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.