Practically Horizontal...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss Wincyette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Little Holiday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Chickie Pox

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not So Magic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laid Back Mummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Sewn Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's Up With Chickie?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Worm's Turned

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teething Troubles

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.