Teething Troubles

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

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

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

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...

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

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!

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

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

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

“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

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?

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.

Chickie's MoT

"Yes, that's fine for tomorrow afternoon at 2pm, lovely, see you then", I said in my sweetest mummy voice. As I put the phone down, I turned to face a still red and blotchy Chickie who had reacted badly to his new moisturiser but was well enough to chomp his way through a yellow crayon.

"It's show time" I informed him but he had little interest in the Health Visitor's impending visit to put him through his developmental paces. Scooping lumps of sunflower coloured Crayola from the inside of his cheeks, I issued my 128th warning about consuming non consumables. Even if I don't catch him in the act, the crayons have a colourful way of giving him away on exit.

The next day, the scene was set. The house gleamed and so did Chickie having been buffed and coiffed to peachy 'my mummy looks after me fabulously' perfection. That is, apart from a few stubborn red blotches, some new baldy spots where he'd pulled his hair out the previous night and the flourescent goo that was sliming its way down his face.

I wondered whether to bring the rocking chair down from his room for the 'reading on mummy's lap' domestic bliss scene or 'colouring together at the kitchen table'. Both had merits of their own but I went with the colouring as it looked more authentic. In matching mother and son spotty aprons, we set about the drawing and colouring in of choo choos, cars and all his other vehicular obsessions.

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. "The health visitor's here sweetheart, now you be a good boy. No tantrums, no eating bad things and no throwing things at the lady, okay!" "Okay" he said earnestly to the point where I almost believed him.

I let the Health Visitor in and led her back to the table where Chickie had been instructed to remain to colour in Mummy's brillianty drawn choo choo's. "Oh!" exclaimed the Health Visitor in surprise as he turned around, displaying bright red lips that he'd coloured in with felt tip. "Why, you little ....!" I thought to myself. "What a silly boy" I said sweetly, through gritted teeth as a tug of war began over the red felt tip, Chickie screaming in defiance at it's forced removal. "Let's just clean you up so you can talk to the nice lady!". More screaming and throwing of crayons at mummy's head whilst the Health Visitor stood by my side, cowering behind her briefcase.

I don't know whether it prompted her first question about whether I had any concerns but after an hour of "Is it normal that he pulls his hair out? Why is he so obsessed with transport? Should I be worried that he's made up his own language that no one can understand? Why won't he eat fruit? Why doesn't he poo? He eats crayons and woodlice and Sudacrem and play doh - why? I can hear him snoring at night from downstairs, is that okay? He answers 'No' to every question - should he be doing that. He's scared of the smoke alarm and gazoos and balloons and the door bell? " I think she was regretting asking.

A Rumble in My Bumble

One day you’re trotting along wondering how everyone else got so weird and thanking God for your lucky escape and then something happens that proves you’re just as bonkers as everyone else.

On Tuesday, the stomach ache began. On Wednesday, the niggling pains with occasional toilet visits. On Thursday, I could have flown to Boston and back during the time I sat in my bathroom wondering if I’d ever step outside again.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have eaten anything at all but I did. I ate cheese crackers (intended for Chickie’s party), I ate vegetable crisps (for Chickie’s party) and I ate a mini bag of Haribo (yes, for Chickie’s party).

When the gurgling began, I knew it was bad. My digestive track churned in outrage and on toilet visit No 24, it punished me accordingly. Things turned nasty and a worrying colour. As sensitive as ever to my delicate state, Accountant eased my pain by trying to gas me with solvents, spraying an entire can of Lynx Africa under the bathroom door, before scurrying off to gag down the hallway.

As I sat on the brink of hyperventilation, struggling to breathe from the fumes and blind panic, I wondered whether I should phone Glam-Nan or an ambulance. I opted for Glam-Nan, who was thrilled to hear from her hysterical daughter at 11pm on a Thursday night. Whilst Glam-Nan and Snowy rushed over in their dressing gowns, I rang the on-call doctor. “It’s red. Am I going to die?” I squeaked pathetically. “I doubt it” said the doctor drolly. In no mood for sarcastic medical professionals, I explained again how it was red in case he’d missed it. “That can happen in situations like this” he said “or it could even be haemorrhoids” he added helpfully.

Unconvinced that the doctor had fully grasped the ‘redness’, I resigned myself to a malpractice suit and bid him farewell, looking up pathetically at Glam-Nan and Snowy who had arrived in their pyjamas. They tried their best to control my sobs and convulsions, as I broke down, convinced I was going to die soon, with a camera up my bottom.

“It’s fine” they said, exchanging worried glances as I shook uncontrollably. “It’s not” I wailed. “It’s really not”. They began whispering. “Don’t whisper. I hate it when you whisper” I ordered from the bed.

An hour of placating later and I was ready to risk a snooze, on the strict condition that Glam-Nan remained by my side. Glam-Nan eyed up my 15 togger miserably, used to sleeping in nothing hotter than an 8 herself. “Do you always sleep with this over you?” she asked 22 times before asking a further 22 times “don’t you get hot?”. Followed 22 times by “I only have an eight tog”. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d made a mistake and whether it was too late to swap her for Snowy who lay curled on the lounge floor, his 67 year old frame having a creaking competition with the floorboards.

The next morning, calmed by the lack of action during the night, I felt brave enough to drink a glass of water in bed whilst Glam-Nan endeavoured to scrape Snowy off of the floor and dealt with an exuberant Chickie. Forbidden to leave me alone, Snowy and Glam-Nan took it in turns to return to the comfort of their own home to clean their teeth.

Later that day, Glam-Nan heard three little words she wasn’t looking forward to, as I summoned her from the top of the stairs. “Mum, I’ve been!”. As Glan-Nan trudged up the stairs for her role as colour consultant, my mind cast back to the vegetable crisps I’d eaten the night before. The beetroot crisps. The red beetroot crisps.

Getting the bag out of the bin, I found a small remnant. Never a great fan of science, I decided, just this once, to conduct a little experiment. Dropping the crisp into a glass of water, I watched with interest as the water turned pink, gradually deepening to a dark shade of claret. A very familiar shade of claret.

Nun Night Gnasher

“Come and look at Gnasher” said Accountant for the fiftieth time since Gnasher had arrived the previous day. “No thanks, Sweetheart” I replied. It was going to take more than a back flipping hamster to entice me out from under the cosy depths of my 15 tog goose down duvet.

“No, seriously, come and look” he repeated. “There’s nothing that hamster can do that I haven’t seen already” I said wearily, having spent most of the weekend ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ in all the right places as my nephew put his furry birthday present through it’s paces.

Accountant and Chickie had both thoroughly enjoyed the ‘Gnasher Show’, gleefully watching him roll around the room in his yellow ball as my nephew proudly commentated.

“Just come and look” said Accountant, insistently. “This better be good” I grumbled, begrudgingly poking two winceyette clad legs out from underneath the covers.

On entering the guest room where Gnasher had spent a comfortable weekend, Accountant was in the corner, his peanut shaped head craning over the base of the cage. “Look” he whispered, gesturing me closer. “What?” I whispered back, the lapse into undertones casting a sinister mood. “Do you think he’s dead?” Accountant asked suddenly. Unamused by Accountant’s attempt at practical trickery, I launched into my “don’t ever get me out of bed again unless there’s chocolate involved” speech. Accountant interrupted my ranting, just when I was at my most outraged. “I’m not joking” he cut in gravely. “He’s not breathing. Look!”.

As I reluctantly closed my mouth and inspected the red fur ball, curled in the corner of its cage, it struck me that he had been in that exact spot when Chickie had loudly bid him ‘Nun night’ five hours earlier. “May be hamsters don’t need to breathe when they sleep?” I offered hopefully. Accountant shook his head. Unable to believe or accept that Gnasher, at two months of age, could have expired on my watch, I became desperate. “Poke him” I said. Accountant prodded a finger into the strawberry blonde fur. Nothing.

“Perhaps he’s hibernating?” I tried, still optimistic that Gnasher was just a heavy sleeper. “Pick him up” I suggested helpfully. “I’m not picking him up!” said Accountant in disgust. “You pick him up!” he added. “No way!” I yelped in horror, backing away from what I was gradually coming to realise was rodent remains. “It’s your nephew’s hamster” Accountant kindly pointed out. “My dad wouldn’t expect my mum to pick up a dead hamster” I muttered, hoping to shame him into action. Ignoring me, Accountant began shaking the cage. “Well, if he wasn’t dead, he is now” I said, secretly quite pleased by his over vigorous jigging which seemed like an excellent cause of death to share with family members, leaving me innocent of all involvement.

“It’s dead” declared Accountant, with the self-assurance of a mortician. “He can’t be!” I said, incredulously. “He’s definitely dead” Accountant repeated slowly, no doubt wondering whether I would apply this level of denial to all unsavoury episodes I encountered in life. “Maybe he’s revivable” I squeaked as my panic levels rose. “I saw Eddie Murphy revive a rat in Dr. Doolittle. He gave it CPR”. Accountant shook his head again.

Glancing down at Gnasher, a ball of lonesome ginger fluff, I finally allowed myself to accept that Accountant might, for once, be right. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at his little blue house that he’d never snuggle into again and the Willy Wonka style plastic tube that he’d been wedged into when he’d arrived.

As I began to sob for the vermin I barely knew, I wondered how my nephew would take the news that his beloved Gnasher would be leaving our care in a body bag. The crying stepped up a notch as I pictured his devastation as my Sister informed him that Accountant had shaken his cage just that little bit too hard. Then I imagined Chickie’s expectant little face as he requested to visit his new fuzzy friend, ‘NASHSHER” the next morning.

Accountant put a comforting arm around his now hysterical wife, blaming her hormone imbalance for the theatrical reaction.

The next morning, I cast a pair of red and swollen eyes over a still dead Gnasher, having hoped that my prayers alone may have been enough to resurrect him during the night. Closing the door behind me, I went into Chickie’s room. “Mum-mmmy” he shrieked excitedly. “Yes, Sweetheart” I replied, lifting him out of his cot for a cuddle. “NASHSHER” he said. “Gnasher’s asleep, Sweetheart” I replied, his innocence touching my heart, making me well up all over again. Now committed to spending the rest of the day a puffy wreck, I let the tears roll down my cheeks, wondering how I could stop the day coming along that would leave my little boy broken hearted.

Chickie looked at me and cocked his head to one side. “Choo Choo?” he enquired, Gnasher forgotten. “Let’s go watch the Choo Choo’s” I replied, kissing his little head, grateful that, for now, there was nothing more to be said.

Premature Hair Loss

Chickie’s new hair pulling obsession found him back at the Barber’s for a rather severe but necessary No 4 all over. To teach mummy that any efforts on her part to control him were futile, he reached up a chubby hand to twiddle his new do. On discovery that stubble wasn’t twiddlable, he rather resourcefully began pinching it out instead.

That night as I sewed mittens onto the arms of his pyjamas and wondered whether the permanent wear of a bicycle helmet would single him out as ‘different’ from the other children at pre-school, I wondered how Chickie would get out of this one. Twelve hours later, the amazing Chickie had managed it. I still don’t know how he did, but he did, and he looked smug about it too.

This lunchtime I purchased 3 giant t-shirts and spent half an hour sewing the arms shut. A balding Chickie watched me as I chuckled evilly at my genius. “Let’s see you get out of this one, Chickie”. “Bring it on Mummy – bring it on!” (okay, whilst he didn’t actually say those exact words, I could tell what he was thinking. Mummies know these things!)

Rolled Off The Wagon

I feel dirty, dirty and ashamed.

It all began when my friend who bakes, Vicster S, became "Little Miss Weight Watcher 2007", refusing to eat her own calorie loaded wares, making her friends with no will power, i.e. me, eat them instead. Then my friend Sarah H, began shunning all things carbohydrate, and became "Little Miss Atkins 2007", dropping 7lbs in 2 weeks. Then there's the ever lightweight Six-Pack-Simmie who puts all women to shame, with her "why drive 30 miles when you can jog?" policy. A recent conversation with her has ruined my every subsequent squirt, her words coming back to haunt me as I guility munch, "mayonnaise is the devil's food, it's loaded with saturated fat...devil's food...fat, fat, fat..."

Slightly resentful to be pressured into action by the fact that everyone around me would soon be featuring in weight loss commercials, with their chubby friend, me, saying something trite like "Yes, she's a new woman" and Accountant muttering in the background that "he couldn't help noticing how 'well' she looked in those pink lycra hotpants", I decided a serious attempt to cut back on the scoffing should be made.

The contents of the 'yummy' cupboard were dutifully binged upon in order to start with a clean 'plate', as it were. So, four days ago, it began. No mid-morning packet of Jammy Dodgers with my tea, no scrumptious salt-free Lurpak lathered on sweet, 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 positioned, as a bodyguard, in front of the cracker cupboard, my next stop after the 'yummy' cupboard, to obstruct entry and serve as a reminder that the equivalent weight in blubber is not attractive.

It was going well, my resistance strong, until today, when, for the second day running, I was a 1lb heavier. Where that pesky pound came from, I just don't know but I hated it and it needed to be punished. After making a serious effort to eat my "Weighwatchers" tomato and lentil gloop this evening, I could take no more. Scrumptious wafts of Accountant's 456 calorie four cheese pizza bubbling in the oven didn't help. Two slices of pizza later and the diet was over.

A further five minutes and 16 party rings (purchased for Chickie's party) later and, high from the sugar rush, I felt an odd combination of shame and elation. Sugar, my dear, dear friend, was back in my life, let us never be parted again. Damn my sweet tooth, well actually, sweet teeth, complete with 13 fillings, I blame Snowy. A greedy pig himself, with a cholestrol reading regularly cause for debate with doctor and daughter. I never stood a chance.

P.S. The party rings are no more. I ate the whole lot. Snowy, you've got a lot to answer for.

Does My Nappy Look Big In This?

Baby clothes shopping is so much more satisfying than mummy clothes shopping, or at least it was. The simplicity of the ‘one baby fits all’ rule, a little piece of retail bliss in the fashion maze facing those getting to grips with decorating their post-baby shape with snot resistant fabrics.

That was until my child reached the age where his morning greeting is, “Choo Choo”, Postman Pat is the best thing since sliced apple rings and the accompanying slipper, pyjama and scarf set are must have accessories . It would seem my days of browsing the Verbaudet catalogue for cord sailing trousers and lambswool tank tops in classic shades of mocha and putty are already behind me as family members gleefully bestow gaudy coloured garments emblazoned with CBeebies cast members upon a thrilled Chickie. My scowls of distaste just seem to spur them on if the luminous blue Thomas the Tank Engine scarf my Sister smugly wrapped around Chickie’s neck is anything to go by. She’d fished it out especially, knowing how pleased I’d be to see it.

Chickie really was pleased to see it and kisses the choo choo each morning before breakfast. It’s been hard to suppress my urge to hide it. A strategy that has served me well in the past when confronted with an Accountant in a ridiculous cricket hat not meant for a skin tone whiter than his whites, an Accountant in a West Ham beanie not meant for an egg shaped head and an Accountant wearing a hideous festive tie that, when squeezed in the right spot, played Christmas carols. It may seem harsh, but it was for his own protection.

However, with every step of motherhood, comes self-analysis, something I managed to skim over when performing my amazing disappearing hat trick. Whilst the fact I’m a perfection seeking control freak served me well at work, it goes about as well with children as black knickers with white trousers. So, a change and apology to a poor, bewildered Accountant must be made and the Postman Pat pyjamas turned around quickly in the wash so Chickie can sleep happy in the knowledge that he and Pat are both very happy men.

Hair We Go Again

You’d think I’d learn that being impulsive and optimistic is a disastrous combination, especially when it comes to hair cuts, but no. As always, I decided, after 12 months and with no forethought whatsoever, today was the day to get my hair done after spending a year growing it back from my last unfortunate encounter with a savage hairdresser and some over enthusiastic layering.

My spate of bad luck with hairdressers began at childhood when my mother, an alleged hairdresser although nothing she did to me or my sister’s hair would verify her story, permed me. Blessed with fine hair, but plenty of it, my hair poufed in indignation, swelling to five times it’s normal size like a mousy shroud of candy floss around my head. Glam-Nan set the supposed ‘ringlets’ off with a bulging quiff at the front, kept in place with an industrial strength Alice band. The kids at school were cruel. When I reported back to Glam-Nan that I was now known as Elvis she reapplied the perm solution and straightened it back out.

Things haven’t improved in recent years and the search continues for my follicle soul mate. I envy those women who have found that special someone to groom them like a monkey. Someone who knows that hair prone to frizzing should never, ever be razored. That the chinless shouldn’t go chin length and blonde highlights, no matter how good they look on Jennifer Aniston, will always make me look jaundiced.

Despite all of this, I still remain optimistic that I’m just one cut away from having perfectly gorgeous Mandy Moore hair (PGMMH). When my hairdresser this afternoon actually thought I was the Mandy Moore in the photograph, perhaps I should have been alerted that all was not well. “I can’t believe that’s you” she said, incredulous. “It’s not. It’s Mandy Moore” I replied.

I ignored my gut instinct that had become a devil type character with a comb-over floating above my left shoulder, “Leave now, it’s going to be the 2006 bob crisis all over again”. Then popped up my optimistic angel, with the PGMMH, she was treading water over my right shoulder. “It’ll be fine. She’s the one. In 30 minutes, you’ll have the manageable, perfectly coiffed hair of your dreams, just sit tight”.

30 minutes later, Comb-Over Devil was rubbing his hands together gleefully, “I told you but you wouldn’t listen. This is even worse than last time. This is the worst cut you’ve EVER had”. Comb-Over Devil was right, it really was.

Whilst I could feel disaster was imminent from the two layered bowl cut that was emerging from the wreckage of my hair, and evasive action was desperately needed, I was bound by British politeness to stay routed to the spot. However, when she asked her colleague for advice on how to deal with the “thick chunky bit she just couldn’t get to blend in”, I knew this was my only chance and I took it.

“I’m sorry to interrupt” I said, surprised by my calmness, “and I don’t wish to be rude, but would you mind if your colleague finished the hair cut please?”. Altogether as polite and as rude as can be in one sentence but I’d be jiggered if I was going to sit there any longer and watch the upper bowl reach eyebrow level.

“No, no, of course not” she lied and mumbled something about the perils of cutting dry hair. An uncomfortable 30 minutes ensued whilst de-scissored hairdresser sat in the chair next to me, glaring at every snip saviour hairdresser made in her attempts to make two bowls become one.

Clutching my crumpled photo of PGMMH, I wandered out of the shop, now so used to looking like I’ve been attacked with a hedge trimmer, I didn't even cry.

The Pit of Love

"Happy Anniversary”. An excellent start. May be I could dig myself out of this Greeting Card catastrophe after all. On opening, it turned sour, “To A Special Couple”. Whilst there’s no doubt we are a “SPECIAL” couple, and not in a good way, my reserve card stash wasn’t offering anything I could fob off as pre-selected for my husband in celebration of our 3rd wedding anniversary, which was approaching faster than I could pop out to purchase the card I could have sworn I’d already bought.

As Accountant proudly bestowed his offering, delighted with himself for its early dispatch and tasteful frontage as opposed to the usual last minute petrol station dash to purchase mixed carnations and any card where a teddy and love heart had become inextricably entwined. It seemed as though our repeated 'chats' over my floral and stationery standards had finally paid off.

As he waited expectantly for his ‘good boy’ pat, I felt bad. Largely because I knew that all future arguments would now centre around the day I forgot to buy him an anniversary card. The day I became fallible. The day one of those pesky 3,420 balls I’d juggled so brilliantly for 31 years, slipped from my grasp and tumbled to the floor in slow motion. Drat. Drat. Drat. That’s when I decided my misplacement of one sodding ball wasn’t going find me slung into the ball pit with an Accountant for company.

I had two options:

Option One: Lie and Hope He Forgets.

Me: “That’s lovely, Sweetheart. Thank you. I’ve got your card but as it’s not our anniversary officially for another 2 hours, I’ll wait till then to give it to you so it’s extra special.”

Option Two: Distract and Hope He Forgets.

Me: “Thank you Sweetheart. I love my card, it’s lovely”

Apply hug of appreciation whilst turning over tv behind Accountant’s back to Baywatch reruns.

Me: “ Oh my god, what does Pamela Anderson think she looks like in that pvc thong?”

Accountant: “Where?”


After careful consideration, I went with Option Two. Job Done.

To Be Wound Up to The Point Your Head Might Explode, Please Press 1

A friend said to me the other day that I must be the kind of person who sees the humour in everything. Generally, that’s true, and it’s usually when I shouldn’t.

Take the time a colleague went kasplat into the glass wall of our office with an impact so forceful, her glasses needed replacing. A concerned enquiry as to her general well being and a helpful tug to her feet would have been the appropriate response, but hard to pull off sincerely when it ranks in the Top Ten of your funniest comedy accidents of all time.

However, today I have struggled very hard to find anything vaguely amusing about my telethon with Virgin Media after trying to connect my highly anticipated and awaited new laptop to the internet.

By telephone call number eight, I’m ashamed to say that I was intermittenly sobbing. It may sound pathetic and, you’d be right, it completely is.

“Hello, Virgin Media, Before we continue I need to inform you.....”

I helpfully interject at this point “calls are 25p per minute, networks and mobiles may vary and you will be charged a 10p connection fee –I KNOW! ”

Virgin Operator now realises they are dealing with a nutjob and proceeds with caution. “How may I help you today, Miss Ruby?”

“This is my eighth phonecall to Virgin” I whisper in the tone of a horror baddie teetering on the edge of sanity. “I have been on the phone trying to resolve this issue for what is now approaching 5 hours” snarl, snarl. “Four members of your staff have said they’ll call me back - they haven’t”. Big dramatic breath. “All I want to do is connect my new laptop to the internet and for my old laptop to also remain connected to the internet rather than your operator connecting my new one whilst disconnecting my old one despite my queries to the operator of “are you sure you’re not disconnecting my old one?”. Huge huff.

“Okay Miss Ruby” says the robot operator turning to the script in her manual entitled “How To Fobb Off The Mentally Unbalanced Customer”. “What I need you to do is click on start, then type in cmd” she starts.

Now completely in character for my role as “Sarcastic Customer From Hell”, I jump ahead 10 stages and give her the IP address she’s trying to guide me through like the moron she assumes I am. Robot continues in monosyllabic tone, unimpressed by my newly acquired technical abilites and reports that there’s a fault. A fault that lies with Virgin. A fault that has been ongoing for 3 weeks and she has no idea when it might be resolved.

“So I have spent 3 hours on the phone to Dell at a cost of £10 for them to tell me there’s a problem with Virgin. A further 2 hours on the phone to Virgin at a cost of £30 for you to tell me it’s your fault but you have no idea when it might be fixed and now both my laptops aren’t working when previously at least my old one was”, I summarised helpfully.

“That is correct Miss Ruby” said the Robot with the indifference and superiority of someone far, far away and whose personal internet connection was just peachy.

Chickie begins giggling. He’s watered the rug with his blackcurrant fruit smoothie and is now using the spillage to colour in the white stripes purple.

That’s when the tears began to well and with a pathetic gurgle in my voice I wished the robot a good day and ended the call. Blaming my theatrical reaction on my hormone imbalance, I rang Snowy for some sympathy. “Calm down” he suggested. Big mistake. Snowy got an earful. Phone call terminated. More crying.

This blog will double up nicely as my letter of complaint to Mr Branson.

The Impenetrable Bottom

"Ooooh, a Ninky Nonk”, I said, genuinely excited. Lifting up the brightly coloured little train in it’s box, I pretended to be engrossed in it’s design to avoid the sympathetic glance of the saleswoman who, probably quite justly, was looking at me like I needed to go out with three dimensional grown ups more often.

The thing is, I do, they come with the children. However, most of them would be equally as excited at the prospect of a Ninky Nonk, Pinky Ponk or Tombliboo now available in a Mothercare near you. For the uninitiated, your tot won’t stand a chance of being the coolest kid at nursery if he doesn’t know his Trubliphone from his Og-Pog so make sure he’s tuned in to ‘In the Night Garden’. It's the latest craze to hit CBeebies and casts an entrancing spell over all children who watch it, instantly hushing their whining and making them sleepy, very sleepy. All of the above feature heavily and the opportunity to purchase the promise of something which may hypnotise your child into a temporarily mute state or, my personal favourite, unconsciousness is delightful.

The only slight spanner in the works is Chickie’s curious distrust of ‘The Tittifers’. A singing toucan group, yet to appear on X-Factor, who pop up from time to time. Their appearance is cause for immediate alarm and all the soothing benefits of Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy are lost as he quivers behind my legs, eyes firmly averted.

This is the latest in a growing list of “Reasons to Hide Behind Mummy’s Big Bottom” which Chickie obviously feels is of sufficient density to shield him from all evils in this world.