And We Have Lift Off

With a final self congratulatory ping of Chickie’s elastic, waterproof over-pants, I laid him down to sleep, confident the impending gravy train would struggle to chug their way through those impenetrable bad boys. In retrospect, I prefer to think of my naivety as endearing as opposed to complete foolishness.

Creeping past Chickie’s room later that evening, I was surprised to hear excited giggles rather than the soft snoring I’d expected. Debating whether to enter and risk a scene on exit, something about the tone of Chickie’s delighted coo’s beckoned me in.

Upon entering, it became clear that Chickie’s medicine had been very, very effective but some warning that it was the pharmaceutical equivalent of placing a stick of dynamite up your child’s bottom would have been nice.

The explosion was so spectacular I didn’t quite know what to do but screaming for Accountant seemed a good place to start. Matters weren’t helped by Chickie’s self-made game of ‘Wipe That Plop’ which had obviously been keeping him amused for at least ten minutes. Neither did it help that Accountant refused to touch his son or his sheet, his baby grow, his waterproof pants or his nappy, so just generally stood next to me looking appalled whilst gagging intermittently. Between wretches he’d ask helpful questions like “Did you give him too much?” and “You’re not throwing that away are you? It’ll wash”.

As far as I was concerned, anything that had been within two metres of Chickie at detonation was to be incinerated. The clean up operation lasted an hour and compulsive hand washing with bleach continued into the night.

Apologies for the unpleasantness - ain't motherhood grand!