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.

Teaching An Old Chick New Tricks

Chickie has two party pieces.

1. Eyebrow Push-ups
2. A choice phrase triggered by the words 'excuse me'

We first heard it when Chickie was returned to us by certain family members after an overnight stay. It was all the more shocking for the fact that these family members have never sworn. So when Chickie began using the 'f' word, it was hard to imagine them looking anything other than appalled. However, they seemed highly delighted with the speed in which Chickie had grasped their new expletive.

Admittedly, it was quite amusing and I may, or may not, have practised it with Chickie daily, to the point he no longer needed the trigger to perform on cue. Friends were treated to free demonstrations and the nephews simply loved Chickie's naughty new word.

Of course, when he told the doctor, it was less funny.

And then my Mother in law, who informed me very seriously on my return home that Chickie had just told her that he farted.

Emergency talks were held to discuss how Chickie might be reformed. Pop Pop was deemed a suitable alternative and is slowly being introduced until the 'f' word is phased out completely.

Dehydrated?

Are you dehydrated?” enquired the dolly behind the Chanel counter.

“Erm... I don’t know?” I answered, thinking that I must be if she was taking the trouble to ask.
“Are you usually this colour?” she leaned down for a closer look. Leaning backwards to her forwards, I enquired as to what colour that might be.

“You have heightened colour in your cheeks” she informed me seriously.

“Oh!” was all I could reply. Normally I’m sallow shade of jaundiced so was quite pleased to have a ‘rosy glow’ for a change. The look on her face made me realise it wasn’t a good thing as she bent closer still and declared ‘dryness’ be added to my growing list of complexion problems.
I’d only popped over to grab a face powder, hoping to point, pay and spend the rest of my day posing with my little white Chanel bag.

As she began dabbing colour corrective products onto what I now appreciated was a flaky, red face, I was scared. Her precision painted talons lightly clasped the powder puff which was flitting around my face like a bluebottle. She shook her head and reached for corrective powder No 2. My uncooperative face peered over at my friend who was smirking back; enjoying my impromptu makeover and associated line of questioning immensely.

“What are you using on your face at the moment?” the shrill tones of Ms Coco asked disapprovingly. Flustered by the intense scrutiny, I tried to remember.

“Erm, Max Factor foundation and lots of concealer?” I offered, hoping that this was acceptable.

“Hmmmm. You do moisturise everyday don’t you?” she enquired like a distrusting headmistress.

“Yes. Yes, of course” I confirmed enthusiastically, hoping this would redeem me. I could tell she didn’t believe me. No doubt reasoning that nobody this far gone could be putting in the necessary skincare regime hours.

“Well, I think this one does wonders. What do you think?” she asked, handing me the mirror and beckoning my friend over to agree with her. My matted face looked back, every clogged pore highlighted splendidly by the fluorescent lighting. I lowered the mirror to see my friend’s face peering back; smirk still firmly in place. I wondered if there was a corrective powder available to wipe it off.

“Yes, that’s fine” I whimpered, handing the mirror back. With a ‘confidence shattering’ spring in her step, she fluttered over to the till to ring up her sale.

Clutching the purchase to my slumped body plus the three free samples she’d thrown in out of sympathy, I decided no white paper bag was worth it. I trudged out of the shop, vowing to drink eight bottles of water before bedtime and to really moisturise every day.

One Way Ticket To Florida Please

Whilst babies may look like adorable little balls of chub, something sinister is lurking beneath those gummy smiles.

Whilst nothing can compare to how you’ll feel about your very own sproglet, no one told me that having one live with you is like being shacked up with the virus carrying monkey from Outbreak.
It’s been a good nine months since I’ve had full use of both nostrils, my glands are constantly swollen in anticipation of the next sinus infection and I spend more time inhaling Vicks Vapour Rub than I do oxygen.

In the good old days, my annual cold would find me tucked under my duvet watching Doris Day films, a tissue plug up each nostril whilst sipping hot Ribena through the straw provided by my mummy who would stroke my brow and tend to my every whim. At times, it was actually quite enjoyable.

Now that I’m the mummy, the gig is well and truly up. Toddlers don’t authorise sick notes. Neither do husbands. Family members are still recovering from the last thing they caught from your child and attending any social function is considered bad form if they appear contagious.
After a week of solitary confinement, I did wonder if my new corrective powder might just reduce his heightened colour and, with a bit of concealer dabbed on his nose, no one might notice that I’d just unleashed something small and highly contagious upon them. Thinking better of it and unable to stem the flow of luminous goo, Chickie, millions of germs and I opted for watching Postman Pat for eight hours stints.

Eventually, food and decongestant supplies began to dwindle. Looking like an advert for Beecham’s Cold and Flu with streaming eyes and red crusty nose, I dragged me and my snotty sidekick to the Supermarket. We were on our second packet of tissues by the time we got to tinned goods.

At just the point I was feeling my very worst, Chickie began to show a marked improvement. His energy levels rising to the point he was feeling well enough to throw everything out of the trolley. Such a fun game warranted the shrillest of shrieking. As I was bent over retrieving my shopping from the floor, grateful for the sinus deadening my ability to hear, a packet of Honey Roast Ham bounced off my aching head. As Chickie, delighted with his achievement, giggled menacingly from the trolley, a single self pitying tear rolled down my flushed cheek.

As I looked into Chickie’s unmerciful eyes, I tried to explain that mummy didn’t feel very well and just wanted to go home to bed. She wanted to watch old movies. She wanted hot Ribena. She wanted a big fluffy duvet and complete silence. She wanted to be the one high on Calpol.
Chickie began to sob as he realised he was ill too and shrieking and throwing stuff was tiring. “Cuggle Mummy” he cried, before flinging his little arms around my waist and rubbing his nose on my jumper.

“Cuggle Mummy” I whispered, wishing mine was there for me to wipe my nose on.

Chickie Wins Again

Chickie's transferal to a big boy bed didn't go as hoped. His nightly pilgrimages to his stairgate, where he would stand and howl whilst attempting to squeeze himself through the bars, proved relentless. After totting up just ten hours sleep over the course of a week, an executive decision was taken to disassemble the bed and reassemble the cot.

"It'll only take me ten minutes" said Accountant, allen key in hand, as he ushered Chickie and I out of the nursery so he could concentrate on his man's work.

Historically, I have undertaken all DIY activities at Chez Chickie as Accountant proved time and time again why he was an Accountant in the first place. On this occasion, the sleeplessness left me to weak to argue and so Chickie and I snuggled into bed and watched Columbo.

Twenty minutes of swearing and banging later and two inquisitive heads were poked around the nursery door. A puce Accountant was undoing the frame. An enquiry as to why, turned him pucer. 'I put it on the wrong way' he admitted quietly before shooing us out again.

A further twenty minutes passed, a further enquiry as mummy was tired and wanted Chickie behind bars as quickly as possible. I kindly reminded Accountant of his ten minute promise and pointed out that forty minutes had now elapsed.
As helpful as I knew I was being, Accountant reacted badly so Chickie and I returned to the waiting room.

1 hour and 22 minutes later, Chickie's cot was proclaimed ready. The reunion was emotional.

Chickie snuggled down without a murmur and slept the night through, and so did Accountant.