving around poo? I know which cat it is and he better stay out of my way and my ‘play area’ or he’ll find himself terrorising the neighbourhood wearing Huggies Size 5.

Didn’t We Have A Lovely Day

Preparations for days out with baby are not to be taken lightly. Every possible eventuality must be carefully considered and catered for. For example, what if baby overheats or gets chilly, requires sun protection or shelter from the rain, what if he doesn’t like your soggy vegetable puree sandwich and loudly demands alternatives embarrassing you in front of all those happily picnicking families? What if baby runs out of drink and dehydrates, what about nappies and changing equipment, a place to nap, a camera to capture his special day, dummy supplies for tantrums and antibacterial wipes for post farmyard animal petting. Forget anything and you may as well stick a post-it to your forehead, “Big Bad Mummy”.

In typical boy fashion, after putting zero thought or effort into any of the planning or preparatory stages of ‘Chickie’s Big Day Out’, Accountant queries, upon arrival, in his concerned daddy voice whether I’d brought everything for Chickie. “No, I assumed you had”.

Despite anticipating 99% of Chickie’s requirements, I was caught short. It wasn’t so much that I forgot a sunhat for Chickie on a day that turned out to be exceptionally warm for April but more that I wasn’t expecting the unseasonally warm weather and hadn’t even bought his 2007 sunhat yet. Mistake. To be the ultimate mummy, expect the unexpected.

However, some quick thinking and some creative shirt turbaning later- et voila. Yes, Chickie may have looked ridiculous but two mummy points to me for my innovative approach to hat making. I felt partially redeemed as I smothered him in the Factor 50 sunblock stored in my bag for such summery emergencies although the headwear was a glaring advertisement to my rubbishness so no post-it required.

As Accountant sneezed and wheezed his way through the petting zoo, made worse by his request to hold a goat, Chickie and Poff checked out the bunnies, horses, pigs and tortoise.

The bunnies were a hit, the tortoise not so much. Accountant especially loved the piggies and since deciding I looked a lot like one of them, has been calling me ‘Piglet’ ever since.

A picnic, slides, swings, playhouses, tractor rides and trampolining followed. Meerkat and Accountant had a lovely time, especially down the big slide. The babies enjoyed themselves too. The day was complete when Accountant was discovered in the car park, flat on his back. He was doing his full range of ‘I've hurt myself - ask me what's wrong’ faces and took a moment out from the agony to inform us he’d put his back out. “How did you do that just walking to the car?” “Coughing” came the pained response.

Got My Groove On

Ironically, it was a discussion about division that brought our neighbours and us together. As scintillating as the exchange about the state of our shared fence was, conversation soon turned to the small screaming creatures we now worked for. Recent parents themselves, they mused at all the spare time they’d had before their little angel sucked every minute out of every day and every penny out of every pay day.

I nodded along in agreement thinking of all that ‘me’ time I wouldn’t be seeing again for forty years. At 2am that morning, woken by the screaming controller, I made the most of being unable to get back to sleep by wondering what I achieved before I traded disposable income for disposable nappies. Weekend shopping trips to Paris, handbags, shoes, eating out, holidays, more shopping and as much time to myself as I could stand. Not necessarily achievements just pure, self indulgent, heaven.

That said, somewhat unbelievably, I find myself actually quite enjoying driving the length and breadth of Sussex in pursuit of bargains. Few handbag purchases have ever come close to the value induced high I got from my recent Tesco discovery of £7.60 for baby table and chairs. Every time someone visits, they get treated to the table and chairs tour.

The transformation doesn’t stop there. I’ve begun opting for repair rather than replacement. I’ve started cooking food in efficient little batches and freezing for future dates when I may not be inclined to cook. I have a range of Tupperware to rival Lakeland Plastics and spend excessive amounts of time comparing the per kilo weight of individual vegetables versus prepackaged for optimum value.

When I found myself angrily muttering expletives over the discovery of Accountant’s recently ironed and unworn clothing he’d unpacked and dumped in a crumpled heap on the bed, a shocking realisation hit me. I had become my mother. Memories of her begging a teenage me not to trample my clothes into the floor ran through my mind. Like Accountant, I cared not and continued my reign of indifference. As such, I decided to do something very unmummyish and emailed Accountant immediately to inform him that I would no longer be doing his ironing. He’d had his three warnings.

In spite of Accountant, I’ve decided that I don’t miss ‘me’ time all that much. That’s not to say I don’t love a sit down at the end of the day but it so much more delicious when you feel like you actually deserve it.

In short, I think I've found my housewifey groove. The cliche is true, the best things in life really are free (or at least, if you shop around, excellent value). Yes, after eighteen months, I’ve finally adjusted.

As it's a Bank Holiday weekend, I'm giving myself a long blog weekend holiday to eat Easter Eggs and double dig the garden - oh yes, I know all the terminology! Thrilling soil based updates and Accountant gardening mishaps to follow on Tuesday.

'Yeah, Good Girl'

My big plans for Chickie’s Adventure Playground have been scuppered by Accountant and the manual labour I had planned for some lucky landscaper has become mine, all mine. As such, I have spent three days in the trenches.

Whist Accountant was schmoozing with others of his kind at a conference, I was home alone juggling three boys, excavation, a wheelbarrow and multiple trips to B&Q. At this point, can I please ask B&Q to design a trolley for lone parents who can’t and don’t want to try and lift 100 litre bags of gravel and soil in and out of a normal shopping trolley because that is all that’s provided for greenfingered parents and their tots. On this occasion, I was fortunate enough not to require the services of a chiropractor but I suspect I was just lucky.

The other problem with a shopping trolley filled with gardening paraphernalia is that all baby has to do to amuse himself on his afternoon jaunt around the garden centre is turn around and help himself to the weed killer and toxic shrubbery. May I be so bold as to suggest, a low platform for compost type materials, a suspended shelf above for plants and a baskety bit at the end for poisonous substances and then a baby seat, far far away from all that other stuff. Simple yet genius, I know.

Fed up and needing the comfort of someone else to suffer with me, I tracked down an unsuspecting member of staff. Poor little Scott was in the wrong place at the wrong time. One minute he was enjoying a spot of light pruning and some jovial banter with his co-worker, the next he had an order for 10 large bags of play bark and 1 sack of gravel to be loaded onto my awaiting trolley and deposited, via the checkout, into the back of my motor.



Please see photographic evidence of 1. the ten wheelbrow trips and results of my 24 hours of weeding 2. one of the ten bags of bark I had to lug out of the car 3. the finished article complete with picket fence. I even had to use a saw! Can I also mention that, once I weeded, I then spent an hour levelling the garden and then a further four hours and another trip to B&Q to cover the area in three layers of weed killing membrane. And... I spent an hour attaching a twiney screeny fence thing to the boundary. And... I had to take up 30 stone slabs previously around the edge. And...I had to prune back the trees. And... I had to cut all the old roots out of the ground... And I hurt my head and my hand. Sob.

When Accountant arrived home looking refreshed and glowing after his fine dining and nights of uninterrupted sleep, I summoned some energy to greet him from my swamp coated in mud and bleeding from my head and hands. As he seemed not to notice the mud, the blood or my two days of backbreaking weeding, I asked him what he thought of my efforts. “Yeah, good girl”.

You’d think I’d have learnt from the ‘Cappucino’ incident of 19 February 2007, but no!

Three Men and A Knackered Lady

I do so love it when my nephews come to stay. The tv now has ‘C46TN’ permanently displayed centre screen and my Tiffany lamp almost became shrapnel thanks to an illegal game of indoor football. Swift denials were issued following intense questioning about the new subtitling, but the boys remained cool and steadfast under interrogation. “I/he just pressed the volume button”. Hmmmm. I smelt a ‘television tampering, professionally covered up’ rat but could do little without hooking Gloops up to a lie detector. Sister, don’t read this and feel bad. I bought you a Chocolate Orange yesterday and I can confirm it tastes really, really nice, especially when dunked into this hot cup of tea. MMMMmmmmm.

Catastrophes aside, Chickie was excited to have ‘The Terrible Two’ live in his living room and wobbled around after them on his underused legs. Since his recent download, Chickie has been utterly adorable and Post-Poops and Gloops as a couple, even more so. Gloops adores Chickie and Chickie adores Gloops. Watching them adore each other made me come over all Waltons and momentarily forget the horrors of childbirth, nightwakings, poop backlogs and mealtime hell. The sound of my favourite lamp crashing to the floor was just the reality check I needed.

What A Difference A Poo Makes, 24 Little Hours..

I find it hard to believe that with a selection of toys so vast they could keep a small playgroup happily occupied for hours, Chickie bizarrely finds me the most interesting toy of all. Whether hiding then seeking his jigsaw pieces within my tummies, deleting my blog as I type or ripping my hair clip with hair from my head, there is nothing else he’d rather be doing than assaulting his mummy. Flattering you’d think, yet no. I had it on good authority that children love toys and bought lots to capture my child’s complete attention. I feel cheated.

Picture the scene. Outside is raining. Inside is straining. Every week we enjoy a ‘crap’ day together. A 24 hour period where the call of nature is at it’s loudest and Chickie’s willingness to answer at it’s lowest. It goes a little something like this. Strain, grunt, clench, cry, cuddle - strain, grunt, clench, cry, cuddle – strain, grunt, clench, cry, cuddle - repeat until bottom explodes. It’s not my or Chickie’s favourite way to spend the day (and wee hours of the morning) and being out and about is an essential distraction from the impending blast.

Rain is therefore bad. Being confined to the house – badder (yes, I’m aware that’s not an actual word). All sorts of innovative ‘sofa based’ activities were tested on a less than chirpy Chick who humoured me in between urges.

At 6pm, detonation commenced and at 6.05pm a puce, clammy Chick was finally empty and a tired, stressed Mummy relieved. Since his pooathon concluded, he’s returned to the super sweet child I vaguely remembered. It’s now a race against time to enjoy and savour post-poo Chickie as, at the stroke of midnight, the cycle repeats.