Happy Birthday to Me!

When I reluctantly entered this weekend, I was 30 years old. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was 31 on exit. The youngest I’ll ever be and the oldest I’ve ever been, all in one middle aged approaching moment.

I got some nice presents; perfume, a magazine subscription, deck chairs, picnic hamper and six prominently placed scabby zits on my cheeks and chin. Yes, the boobs may have sagged, the bottom may have more dimples than an avocado but I still have the sebaceous glands of a thirteen year old.

My kind friend, Wuce, helped put a plan in place to navigate me through the day as quickly as possible. Wuce, Meerkat, Poff, Accountant, Chickie and I would meet at Woodies Diner for pancakes at 10am. A visit to the Fire Station’s Open Day would follow so Wuce and I could check out the Firemen and the boys and babies could play with the Fire Engines. Finally, a yummy din dins at my favourite restaurant where I planned to gorge myself silly following my two weeks of eating rice and peas after discovering I was almost back to my full term pregnancy weight albeit without the baby.

Then Accountant upset the Birthday Girl. Following his third “I’m too lazy to fill my car up with petrol and too stupid to learn my lesson” roadside rescue in a month, and prompted by the overpowering fumes of the fuel canister he’d thoughtfully left in the back of my car, he informed me at 9.50am that he needed to fill up the aforementioned canister and return it forthwith to Brother-in-Law. A Brother-in-Law who had been plucked from the comfort of his armchair to rescue aforementioned moron from the roadside at 9.30pm the previous evening which had gone down a little something like this:

"If there's one thing I hate in this world, it's snotty kids” grumbled Brother-In-Law. Sister sniffed, mopping her crusty red nose for the 1000th time. "How's your sore throat?" she asked Brother-In-Law, concerned. "It still hurts" he confirmed miserably. "May be you should have an early night and go to bed" she suggested.

When diagnosing Chickie's 'hayfever' based on his watery eyes and sniffles, I didn't realise I was actually unleashing the toddler equivalent of the virus carrying chimp in ‘Outbreak’ upon my unsuspecting sister and her family. Now, collectively and somewhat impressively, their symptoms covered the whole range listed on the back of their Beechams Cold and Flu capsules.

Each day, feeling guiltier than the last, I rang, in the vain hope someone's condition had improved. Each day, someone mucous filled would reply, feebly, that all were stable but none were out of the woods yet.

Brother-In-Law fancied Sister's suggestion, a hot drink and bed sounded appealing. Then the phone rang. It was Accountant, on the A24, somewhere outside Steyning. Now you’re up to speed.

I had tried concealing my irritation whilst watching Accountant mosey around the house in the buff for the preceding half hour as if time and underwear were something that only applied to other people. When the fumes hit my nostrils as I got into my car, my irritation shifted to annoyance. Then he mentioned his new petrol delivery round. Annoyance got a complimentary upgrade to anger. Then the petrol canister reminded me of the time he’d left a petrol canister in the car before and me and my migraine had requested he not do it again. Then that reminded me of the time he’d left a second degree dirty nappy in the car overnight and the car had stunk like poop for a month and anger turned to resentment. Then I threw in his inability to fill up a petrol tank into my big bag of marital exasperation and I was brewing for a popping.

I did, admirably, make initial attempts to remain calm, suggesting in the most carefree tone I could fabricate, that he call Meerkat to mention we were running very late. Then I helpfully suggested he shouldn’t leave petrol cans in the car, due to the noxious gases, and queried as to whether he had any recollection of the last time I’d asked.

His reply? “SHUT UP! Just SHUT UP!”

My reply, “You’ve ruined my birthday! I don’t want to spend the day with you”

Him: “Fine. Give me the keys”

Keys duly and forcefully lobbed from driver’s side of car at Accountant’s head.

Accountant stomps to front door in a self righteous strop. I watch from the car as he tries every key in turn. Two minutes pass and each key is tried again. Further fumbling and some muttered expletives. Three minutes and the Accountant/Key fiasco is proving delightfully amusing. More futile attempts to find the one key, out of a potential four, that will open the door. Jingle Jangle. Four minutes. Finally, after demonstrating the dexterity of a cocktail sausage and illustrating my ‘gross incompetence’ point brilliantly, he finds the winning combination and scurries indoors, out of earshot of my sniggers.

The rest of the day was spent stuffing my face whilst awarding marks out of ten to the fireman's bottoms. For information purposes, the firemen with the big biceps, who effortlessly lifted Chickie in his buggy over the peripheral fence,and made me wish I was in the buggy instead, you get a 9/10. Once the judging was over, Chickie and Poff spent the afternoon going round and round and round and round on every miniature train ride at the Fire Station followed by every miniature train ride at the Fair. They still had the audacity to scream in outrage when their plans for ride number 32 were scuppered.

Where was Accountant whilst all the fun was going on - sulking at home!

The Night I Slept In A Field

Nothing about the situation I found myself in was what I’d describe as satisfactory. Zipping shut our ‘bedroom’ door so that the insects congregating outside could have their own room, I stepped over the candles which illuminated the shortcomings of the evening’s accommodation. I descended with caution toward the only air bed I’d ever had the misfortune of meeting and the husband who lay curled on top, snoring like a cat worn out from his day’s adventures.

The unexpected buoyancy of the mattress sent me lurching backwards, waking Accountant who cushioned my fall. His smug ‘camping’ smile returned immediately. It had arrived around the same time he’d successfully pitched our borrowed tent in a sheltered spot at the far end of the finest field the Sheep Farm had to offer, and coincided with the last time I’d managed a smile.

Burrowing under the covers for comfort, I did a final inspection. Vest tucked into knickers – check. Trousers tucked into socks –check. Jumper tucked into trousers – check. And finally, the ear plugs, the benefits of which I now realised were to be threefold.

1.To keep wee beasties, whose country home I’d been forced to share, from moving into the only fully insulated orifice not covered by my ‘tucking in’ scheme.
2.To block out Accountant’s persistent beer induced snorts
3.To mute the “BANG BANG BANGs!!!” of the Cowboys and Indians who had our tent surrounded.

On returning from our trip to the beach earlier in the day, we had glanced at each other in dismay. The terraced tent I’d been only too happy to leave behind was now part of a canvas housing estate. Five more tents and a camper van had formed a semi-circular barricade between our tent and potential escape. The fifteen hyperactive children that accompanied were a delightful addition, as were their relentless machine gun imitations.

Lying in the dark on the stone cold airbed, which was now vibrating from the force of Accountant’s snoring, I wiped my nose again and swallowed painfully. My second cold of the month, compliments of Chickie, was reaching it’s peak. As the chill from the mattress penetrated my multi-layers and spread down my body, I wondered what pneumonia would be like and whether next weekend’s romantic weekend away at Worthing Hospital would be better than this. At least I wouldn’t have to pay £1 for a shower.

When my Sister had offered to have Chickie for the weekend so we could have a weekend away, I wasted no time. Paris, Bruges, New York? I’d been to them all in another life and how sweet it would be to return.

Then the oven broke - £71. Then Accountant’s exhaust fell off - £200. Then some oik stole the radiator grill off my car - £100. Replacement fridge filters £62. Rubbish clearance from my gardening exploits - £110.

For eight years, I’ve consistently declined 99% of Accountant’s suggestions on the grounds of being completely stupid. This included repeated requests to go camping. It’s taken two years of full-time motherhood and the associated financial forfeit to break me.

On arrival home, I unpacked the wellies and kagool I never thought I’d own, and put them away, hoping not to see them again for a long time. Then a sticky Chickie was collected from a Sister, weary from her impending illness and from spending two days mopping up the endless thick, yellow goop being produced by the little germ factory up Chick’s nose.

“How nice is it to be in a proper bed?” I asked Accountant that night, taking a long, snotty sniff of my soft, freshly laundered pillow. “Mmmm, it is lovely” Accountant agreed, the novelty of camping having worn off after sampling the toilet facilities the following morning. “I don’t think I’ll be going camping again sweetheart” I said. “No, me neither” replied Accountant.

Relieved, I snuggled down, never more appreciative of each and every one of the 400 threads in my Egyptian cotton sheets and grateful that my night of disrupted sleep and backache had not been in vain. I never had to go camping again!

"I know" chirped Accountant suddenly, interrupting my moment, “we should go caravanning instead”.

Creative What?

As my old neighbour, Mr P., handed me a copy of his latest book, "From Darkness to Light", I wondered whether I should mention I was 31 years behind on my philosophy reading.

As I glimpsed at the back page and read his closing paragraph, "And so it is that my substance is not, and yet it is in this that I am not, that I who am not must Be" I thought it best to keep to myself that I'd once forgotten how old I was and that, up until a few days ago, had thought Labradoodles were comedy pets.

Perhaps it was the gormlessness of my expression that encouraged him to seek out my thoughts on 'Life Essence' and 'Creative Consciousness'. Unfortunately for me, no matter how hard I tried, Mr P. would not be steered toward my favourite topics of weight loss, chocolate and the uselessness of men, opting instead for politics, spirituality and the arts, using words like, 'untrammelled universality' and 'self-agrandisement'.

I had nothing intelligent to say when I lived next door and things have only deteriorated since. However, I nodded and 'hmmm'd' in all the right places and then off we went.

Whilst not the best philosophy student he's ever had, I think Mr P. quite enjoyed hearing all about Chickie's bowel movements and how, after a long and difficult search, I've finally found the most delightfully fragranced fabric conditioner money can buy.

Labra...Doodle...Do

“Slurp” went Bridget as she licked Chickie’s face from chin to forehead like an ice cream. Ironic really as I’d only seconds before been discussing what stinky little germ incubators dog’s mouths really were. I laughed along with the crowd, all avidly watching the cute exchange between pooch and child from their pub benches.

“What breed is she?” I enquired trying to pretend I couldn't see Chickie’s tongue travelling in a southerly direction to sample the fresh doggie drool curdling on his chin. “A Labradoodle” said the owner, who was also feigning nonchalance about her newly stained linen trousers. Chickie’s arrival to pet Bridget had resulted in an exuberant bounding routine, sending her water bowl flying through the air and landing at her owner’s feet.

“A Labradoodle” I scoffed, laughing. As I waited for her to tell me the real breed, I realised that she wasn’t actually joking and Bridget really was a Labradoodle. I’ve checked on Google and it’s true. Labradoodle’s exist and I met one today.

This weekend it would seem I’ve reached my personal stupid best. I’ve enquired as to whether Scotland is a separate country, I’ve admitted to thinking people weren’t allowed to honk their car horns between 7am and 11pm at night because the Highway Code said so and I topped it off with my tumbleweed moment, laughing far too hard at Bridget’s owner’s genius fabrication of Labradoodles.

Yes, it’s time to go back to work. It seems that a woman can’t live on ironing, cooking, cleaning and sewage management alone without losing a few brain cells in the process.

Mushroom Packing - A Perilous Pursuit?

“Is that a varicose vein in your leg?”, Glam-Nan enquired, leaning forward to squint curiously at Accountant’s lily white leg, poking out of the end of his shorts.

“Yes it is” replied Accountant enthusiastically, perking up at Glam-Nan’s interest in the long term condition that had never caused him a day’s discomfort.

“How’ve you got that then?” said Glam-Nan, not as savvy as I at avoiding any interest in Accountant’s bodily functions.

“I don’t know really” replied Accountant somberly, rubbing the offending vein as if to ease the pain he’d shouldered silently for so many years.

“Well, has anyone in your family got them?” said Glam-Nan. I rolled my eyes at Snowy, who I assumed was finding the pointlessness of her continued enquiries as tedious as I.

“No, I don’t think so” said Accountant, his brow furrowed with the concentration of a man working his way back five generations for any history of knotted legs. “I did work in a mushroom factory once though”

“Oh really?” replied Glam-Nan who I knew was working up to the disclosure of her very own pair of varicose encrusted legs, waiting for the optimum moment to reveal her own personal suffering as she stood for years, without breaks, hairdressing for a shilling a week.

“Yes. There were men and women who had worked there for thirty years and I always remember their legs were all gnarled up from standing for so long” said Accountant, his words tinged with concern as to the toll his time at the factory may have taken on his own health.

"How long did you work there?” I enquired, momentarily interested.

Accountant took a second to calculate, then delivered his answer with the utmost gravity, “About ten weeks”.

Laughing at Accountant continued for about an hour. It stopped for the “America’s Got Talent” Results, and then recommenced in earnest.

Accountant pretended he didn’t care but his sideway evils told a different story.

I Warn You Now, This May Be Nauseating

I’m not great at mush, as you’ve probably noticed. I struggle to write heartfelt sentiments without sounding like the hormonally imbalanced woman that I am. However, I wouldn’t be doing motherhood justice if I didn’t, once in a while, throw the Evening Primrose Oil to one side and have a good old slush session. So here it is.

Looking down at my little boy as he slept, his chubby little hand still clutching his new red car, my heart welled with a bittersweet mixture of love and wistfulness.

Every night I go in and see him and stroke his fluffy hair as he snores gently, unaware that I’m there. Every night I’m amazed at just how beautiful he is, how we managed to make something as perfect as him. One more day of his childhood has come and gone, a day he won’t even remember but I always will.

The other evening, I was looking through albums, seeing the little boy we know now in the pudgy face of a then tiny stranger. We didn’t know how he’d spend endless hours playing with his little cars, how he’d love getting up to mischief with his naughty cousins, how thrilled he’d be to see his daddy when he came home from work, running down the hallway to administer 'cuggles'.

Neither did I know just how proud my husband would be of the little man who idolises him. A husband who has embraced fatherhood with gentleness and devotion.

A child changes everything. They change your circumstances, they change your relationships and they change who you are. They deserve the best that we have to give them so we keep trying, to nuture their innocence and protect their childhood, knowing that every night is a night closer to losing both forever.

To my boys - love you xxx

Sunday's Child is Full of Grace, Monday's Child Eats Coal From the Grate

An unremorseful Chickie smirked back from the naughty step which premiered this afternoon. “Say sorry Chickie”.

“No!”

“You can stay on the step then until you say sorry for being naughty”

“No!”

Sensing that Chickie wasn’t going to break easily, I wondered how this battle of wills was going to end.

“Mummy?”

“Say you’re sorry and you can come off the step and have your “minky” (cutesification of ‘milk’)

“No!”

A child as stubborn as his father. A mother bored with hovering by the bottom step feigning indifference.

Remembering the advice of the collective child rearing experts I used to love watching on telly as they broke up brawls and intercepted slanging matches between parents and their toddlers, I bent down to Chickie’s level, looked him straight in the eye and tried again.

“Chickie. Eating coal is naughty which is why you’re on the step. Say sorry to mummy for being naughty”.

“No!”

A brief pause….

“Mummy?

“Yes Chickie”. Excellent, I thought as I awaited his apology.

“Cuggle”

Damn it. He’d pulled the cuggle card. Resist the cuteness, must resist the cuteness “No Chickie. Say sorry”.

“Cuggle?”

This wasn’t going at all well and Chickie had been on the step for a good five minutes in clear breach of Super Nanny’s “one minute for every year of their age” rule.

As I deliberated my next move, Chickie took the opportunity to lean over and squish his nose up against mine, his eyes wide with mischief as he formed his mouth into the letter “O” and started going “OOOOooooohhhhhhh”, collapsing into fits of giggles before “OOOOOOOOOOOohhhhhhhhhhhhing” some more.

Feeling this moment could make or break my first serious attempt at getting Chickie to take responsibility for his naughtiness, I tried my very best to look stern. “OOOOOOOOHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” said Chickie again followed by more giggling.

I couldn’t do it. It was like trying to put a fruit pastille in my mouth without chewing it. We sat nose to nose, Chickie on his ‘naughty step’, me on all fours, laughing at mummy’s pathetic attempts to discipline her child.

Round One to Chickie.

Bounce - NOW!

It’s a bit of a bummer when you go to all the trouble of timing the conception of your second born to ensure a summer production and then it goes and rains.

That’s what happens though when you live in this dismal land, where the sky is the colour of your favourite pair of old white knickers, turned mouldy from too many years of wear and washing.

Poor old Sarah, mummy to Titch and Annabelle, had hired a bouncy castle and even made sandwiches in the shapes of choo choo trains and stars for Titch’s first ever party. Then there was the bbq, the 500 cocktail sausages (all of which were eaten and all by the same child) and 30 guests, all squished into the playroom trying to pretend they couldn’t hear their hostesses repeated pleas for them to go outside and “bounce, damn it”!

At the first glimmer of sunshine, the castle was plugged in and inflated faster than my tummy after a curry. All children were thrown inside and not permitted to leave despite the supplier’s warning that bouncy castles, children, electricity and torrential rain don’t mix. Sarah had paid £60, she’d take her chances.

And bounce they did, albeit in wellies, their soggy little bottoms testament to the fact they were all true Brits.

The Delinquents

The Chickie / Perfect Poff wedding is off. Mummy is intervening now that P. Poff is no longer considered a suitable life partner for her little boy.

The adorable, golden haired angel has transformed into a two foot tearaway overnight. Naturally, I’m loving it. Swearing and shoplifting, turning up to Kids Kingdom with a dolphin tattoo. Fabulous.

Admittedly, she learnt the four letter S word from Accountant on holiday, but it’s continued daily use is delightfully unacceptable. Then there’s the attempted shoplifting of spaghetti hoops at the Supermarket. “Oh S#!t” she said, when apprehended by security who had clocked the tattooed baby on their cctv as she tried to shove the tin down her nappy. She was released without charge.

Now that Poff has gone off the rails, an opening presents itself for the coveted “Best In Show” award and Chickie’s in the running. Poff isn’t the only baby to switch sides. Since dropping more poo than an elephant with food poisoning, my Chickie has colour in his cheeks, a spring in his step and a sunnier outlook on life.

The only slight drawback is the epic naps I bragged about just days ago are already a thing of the past. Chickie now has so much energy, he has no need for sleep and has taken to screaming, “No, No, No” when taken anywhere near his cot for naps or bedtime.

However, on the cutesy wutesy side, he now holds his hands out asking for “cuggles”, shouts for “mummy” in the morning and requests “bib-icks” (biscuits) whenever in the vicinity of the yummy cupboard. Give the boy a red rosette. He’s just scrummy.

Don’t Spin The Gravy Bot Tot

It was like a scene from a Werther’s Original Commercial. Silver haired Grandpa kneeling on the floor, arms flung wide, waiting with eager anticipation as his young grandson tottered towards him.

Grandpa knew his back would kill him the next day, but couldn’t resist lifting the adorable little chap into the air and spinning him round and round like his grandpa had done for him when he was a boy.

By spin number two, Grandpa was beginning to feel giddy. Then Grandpa felt an odd heat travel down his body. That’s when Grandpa shouted for help. Hearing Grandpa’s frenzied pleas, Grandma and Accountant rushed into the living room to see what was wrong.

“Help me, it’s everywhere!” cried a distraught Grandpa, holding Chickie as far away as his arms would allow. A bemused Chickie watched on as Grandma, trained for every crisis, disappeared to fetch towels. Accountant removed his dripping child from his father, whisking him upstairs for a hosing down.

Grandpa took in the devastation. The white rug now seemed an unfortunate colour choice. The circular brown splats an unwanted pattern and a permanent reminder of their fun. The carpet underneath had also been hit as had Grandpa’s shirt, trousers and shoes.

Grandpa sighed and went to clean up.

Between a Bump and a Work Place

Twenty months on and I finally consider housewifery the profession of choice. Each day of the week now specially formulated to include just the right amount of Chickie Activity Time, Chickie Snoozy Time and Chickie Bed Time.

I have lapsed into the comfort of a lifestyle where a slight tummy is expected, relax at home wear essential and a keen interest in childhood constipation useful. To ensure flexibility, I have recently incorporated some new elements into the daily routine. These include plant inspection at 8am to gauge the progress of my new herbaceous border as well as an evening garden watering session at 7.10pm sharp.

I’ve also been pleased to note that, after checking Chickie’s Latest Key Performance Indicators, that tantrums are down to a respectable once a fortnight, sleeping through the night is up by 90%, naps have become epic in duration and cuddles are not only forthcoming but plentiful.

The only problem being is that ‘question of the week’ seems to be, “when are you going back to work?”. It’s taken me nearly two years to adapt to being at home, surely I can’t be expected to go back now? But it seems that I am. Now that Chickie is getting on a bit, expectations are that I either become a useful member of society again or I pop out another sprog to qualify for a home working extension.

Not fair! A second one sends me back to ‘Go’, minus £200, and wreaks havoc with the cushy set up I’ve finally got going on. Whilst the additional £4.50 each month is a dazzling incentive, the 90 hours worth of preparations for 21 hours of painful employment isn’t doing it for me either. Plus, how am I supposed to hold my stomach in for 7 hours a day?

P.S. Photos are finally working again (sort of)!

Tubby Tum Tums

Everyone knows children can be embarrassing. As always, I was caught unawares, expecting the embarrassment to coincide with speech. Not so. Whilst I was battling my way to the bargains through the hardcore shoppers at the 'reduced to clear' refrigerator, Chickie was sat in the trolley, amusing himself with his little car.

Or so I thought.When I came up for air, Chickie wasn’t playing with his car at all. I could tell from his quizzical expression and poised finger what he was about to do but couldn’t get out of the scrum in time to stop him. Hoping the portly gentleman whose stomach Chickie’s finger was now burrowing into had a sense of humour about his fuller figure, I apologised on behalf of my son. It would seem not as he glared at me as if I’d poked him myself and stropped off without a word.

And We Have Lift Off

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

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

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

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

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

Apologies for the unpleasantness - ain't motherhood grand!

I'll Have The Chicken Nuggets Please

“Thanks very much, but I’ve already eaten” I said, not much fancying the look of any of the dishes on the new NHS lunch menu. Oh, alright. It wasn’t really a lunch menu, although if you’ve ever eaten hospital food, you’d understand my confusion.

However, it was a menu of sorts. A Poo Menu to be precise, cunningly named, “Choose Your Poo!”, complete with drawings (in colour) of the seven different varieties of poop coming soon to a nappy near you.

Listening to the deadpan Doctor as she educated me on each type, showing me how to identify them using helpful comparisons to rabbit droppings, chicken nuggets, corn on the cob and gravy, I had to suppress a childish urge to snigger.

After thorough examination of the illustrations, I decided Chickie was producing the grapes. Apparently, this wasn't good and we need to be aiming for the sausage. However, to get to sausage land, we must first sample the perilous and unpalatable food groups of chicken nuggets, porridge and, worst of all, gravy.

Armed with 50 sachets of Special Stink Drink, I pondered what the next eight days held in store. Whatever happens, the "Daily Movements Record” will serve as a handy reminder to delight and amuse Chickie's future girlfriends.

Familiarity Breeds Power

After eight years together, there are few things I haven’t seen, heard or smelt when it comes to my beloved. When you reach a level of familiarity whereby performing a routine colonoscopy on the other wouldn’t be considered an awkward situation and the only thing left to the imagination is what it would be like to sleep without having two fingers inserted up your husband’s nose to muffle the snoring, there really are few surprises left. However, this kind of knowledge of one’s spouse can also be very useful.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I enquired to a shocked Accountant who hadn’t heard me tiptoeing up the stairs to catch him lying on the bed reading his newspaper. Exactly the scene I’d anticipated following his “just putting Chickie down for a nap” disappearance.

“Supervising Chickie” came the response.

“But he’s asleep!” I pointed out helpfully.

“I know but I was just making sure he was okay”

“Right” I said, marvelling he would even waste his breath on this farcical explanation when we both knew he was trying to avoid painting fence panels.

Earlier that morning, when Chickie was awake and actually needed supervising, I couldn’t help but wonder how he had managed to eat a bucketful of mud under the watchful eye of such an attentive father. Chickie’s increased interest in fashioning food from household and garden materials is a bout of worms waiting to happen.

As fast as you apply his suntan lotion he’s licking it off, he wipes the Sudacrem off his bottom sucking it off his fingers like he’s just enjoyed a rack of bbq ribs. Playbark, sand, mud, leaves, gravel – they’ve all been sampled with utter disregard for mummy’s yelps of “NO!”, “PUT THAT DOWN NOW”, “DON’T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH”. Short of fitting a muzzle, I’m at a loss.

As the weekend was to be spent doing more gardening (yes, I’m still sodding doing it), Chickie was considered too pesky to remain at home after leaving a small yet highly identifiable handprint on mummy's freshly painted fence panel and attempting to eat more soil, so was taken out by a highly amenable Accountant.

Unfortunately, there was no one around to praise my relentless efforts and hard work or to mention that I had a snail sat on a leaf on top of my head. (I really did!)

Top of The Tots

Motherhood throws many challenges into the face of the unsuspecting woman who wished she’d been more insistent about that headache the night all the trouble began. I can’t pinpoint one particular shock that was bigger than the rest as, for me, they’ve all been pretty massive. However, here's my Top 10:

10. The Smell
Sewage handling without the protective equipment. No one cares that you have to mop up poo all day. You don’t even get complimentary latex gloves in your Bounty Birthing Bag.

9. The Noise
One word. Earplugs. Get some.

8. The Guilt
Everything is ultimately your fault. If it isn’t, you feel as if it is. If you don’t feel as if it is, someone else will be thinking it is which brings me on nicely to Chart Entry No 7.

7. The Judgment
Glares, stares, shaking heads, tutting, shifty glances, irritated gasps, swift exits. These will all happen as a direct result of you taking your child out in public. How dare you.

6. The Worry
Whether your husband has just accidentally bounced your new three week old baby off of the floor boards or he’s snacking on some old bird poo that he found in the fire grate, baby will always be keeping mummy and daddy on their toes and on the brink of sanity.

5. That I’m Not As Scary As I’d Hoped
I seriously thought that if I shouted loud enough or stared menacingly for long enough, something 3 ft shorter than me would be intimidated into submission. Not my baby, he finds nothing more amusing in fact than a tomato red mummy bouncing round the house.

4. My Metamorphosis into a Hippopotamus
Argh, yes. My new hormone imbalance, insatiable appetite for anything chocolate coated and complete lack of exercise have found me replacing my fitted wardrobe (as in fitted me, not a fitted wardrobe) for something a bit baggier. Much like myself.

3. My Sudden and Glaring Awareness of all my Personality Flaws
Another favourite. When trotting along merrily pre-Chickie, I had no need to stop and analyse my patience, tolerance and general fluffiness levels. Yes, Accountant tested them often but I didn’t particularly care whether my reaction would scar him for life.

2. The Mess
Allow me to elaborate. Child is given some honey on toast, your basic finger food that, you’d think, would be a fairly safe unsupervised bet. However, when mummy looks up, toddler has fashioned a wholewheat propeller by poking his finger through the middle of the toast and is spinning it round and round, giggling like a movie baddie as hundreds of little sticky crumbs whizz around the room, creating a 1980’s stippled effect on mummy’s furniture. Tot is also sporting a new do thanks to the honey gel he’s liberally applied to his nice clean hair.

1.The Labour
The most fitting introduction to motherhood God could have designed. Bravo.

That said, there's simply nothing better than your own little sproglet.

Glam-Nan, this is Chuckie, Chuckie, this is Glam-Nan

It was high time Glam Nan got acquainted with the new and disapproved of Chickie following her smug delivery of a seemingly reprieved baby who had behaved impeccably for his entire stay at her house. It’s annoying to say the least when you bemoan to your family that your child has been tormenting you endlessly with behaviour befitting an appearance on the “House of Horrors” and then suddenly throws the horns, cape and three pronged fork to one side, buffs his dusty halo, and spends his visit quietly plucking out the tune to Greensleeves on his harp.

It’s annoying for two reasons. Firstly, when a child is at it’s peak of best behaviour, it’s virtually impossible to imagine them in the throws of foot stomping, head rotating rage. Hence, mummy looks like a bit fat liar or, at the very least, an exaggerating whingebag. Secondly, when it comes to parenting, every person in the world believes that they, and they alone (even if they don’t have children) can handle the child or situation more adeptly than it’s mother. Hence, if baby is good at Nanna’s house, the good behaviour can be directly apportioned to said Nanna whose calm and patient manner was clearly just the approach baby needed to get back on track.

Gloaty Glam-Nan reeled off how he’d eaten all his dinner specially formulated to contain exactly the right amount of bowel movement inducing roughage, filled his nappy (as a result of specially formulated meal), slept through the night, even lying in until 7.45am without any tantrums or incident. Feeling betrayed, I feigned happiness, praising my underhand and treacherous child for being such a ‘good boy’ for Nanna.

On arrival the next day, Glam-Nan enquired as to Chickie’s spirits following his return. “He woke up at 5.45am and had a tantrum when I offered him a biscuit” I replied. “He slept in until 7.45am at our house” she said. “Yes, you mentioned that”.

As it was lawn laying day, Glam-Nan was taking Chickie out for the morning whilst Snowy and I did men’s work. As Glam-Nan pushed a chirping Chickie off down the road, she was still enjoying a self-congratulatory repartee with herself about his newly reformed character. Two hours later, and an hour earlier than scheduled, Glam-Nan could be heard frantically cooing from the front garden (she coos to attract attention, don't know why, just always has!). Snowy and I looked at each other, wondering why she was back so soon.

A distressed Glam-Nan explained how she had let Chickie out of his pushchair to let him have a little walk. An error on her part, she soon realised, when trying to wrangle a non compliant Chick back into his pushchair. An altercation that left a 5ft 1” pensioner, carrying a two stone sumo child whilst trying to push the offending pushchair. His second tantrum came when he wanted to push all the buttons in the lift. His third when she bundled him back into the pushchair and he wanted to do the harness up himself. His fourth, when she placed him in the highchair in the café. Then he went ballistic because he wanted to do that harness up too, writhing and screaming, “Mummy, Mummy” over and over.

Glam-Nan didn’t know which was worse, the disapproving glares of the other café customers as Chickie livened up their plans for a relaxing morning coffee or the disapproving glares of the other café customers who thought that, at 63, “Mummy” wasn't far off wearing nappies herself. Embarrassed by Chickie’s now uncontrollable sobbing and the curious glances, Glam-Nan decided no extra large cappuccino with extra chocolate sprinkles was worth it and collected her things, grateful for the emergency chocolate flake that the kind waitress shoved in Chickie’s mouth on exit, silencing him instantly.

“Oh no, that sounds awful” I sympathised, finding it hard to conceal my thorough enjoyment of her story, the smug Glam-Nan of earlier replaced by a dishevelled heap, collapsed on the sofa hugging a hot cup of tea for comfort.

I was also thoroughly amused today by Accountant’s mortification when Chickie repeatedly called him “Mummy” at the park in front of a real Mummy.

“I’m Daddy, Chickie, D. A. D. D. Y.!” Accountant responded, glancing up uncomfortably at the smirking woman pushing the little girl on the swing next to him.

“Mummy” said Chickie.

Lord of the Strop

Typing my blog, sat at my kitchen table overlooking my lawnless garden, with a cup of tea and homemade flapjack, it couldn’t be a greater contrast to the scene of utter mayhem that occurred in this very spot just twenty minutes ago.

There are moments of motherhood that I wish I could pickle, locking them in a jar for safekeeping knowing that, one day, when I’m old and my memories are all I have left, how wonderful it would be to open the lid and feel the perfect softness of my baby's cheek squished against mine, his slobbery raspberry kisses only ever issued before bedtime and how he strokes my hair as he falls asleep in my arms, the scent of his freshly ‘Sudacremed’ bottom wafting up my nose.

Then there are moments when pickling the baby itself seems the more appealing option. Watching my father struggling to move a screaming pushchair that was rocking fiercely from side to side whilst two alternating kicking legs thrashed in and out of view, it wouldn’t have been inconceivable that Godzilla had somehow found his way into my child’s buggy and didn’t much fancy a trip to the park.

Personally, I felt Chickie had over-reacted to my changing the angle of his yoghurt pot from pour to eat mode. It is clear to me now that previous tantrums weren’t tantrums at all. Merely, strops. I know this because the previous didn’t incorporate stamping so fierce and fast, to a soundtrack of Irish folk music, he could be Lord of the Dance. Secondly, the screaming of yestermonth wasn’t so forceful that you could spare yourself the trouble of blowdrying your hair in the morning and just wait for Chickie’s breakfast meltdown and thirdly, yoghurt pot correction wasn’t cause for hyperventilation.

Now living in an environment of tyranny and fear, Chickie’s new temperament has found Accountant and I tiptoeing around him warily, frightened that, should we look at him in the wrong way or upset him by offering to read him a story or give him a bath, we could inadvertently unleash the beast. Communication has been reduced to a minimum whisper, adopting a ,”if he’s quiet, leave him” policy.

Public outings have become perilous minefields, fraught with the potential for hideous humiliation. Sat in the café on Monday, all was going swimmingly until Chickie’s frustration levels escalated out of all control when he couldn’t do the buckle up on his highchair. At the first whiff of an outburst, I declared a “Code Red”. Accountant, taking his cue, swooped him out of the highchair, bundled him inside his coat and made a run for the exit.

Admittedly, it has come as a shock that “my child won’t be like that” philosophy was a pile of plop. My ignorance in assuming that I would always be able to control his behaviour using logical reasoning or chocolate now obvious. However, I do still hold out some hope that, when he’s old enough to understand, “get on that naughty step and stay there for three days!”, that might just do the trick.

Sleep Deprivation on our Summer Holiday

Stuck in a 12 mile traffic jam, somewhere on the A30, east of Cornwall, two sets of parents, in two separate cars, were experiencing two very different starts to their holiday.

In the precision packed Vauxhall Estate, an impeccably coiffed 19 month old baby girl named “Poff” was perusing her mobile library, contemplating whether “Cornwall: Leisure Walks for All Ages” or “Truro and Falmouth – Roseland Peninsula” would be stimulating enough to amuse her for the rest of the journey.

In the VW hatchback behind, it was hard to tell just how many people were in the car thanks to the ‘ram and squish’ packing policy of the driver. Despite the limited amount of air pockets, the smallest, yet most audible, passenger was selfishly gulping down oxygen as his initial grumblings were upgraded to ear-popping howls.

By mile 11, Poff put down her book which she’d found to be a thoroughly informative read. She couldn’t wait to tell Mummy about the route she’d planned for the family hike but she’d wait until Mummy finished her nap.

In the other car, Mummy No 2 was keeping a glazed eye out for the nearest lay by. She knew that hitchhiking was illegal but thought, under the deafening circumstances, she’d take her chances.

Unfortunately for Mummy and Daddy No 2, this proved the perfect introduction for what was to come. Chickie, indisposed to alterations to his established routine, repaid our kindness of allowing him to remain in the car despite my suggestion of giving him some “time out” on the roof rack, by going on poo, sleep and hunger strike.

Admittedly, he’s always on poo strike although he did release a sausage shaped souvenir into their shared bath. Unfortunately for Poff, it wasn’t detected until it was too late. Five more baths, three showers and a rub down with Dettol were incorporated into the decontamination process. Seemingly inspired by the possibilities an unprotected bottom presented, Chickie then did a nice big wee in the doorway of Wuce's room.

Next came the conjunctivitis. Two more outlets to add to his ‘oozing illuminous yellow goo’ list. Eye drop administration proved trickier than anticipated as Chickie decided he hated them more than anything else he’d ever come across before, ever! His response to scream and writhe as if being murdered, whilst doing kung fu moves and wild head butts. Accountant was employed as resident heavy, instructed to hold down all flailing bits whilst I endeavoured to jimmy his eyes open.

By the end of the week, tired and withdrawn, we presented the “Best in Show” Award for the second year running, to the Poff who had outperformed in every category. Compliance, Attitude, Slumber, Sanitation & Hygiene, Regularity & Ease of Bowel Movements, Consumption, Vocabulary, Critical Reasoning, Congeniality and General Well Being. As she took her lap of honour, hindered slightly by her covering of red rosettes, Chickie was busy trying to peel off the sellotape covering the plug sockets after his foiled attempt to insert a key into one earlier in the week.

Now back in his own home, fully equipped with a full catalogue of health and safety products a child prone to kamikaze activities requires, I’m hoping the comfort of the familiar will lull him back to the sweet child of a week ago.

Later that evening, whilst administering eye drops to the household's second baby, whose eyes had begun to fill with a suspiciously familar gunk over the course of the evening, it became clear Chickie wasn't the only whingey bum in the family.

Cornwall 2007

Excess Baggage

“Can I play badminton Thursday night?” asked Accountant.
“We’ve got to pack for holiday”
“We can do that Friday morning”
“We’re leaving at 9.30am”
“That’s loads of time!”

And there you have it. The brief exchange that highlights, simply yet brilliantly, the vast preparatory chasm that separates the male holidaymaker from the female.

The calendar declares in bright, red capitals, that Thursday is, “PACKING DAY”. 16 hours dedicated to hand selecting, re-selecting, whittling, re-whittling, painstakingly folding then layering meticulously in order of thread count, the perfect holiday wardrobe.

Consideration is shared equally amongst four core categories:

Weather:

For sunny days, madam will require the ½ length, cobbled thigh concealing, black linen trouser. For brisker days, the ¾ length and for anything cooler, full length is essential to avoid one’s leg hair bristling in the breeze. Bottom size is, of course, a major factor and all trousers selected must comply with my ‘Wide Load Code’ for 2007.

Leakages

As I spend my days attached to a wee beastie, prone to blowing his nose on my trousers and spitting fruit particles deemed an unsatisfactory texture into my hair for that ‘just slept in a skip’ look, a wipeable pvc catsuit with tummy control panel would be the most practical of uniforms. That said, it’s an unforgiving fabric more suited to glue making than mummywear, and likely to make the woman who turns up to playgroup vacpacked into one the subject of much malted milk biscuit flavoured speculation, washed down with a beaker of squash.

Body Mass Index

Short sleeved shirts for hot, flump shaped days. Jumpers for chilly, bloated days. Lycra and Imodium for those uncomfortable, yet slimming, irritable exploding bottom days.

Once all fifteen pairs of black linen trousers of assorted length are folded and organised according to the five day weather forecast, they can be placed in their pre-allocated positions as per the ‘master suitcase diagram’.

Chickie

A heading unto itself and the reason we considered hiring a lorry for the trip. Chickie was barely visible by the time the car was packed. A small, yet vocal, passenger wedged between three suitcases, a mattress, a cot top changer, a fire truck and three bottles of lactulose.