Outbid

“It’s time you earned some money” declared Accountant as he peered at me from over the top of his spectacles and our bank statement.

If it hadn’t been for the boiler breaking down and then the washing machine chasing me across the kitchen whilst on its rinse cycle, I wouldn’t have had to sit there watching my face droop in the reflection of Accountant’s glasses.

And now I had to get a job to pay for boring things I could neither wear nor eat. The injustice.
What could I do that would fit around Chickie’s hectic social life? I did some research and presented my findings to Accountant.

Referring to my notes, I began. “Well, apparently there’s a newspaper round up for grabs in Wallace Avenue?”
He shook his head, continuing to look at me expectantly.
“What? I said.
“Well? What else is there?” He nodded down at my A4 pad.
“That’s pretty much it!”
From his face I could tell he’d expected more.
“I thought I’d run for Prime Minister next year, when I’ve got more than 2½ hours available a day and fewer childcare issues? “

Later that evening, as I paid for my lotto ticket online, I racked my shrinking brain for some money making ideas. My friend worked the nightshift at Sainsbury’s but, as a result, didn’t sleep for two days a week.

“You just don’t sleep at all?” I squealed when she’d first told me.
“Nope” she nodded at her one year old, solely responsible.
“What, not at all?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”

Whilst I admired her endurance, I knew I was made of more delicate stuff. After eight hours sleep every night, it took a good thirty minutes for me just to be able to open both eyes at the same time.

“How about selling stuff on ebay?” my other friend suggested as we mulled over my predicament.
“I’ve got loads of Chick’s old clothes I could start with!” I enthused, stroking my chin as the idea took shape.
After eight hours taking over 300 photographs of Chickie’s old clothes, I liked the idea much less but I was committed.

Whilst Accountant sat on his laptop downstairs, I began uploading my photos on the old laptop upstairs. It took ages.

Bored, I took a little peek at some of the stuff for sale.

“What you doing?” Accountant shouted up to me, no doubt sensing danger.
“Just selling stuff on ebay” I shouted back.
“Good” came the reply.

I flicked back to the photo upload but nothing had happened. Then back to items for sale. Vintage jewellery to be precise.

There was a nice brooch. And a lovely bracelet. A small bid wouldn’t hurt. Accountant never need know. I clicked on ‘Confirm Bid’, for the bracelet. And the brooch.

And then ebay emailed Accountant, downstairs, kindly re-confirming my bids.

Contented Little Baby

Following years of intensive research, I’ve devised a recipe which, whenever Chickie is scheduled for public display, I whip out and follow precisely to improve my chances of presenting a happy, well-balanced show bambini.Be warned though, if any of the quantities are altered in anyway, it can become a Recipe for Disaster.

That’s why I was less than pleased when Chickie spent the thirty minutes he should have been power napping, vigorously protesting on his bedroom floor. An hour later, a red eyed Chickie was scraped off the carpet and bundled into the car ready for delivery to his friend’s house.

Recipe for A Contented Toddler – Guidelines Only

Makes 1 Portion

Ingredients1 toddler (wash before use)
1 full tummy containing 2 pieces of honey on toast (crusts removed)

1 punnet of red grapes (cut in half)

4 mild cheddar sandwiches,

1 portion of Spaghetti Bolognese
Plenty of fluids
1 poo
12 hours of high impact activity to include 30 minutes trampolining, 40 minute brisk walk, 1 hour tantrum, 20 minutes water play, 1 hour cycle ride, 30 minutes arts and crafts, 1 hour digging, 7 hours debating
30 minute power nap at 11am
5ml Calpol (if teething, windy, snotty)
1 threat of ‘if you show me up, your Batman gets it.’
1 promise of ‘if you’re a good boy, you can bounce on daddy when he gets home from work’1 knackered mummy

TIP: AVOID carbohydrates

Instructions: Approach arrival at any play date much like you would Airport Customs.

1. Nothing To Declare.
Toddler has followed the recipe to the letter and smug mummy can sit back and relax whilst eating all her hostess’ chocolate fingers, safe in the knowledge that poppet is good to go. Satisfaction levels will be further enhanced if other toddlers in attendance haven’t followed the recipe and their misbehaviour then highlights your child in an even more favourable light.

2. Declaration on Arrival.
You admit failure to get toddler to follow recipe, which you blame on factors outside of your control such as tiredness, colds, immunisation (delete as applicable). However, you’re absolved from any judgment as you were humble enough to declare that you got it horribly wrong. Toddler can’t be disapproved of for assaulting and battering others, as they’ve now got a bona fide pre-existing excuse. Mummy still allowed chocolate fingers.

3. Smuggling.
Only for the bravest of mummies. You and poppet both know that the recipe has been breached but mummy keeps quiet, unleashing her child, in the hope that their increased adrenaline levels will see them through. A risky strategy that can end gloriously or hideously. Mummy only allowed chocolate fingers in the event of happy ending.

Being a wuss, I went for Option Two and, before my friend could even ask how we were, she had the full low down on Chickie’s naplessness. Free of all responsibility, I toddled off to find those choccie fingers.

Fatty Bum Bums

“Your bottom seems to start a lot higher up these days” commented Accountant, as I bent over to pick something up off of the floor. I pinged upright and scurried off to the mirror, glaring at him as I flew past.

Bottoms are always tricky to properly assess without being able to rotate your head around like an owl (or Chickie, mid-tantrum). I got as far as my spine would allow but still couldn’t see properly.

Turning side on, I hoiked up my shirt for a better view. I looked up to find Accountant’s eyebrows telling me what I didn’t want to admit. I seemed to have a second bottom growing out of the top of my jeans.

I suppose I had eaten quite a few packets of Party Rings during Chickie’s latest “challenging" phase. Plus the odd Martini, everyday at 7pm sharp. And all those easter eggs everyone kept buying Chickie. But then it was a mother’s duty to protect her child from excessive cocoa solids wasn’t it - what choice had I really had?

I wandered into the kitchen and stared dreamily at the nine remaining Easter Eggs I’d planned to spend that evening with. Now they were forbidden, the longing became deep and chocolately.

But wouldn’t it really be sensible to start a diet with a clean plate? To remove all temptation? Yes, I decided - it definitely would and began plans to eat the contents of the ‘yummy’ cupboard immediately.

A week later, engorged and looking slightly pregnant, the diet began. No mid-morning packet of Jammy Dodgers with my tea, no scrumptious butter lathered on sweet waffles, no dastardly mayonnaise. Just boiled rice with boiled peas and boiled fish for dinner.

The weight loss initially was encouraging. A 4lb bag of sugar was stationed, like a bodyguard, in front of the cracker cupboard - my usual stop after the 'yummy' cupboard. It obstructed entry and served as a reminder that the equivalent weight in blubber just wouldn’t fit into my jeans no matter how vigorously I tucked.

It was going well, my resistance strong, until today, when, for the second day running, I was a 1lb heavier. Where that pesky pound had come from, I didn’t know but I hated it and it needed to be punished.

After making a serious effort to eat my "Weightwatchers" tomato and lentil gloop that evening, I could take no more. Scrumptious wafts of Accountant's 456 calorie four cheese pizza bubbling in the oven wafted up my nose. I floated towards it, carried along by its vapours. Four slices of pizza and a Bart Simpson easter egg later and the diet was over. High from the sugar rush, I felt an odd mixture of elation and shame.

But then, perhaps having two bottoms wasn’t so bad? At least I’d have a spare if anything ever happened to the first one?

Happy Families

Lying in bed, I looked on top of the wardrobe where the yummy, leather weekend bag I’d bought years before now resided. A gentle sprinkling of dust had settled on the soft taupe leather with its silky, striped lining and studded feet.

I remembered buying it, imagining the pair of us, gliding into glittering hotel foyets in all the major cities across the world. I was wearing heels and ‘Jackie O’ sunglasses. I had a substantially smaller bottom and my boobs were still pointing in the same direction as when God had designed them.

I clambered out of bed to give it a quick buff and a cuddle but it was out of reach. I tried my bounce and grab approach which had served me well in the past but, like a sulking friend, it evaded my advances.

I traipsed back to bed as Accountant wandered into the room.
“Well?” he said.
I pretended not to understand.
“Have you found anything?” he nodded at the 'Siblu' holiday brochure that lay on my bedside table.
“Erm, no, not yet” I replied.
“What’ve you been doing then?”

Deciding not to tell him I’d been fantasising about luxury luggage, vast marble bathrooms, shimmering crystal chandeliers, fabric lined walls and 24hr room service, I made my excuses.

“Just readjusting my expectations, sweetheart.”
Accountant’s face set to one of deep disapproval so I cautiously reached for the brochure, grimacing through the effort. Accountant settled down beside me as I opened to the first page.

Screaming children, primary colours, a slithering entanglement of waterslides, banana boats, caravans, lilos, outdoor sports, tents... I shut the brochure with a decisive snap.

Feeling Accountant’s eyes boring into me, I declared myself exhausted and turned off the light. Before I’d shut both eyes, the light was back on and, apparently, Accountant was keen to chat.

“What’s your problem?”
It was more like problems, really. The biggest one being my husband.
He went for the jugular. “Chick will love it.”
“I know he will but where am I going to plug in my hair straighteners?”
Accountant growled.
“How do people even wash?”
“It doesn’t have to be a tent, we could have a mobile home” he said re-opening the brochure to illustrate his point.
A shiver ran down my spine, “I can’t spend a week with those curtains” I whined.

An icy atmosphere settled in the room as Accountant began muttering about how inflexible I was. I turned away. Compared to three years ago, I had more child-friendly features than ever but still it wasn’t enough. They wanted my very soul.

I went to sleep guilty. Guilty I wasn’t ‘outdoorsy’. Guilty for hating Aqua-parks. Guilty of loving pastels and gingham, mints on my pillow, toilet paper folded into a ‘v’ and miniature toiletries.

The next morning, brochure open in front of me, I dialled the number slowly.

“Siblu– French for happy families” the cheery voice answered.

JUST a Housewife

To my dear friend (obviously a male) who kindly enquired how I was finding JUST being a housewife, I've rustled a little something up by way of an answer, in a format that you'll hopefully understand:

Job Title: JUST a Housewife

Job Overview:

A lifetime contract, reporting to a three year old male, you will be solely accountable for his development and wellbeing. He can be prone to mood swings, unreasonableness and constipation so a strong will to survive is necessary.

Key Skills:

Problem Solving:

You will need to think creatively in order to apply innovative and entertaining approaches to gain co-operation in the undertaking of any basic daily task. Previous experience as a Children’s Entertainer/Puppeteer would be beneficial.

Judgment:

Sound evaluative skills are required to assess and avert threats, tantrums, accidents and medical emergencies. First Aid training is essential.

Resilience:

You must possess the ability to remain calm and rational whilst your patience is being tested beyond all endurance. Previous acting experience would be useful in order to appear nonchalant and relaxed, especially in public, when really you’re frenzied and about to cry.

Communication Skills:

You must be a top level negotiator, able to resolve bitter disputes with outcomes agreeable to all vested toddlers.

Flexibility:

You must be adaptable as anything planned, especially if you’re looking forward to it, is going to be cancelled.

Numeracy:

Basic numeracy would be useful to ensure alternating dosages of Calpol/Nurofen do not exceed maximum limits.

Strategic Thinking:

Forward thinking and able to anticipate potential issues before they arise, you will intuitively steer your child around those triggers that may result in increased stress levels.

Organisation:

Responsible for the management of a hectic diary, you will possess excellent planning skills. Child must approve all activities and be briefed at the start and end of each day on all forthcoming events and changes to the pre-agreed schedule. Previous experience of contingency planning would be beneficial.

Other Requirements

Applicants with Psychology, Nutrition and Medical Degrees are preferable.

You must be as energetic as a Duracell bunny and require minimal amounts of sleep.

Familiarity with The Health and Safety at Work Act, particularly, COSHH (Control of Substances Hazardous to Health), would be useful as you will be in daily contact with dangerous deposits.

Understanding of the Bristol Stool Chart would be beneficial but not essential as on-the-job training is provided.

There will be heavy lifting and dragging involved in this position.

Please Note: Anything you say or do will be held against you for the rest of your life should you be saying or doing it wrong.

Remuneration and Benefits:

No Holiday, No Pay, No Lunch Hour, Overtime Expected.

Ear Plugs and Marigold gloves provided.

No training given.

Further Reading

Setting Limits with Your Strong-Willed Child
Family Medical Guide
The Relaxation and Stress Reduction Workbook
Lose your Mummy Tummy
Budgeting Basics

Make It Stop!

“I love you Liz, I always have”
“I love you too, George” I whispered, leaning into his chest, lips puckered, eyes closed.

“MUMMY! It’s 20 o’clock! We’ve got to go NOW!”
“Er” I whimpered, disorientated. I cranked an eye open. Chickie was so close, it was like viewing him through a magnifying glass. I jolted back into the pillow.
“Mummy’s dreaming – go and play in your room for a little bit” I mumbled, anxious to return to George Clooney’s lips.
“You smell yucky mummy. Can you play with me?”
“Sweetheart, it’s too early for mummy, just go and play in your room for a few hours”
Chickie began singing. “Silent night, ho-ey night, round yon mergin mother and child, sleeping, sleepy, sleep, never sleep”

Unable to open both eyes at the same time, I viewed Chickie through a small crack in my right eye. He looked so awake. My eyeball crept over to the clock. 5:59am. God, it was still night.

I groaned and slid under the duvet. Chickie climbed on top and began bouncing up and down. I turned over and toppled him onto his father, before quickly rolling away.

It seemed God had giveth and God had taken away. Finally, after a year of night waking, Chickie was sleeping through. And our punishment was that he now woke up at 5.59am every morning.

Later that day, I patted myself on the back for showing such enterprise. ‘That should do it’ I thought as I practiced locking the new gate on Chickie’s bedroom door. All his toys were in there so I could see no reason why he shouldn’t happily while away those pesky twilight hours playing with Buzz Lightyear instead of mummy.

05:59am the next morning. “MMMUUUUUMMMMMMYYYY! LET ME OUUUUTTTTTTT NOW!!!”
I grunted in shock. “What? Erm?” I floundered in confusion, lost between sleeping and waking.

“OUT NOW!” Chickie reiterated loudly.
“Just play.. wiv.toys....” I mouthed into the darkness.
“IT’S NOT FAIR”
I opted to ignore him, confident the futility of his efforts would soon find him lost in a world of imaginative play.
A strange scratching started. Then a pinging noise.
“Stop it” I shouted. It got louder.
I scrambled out of bed just as a car flew over his gate and down the stairs.
“Sorry mummy” he said, grinning at me from behind the bars. “Can I come in your room now?” he smiled smugly.

As he burrowed down the middle of the bed, he placed two ice cold feet on my bum, I yelped. Then followed a sharp blow to the back. “NEE NAW NEE NAW”. Chickie off roaded his ambulance down my spine.

“Give daddy cuddles” I suggested, trying to roll Chickie over to face Accountant.
Accountant rolled him back, Chick’s nose now pressed up to mine.

“It’s 20 o’clock, Mummy. Are you getting up?”
“Yes” I groaned, accepting yon merging of mother and child. Sleepy, sleep, never sleep.

Spicing Things Up!

Although we were still experiencing the odd derailment, Chickie seemed to be getting back on track. As such, I turned my attention to the other problem in my life. Also male.

After catching Accountant reading over my shoulder as I stood cuddling him, I politely enquired as to what he was looking at, peering back past him to check out his laptop.

“Nothing” he’d spluttered, pulling me closer whilst making desperate ‘mmmming’ noises.

I leant back further for a better look. Accountant’s grip on me tightened. My mouth fell open in horror as I looked up at him, my confusion clear.

“Is that a balance sheet?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s a set of accounts.”
“Oh, much better” I cried, wondering if it was as bad as it seemed and whether my next door neighbour might have a textbook on the subject.

Thirty minutes passed in which he ate his dinner, still perusing company accounts and I, sat staring at him from the lounge, arranging a babysitter. We were going on an emergency date.

“Be home by 6pm, mum and dad are coming round early tonight” I reminded him when the big day arrived. He grunted his affirmation, cycling off in the pyjama trousers he always mistook for jogging bottoms, towards the Downs.
At precisely 6pm, the phone rang. Praying he wasn’t down A&E like last time, I answered tentatively.
“Hi, it’s me” he said. It was a good start, he sounded unharmed. “I’m just at a pub in Steyning.” My mind began to wonder how that could be - what with him due home and all. I articulated my concerns.
“You should have told me I had to be home by 6pm” he growled.
“I DID!” I screeched, thinking how much easier life would be if men came with even basic functionality.

Afterwards, I sat fuming, when my mobile phone beeped. A photo message awaited. The screen revealed Accountant, sat in the pub, smiling broadly. In his extended hand, he held up a full pint in ‘cheers’ mode.

“Why that good for nothing, ggrrrr....” I muttered, pulling off my wedding ring before placing it on top of the toilet seat and photographing it with my phone. Send. (Apologies to our marriage preparation course leaders, I know this isn’t what you meant by positive acts of love.)

Romance was not in the air as we drove over to Brighton. We were seated opposite each other in the restaurant and Accountant began playing with his mobile which he’d upgraded that day to include internet access.

When he popped to the loo, I ordered our dinners, making a slight alteration to his usual Sloppy Guiseppe pizza. Accountant didn’t notice as he tucked in. He noticed soon after though as he began taking long, slow, swills of beer. His eyes gently watered as his ‘Etna’ pizza erupted in his mouth, spicing up ‘date night’ splendidly.

I've Got A Secret!

It was official - Chickie had crossed to the dark side and my neighbours had begun works to block up the chimney on their side of his wall. Whether it was his sheer volume or concerns he may actually crash through into their spare room, I didn’t know but I decided it was time to do something drastic to help guide my toddler back to the light. Typically, I had no clue whatsoever what I was meant to do but hoped my prayers alone may cause a solution to present itself.

And, they did. Like a golden angel sent by Supernanny herself, my lovely neighbour stood before me, shrouded in a Ready Brek style glow, holding out the answer to my prayers. A book.
I like books. Especially ones that promise big answers to big problems. Happy little faces beamed back at me from under big, blue words - “The Secret of Happy Children”. And what a well kept secret it had been. But now, 145 pages later, I’m in on it.

In fact, this actually happened this morning.
Mummy: “Don’t eat my cardigan please, sweetheart”
Chickie: “I’m sorry, mummy. I won’t do it again. I love you, mummy!”
Hugs, twirls and kisses followed.

Chickie then fetched his stool and began preparations for breakfast, popping the toast in the toaster, getting the butter and filling up drinks. He chatted whilst he worked, informing me that he was married to Elizabeth and Hannah from nursery and telling me how the donkeys at Tilgate Park had been his favourite (there weren’t any donkeys).

I watched him as he waited for the toast to pop up. He stood statue still, his eyes never looking away. When it finally popped, he turned to me, giggling.

I felt like Ben, Elizabeth Jim Bob, Mary Ellen, and John Boy might just skip through my door at any minute.

Coupled with the relief that Chickie seemed much happier when engaged in activity from the moment his eyes opened in the morning to the moment they shut at night, came the guilt that I kept having to refer to text books to navigate my way through something I’m sure was supposed to come much more instinctively.

Accountant was quick to encourage. “So, it was all your fault then?”
“Probably,” I accepted, now completely comfortable with being inadequate.

Whilst I cooked dinner, he gave Chickie his bath. What seemed to start as some low-level squealing soon developed into some high-energy interaction between father and son.
“Stop that splashing right now!” warned Accountant in his bestest stern voice.
“NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo” splashed Chickie.
“If you do that once more you’re going straight to bed!”
“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
“One more time and you’re going to bed, do you under.......”
“.........NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo”
“Stop......”
“...NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

I took a long sip of Martini, and pretended not to hear Accountant’s anguished cries for back-up. Picking up ‘The secret ...’ book, I placed it on the table, popping it down, next to his Shepherd’s Pie.

It's Not Going Well

“He’s obviously in one of his moods, so adapt!” said Accountant, shutting the door as he went off to work.

I wanted to snarl at him in much the same fashion as Chickie had been snarling at me lately. I turned around to find him watching me. Feeling much like the pork chop that got shoved through the feeding hatch at the lion enclosure, I wondered how I was going to get out of this one without a tranquiliser gun.

It had been two weeks and there were no signs of any uplift in Chickie’s mood. Relations were strained. I was being bullied by a three year old.

"Oh, my niece was like that” soothed my friend as I described his behaviour, “and she was fine by the time she got to eleven!”

“ELEVEN!” I yelped. I hung my head in despair, wondering if she might let me spend the next eight years at her house.


“How’s he been?” enquired Accountant on his return home.
“Swell” I mumbled, picturing his devilish grins as he’d tormented me for hours.
“Where is he?” Accountant asked.
“On the naughty step” I replied.
“Why?”
“He won’t come off”
“Why?”
“I don’t know” I cried. Why did everyone expect me to know how he worked? Supernanny never mentioned what to do when poppet pants wouldn’t come off the step. It wasn’t like he’d come with an Owner’s Manual. My mobile phone had come with more instructions and you could restore the default factory settings if you made a programming error!

I needed a psychology degree and a martini.

The next day I ate a whole packet of Party Rings for lunch whilst I retraced my parenting footsteps. I’d obviously gone hideously wrong somewhere.

Then I collected my son, with trepidation, from nursery. “He’s so lovely isn’t he?” one of the ladies said to me.
“Sorry?”
“So sweet natured!”

I got her to point out the child she was talking about, to clear up the confusion. She identified Chick from the line up.

He bared his teeth when he caught me watching him but she wasn’t looking. I felt like tugging on her sleeve and telling her he’d just been horrible to me before remembering I was 32 and no one could help me. It was just him, me and 7 hours until bedtime. Or was it?

“I know” I said to Chickie, who ignored me, “let’s go and visit Nanna and Grandad!”
He almost smiled.

When Nanna produced ginger biscuits, he became polite and loving. Until they ran out. Nanna was packed off to the kitchen and told not to return until she’d baked a week’s supply.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday for more” I instructed as we left. “And don’t even think about changing the locks.” I added.

Mum and dad exchanged glances, no doubt wondering when their daughter was ever going to grow out of her ‘difficult’ phase.

Break Away

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 short ‘break’ away.In the precision packed Vauxhall Estate, an impeccably coiffed 3 year old girl 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 Accountant’s ‘ram and squish’ packing policy. Despite the limited amount of air pockets available, the smallest, yet most audible, passenger was selfishly gulping up all the oxygen as his initial grumblings developed into howls of general outrage.

By mile 11, the little girl 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, Accountant and I were enjoying an in impromptu game of dodge ball as Chickie launched his toy collection at us. Although I knew that hitchhiking was illegal, I was keeping an eye out for a lay by, imagining myself leaping out of the passenger side of the car ‘fugitive’ style, rolling down a side embankment before coming to a neat stop outside a health spa.

Unfortunately, I was scuppered by the child lock and arrived watery eyed, avec dependants, for our relaxing seaside break. 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 sleep and hunger strike for the rest of the week. Every night he would appear in the darkness at 2am, before circling me twice and curling up on my head.

Then came the conjunctivitis. Two more outlets to add to his ‘oozing illuminous yellow goo’ list. Eye drop administration proved a two man job and could take anywhere from 15 minutes to a whole morning. Accountant was employed as resident heavy, instructed to sit on all flailing bits whilst I jimmied his eyes open.

By the end of the week, tired and withdrawn, we presented the “Best in Show” Award for the third year running, to his little girlfriend 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 too busy to care as he took to peeling off the sellotape now covering all the plug sockets after his foiled attempt to stick a key into one earlier in the week.

Is It Just Me?

“You must be looking forward to half term” my friend said.

I tried to rearrange my expression which had been well on its way to ‘grimacing horror’, when I’d realised that she was actually being serious. Whether my sudden “mmm” whilst choking on my custard cream was convincing, I doubt.

I vaguely listened as she told me about the bird boxes she and Maya would be making on Monday, pottery-painting on Tuesday, candle-making on Wednesday, blah blah on Thursday. All the while my brain reverberated with the knowledge that there were real, live women out there who weren’t scared of the prospect of a week alone with their children. They were actually excited.

I looked at Chickie whilst my friend provided details of blacksmithing on Friday. He sat grinning atop his castle of sofa cushions. I counted 20 in total. I wondered where Maya was?

“What plans have you got?” she enquired, taking a sip of peppermint tea.

What had I got planned? Besides my stash of 35 Disney dvd’s, 20 packets of Percy Pigs and the Pro Plus? I struggled to remember and that muffled squealing noise wasn’t helping my concentration. “He’s going round some friend’s houses and he’s seeing Bolt on Thursday!” I replied triumphantly. She didn’t look impressed.

I wondered whether to explain that craft projects and Chickie didn’t mix. I had found he had little interest in painting anything other than his friends (and I don’t mean portraits). On the basis he ate ear wax, candle making was probably out. And handing him a red hot poker to play with went against all my natural survival instincts.

Movement from under the heaving pile of cushions sent Chickie tumbling from his throne. He cried heartily as Maya crawled through a small air hole at the bottom of the heap, her hair static and her face purple.

After they’d left earlier than scheduled, I kept seeing my friend’s eyes filled with genuine expectation that a magical seven days of fluff, love and gluing was there for every mother’s taking.

Were they? Or was I missing something? Perhaps I was approaching this week all wrong? I suddenly felt inspired. I’d once subscribed to the idea that motherhood could be a calm, ordered affair all tied up in a big, blue, gingham bow. Of course, that was before I’d actually had a child but she’d made me feel like it was definitely worth trying again.

I entered the week full of renewed hope. I would be that crafty mummy and Chick would spend a contented week carefully gluing sequins and beads onto pieces of felt. Or my tablecloth. And the curtains.

Perhaps a puzzle would play to his strengths? It started well. It ended badly with pieces of jigsaw being snacked on in between discussions about not eating cardboard.

But now pre-school is but a breath away and the twitch that I’ve developed on my right eyelid has begun to subside.

Thank you Walt Disney and Marks & Spencer - I couldn't have done it without you!

Les Miserables

It was a day that had started early and hysterically. I could see my heart thumping through my winceyette pyjamas after picking up the phone to my sister’s frantic ramblings.

“Liz?” she gasped breathlessly. My heart stopped altogether as I imagined what could be coming. Dad better not have clambered onto that glass conservatory roof again? I’d kill him myself. Surely, after the telling off I’d given him, he could be left under no illusion about his physical limitations? What about mum?

“What is it? WHAT? WHAT!?!” I shrieked, pulling the phone away from my ear, scared of her answer.

“I’VE WON, I’VE WON!” she yelped.“WHAT?” Dad’s alive? You’ve won? Mum’s okay? Oh thank you God, thank you!” I kissed the phone.
“I’ve won!” she re-emphasised, clearly displeased with my lack of enthusiasm and trying to refocus me on her achievement.
“You’ve won what?”
“That Theatre Trip Competition I entered” she replied.

I couldn’t actually believe that she was surprised as she’d entered over 200 times, in a variety of voices using different names and addresses and even made her children ring on her behalf as she didn’t want to appear “pathetic” (think that ship might have sailed). Her phone bill probably cost more than the theatre trip itself.

“Congratulations” I managed, releasing my grip on the bedside cabinet, and slowly sinking on shaking legs, towards the bed.

My sister loves theatre trips and every family member has fallen foul of one of her “special theatre trip gifts” at some point or other. She’s so extremely thoughtful that she even buys a ticket for herself to ensure you don’t have to worry about who to take. The fact that no one else in the family actually likes the theatre doesn’t phase her at all.

My Brother-in-Law bravely raised this with her after enduring a gruelling three hour production of “Blood Brothers” – his birthday present. She was apparently “stunned” by the revelation that her husband of ten years didn’t like the theatre and surely no one would think she would purchase gifts for others that she secretly wanted for herself?

After buying her a bikini trimmer last Christmas, he knew he was on shaky ground so it fell to me to let her know that her husband wasn’t the only relative that didn’t like watching over-dramatic performances of ridiculously smiley people randomly bursting into song and prancing around for no reason.

My sister was agog – how could I, a blood relative, not appreciate the performing arts?

“I really prefer the cinema” I whispered, unable to meet her glowering eyes.

It would seem that was irrelevant as my birthday envelope was placed in my hands.

“A trip for two to see Chicago” I smiled through the pain. “How wonderful!”

My Brother-in-Law smirked at me from behind my sister’s back as she produced her own envelope containing our coach tickets and her ticket for the seat next to mine.

Our unscheduled trip to France had been a flight of whim and fancy on my part.

As we entered Pas-de-Calais under the cover of darkness, it was only a matter of minutes before we were lost, repeatedly driving past a man balancing one legged on a 3ft wall, arms outstretched as if negotiating a death defying tightrope without the safety of a net. To be fair, when you’re that drunk, it’s quite an achievement. Each time we passed, he bowed theatrically, pleased that we appreciated his talent so much, we kept driving back for more.

The scenery wasn’t as attractive as I’d hoped, the chateaus and vineyards I’d envisioned replaced by giant sardine cans of industry. Sardine cans, it would transpire later, that were home to shops. Big ones!

We awoke the next morning to the familiar pitter patter of tiny feet and rain. An intolerable combination. Accountant’s sorrowful face as another day of trawling retail outlets lay before him was almost too much to bear. Thankfully, I’m highly skilled in the art of ignoring him, so shopping recommenced with gusto. When Chickie’s face took on a similar droop and I’d tried on enough pairs of trousers to realise that, in France, I was a size bigger and a foot shorter, I knew the gig was up. A nice lunch would lift our spirits and give us a chance to rethink activities.


“I think I’ve ordered a hamburger” said Accountant, having panicked under the waiter’s glare, ordering in haste. One circular portion or raw mince with a raw egg garnish later and Accountant realised a hamburger, it most definitely was not.

“What am I going to do?” he whispered, leaning in, keeping lip movement to a minimum so as not to attract attention from the adjoining table. Discretion being my middle name, I zoomed in with my camera to capture the moment. As the flash went off, two more pairs of eyes watched the show. Now under intense scrutiny and needing to act, he moved his hand slowly towards his fork. One lump of raw mince made its approach and in it went.

Whilst I appreciate that ‘Steak Tartare’ is a delicacy to the cultured, to the e-coli / listeria / cjd / salmonella (delete as applicable) fearing British Accountant, it holds little appeal. At this point, our French neighbours intervened, helpfully pointing out that the egg (raw) and accompanying green stuff needed to be mixed into the mince (raw) before consumption. Personally, I’d have recommended 30 minutes at 190°c before consumption, but who was I to interfere. Thanking them for their input and encouragement, Accountant knew he now had no choice but to eat it and, bless him, he did. The French ladies were very proud of their ‘big, brave man’ as they liked to call him.

The rest of the trip was spent monitoring big, brave man’s vital signs to ensure his bacteria burger didn’t require treatment with antibiotics.

Just Desserts

It was high time my mother got acquainted with the highly disapproved of Chickie following her smug delivery of a reprieved toddler who had behaved impeccably at her house.
It’s annoying when you bemoan to your family that your child has been tormenting you endlessly with behaviour befitting an appearance on the “House of Horrors”. Then, suddenly, he 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.When it comes to parenting, everyone within earshot believes that they could handle the situation better than the screaming child’s mother, even if they’ve never spoken to a child before.
Hence, if baby is good at Nanna’s house, the good behaviour can be directly attributed to her calm and patient manner which was clearly just the approach baby needed to get back on track.Gloaty Nanna reeled off how he’d eaten all his dinner (specially formulated to contain exactly the right balance of soluble and insoluble fibre), filled his potty right on cue (thanks to dinner), slept through the night, even lying in until 8.45am without a murmur. Feeling betrayed, I praised my treacherous child for being such a ‘good boy’.When she came round the next day, she enquired as to Chickie’s spirits following his return. “He woke up at 4.45am and had a tantrum when I offered him a biscuit” I replied.
“He slept in until 8.45am at our house” she said.
“Yes, you mentioned that”.As Nanna pushed a chirping Chickie off down the road she was still enjoying a self-congratulatory repartee with herself about his reformation.
When she returned, an hour earlier than scheduled, she looked different.
“I let him out of his buggy for a walk” she gasped.
A rookie mistake of course.
She explained how she’d found him less than flexible when it came to getting back in. Forced to sprint the 100 metres after him, she finally cornered him in a lift. Whilst she prayed for breath, Chickie pressed all the buttons, including the alarm.
With the promise of ice cream, he agreed to accompany her to the cafe. Just as Nanna’s top lip touched the froth on her large cappuccino with extra chocolate sprinkles, Chickie finished his ice cream and began to twitch. Then came the writhing, then the shrieking. Nanna could see nothing wrong. “He’s 3” I answered in my head. “That’s what’s wrong.”As Chickie livened up the plans of all those enjoying a relaxing morning coffee, Nanna tried the Twinkle Twinkle routine that had worked so beautifully the night before. He sobbed uncontrollably. Amidst the glares of the entire cafe, Glam-Nan quietly collected her things and made for the door, which the pushchair got wedged in.“Oh no, that sounds awful” I sympathised, loving it.
The smug Nanna of earlier replaced by a dishevelled heap, collapsed on the sofa, with a big bit of froth on her lip.

Bad Mamma

I’d been a bad mummy. I told Chickie that we’d bake some dinosaur bibbicks. Then I went and cleaned the kitchen. I took a deep satisfied sigh as I viewed the sparkling taps, spotless floor and perfectly buffed worktop. It was beautiful and I was happy.

Then Chickie tugged on my cardigan and enquired as to when all the baking was going to begin. I pictured a mushroom cloud of icing sugar engulfing the house, buttery stalagmites being squished into the floor before being padded around the rest of the house by two small, sticky feet. Hundreds and thousands of hundreds and thousands would still be being discovered in three years time.

Biding for time, I enthusiastically redirected Chickie’s interest to Scooby Doo. “Wow look Chick, a ghostie!” By the time he’d tired of it, I’d come up with a cunning plan. “Let’s go to Waitrose and buy a choo choo bibbick!” He liked that idea and off we trotted.

Unfortunately, my conscience wasn’t so easily appeased. ‘It’s only a biscuit’ I told my inner ‘Bad-Mummy-Monitor’.
‘You broke your promise’ she replied.

After that, ‘Bad-Mummy-Monitor’ was on high alert. “He needs some fresh air” she said as Chickie sat watching telly.

I looked out of the window at the endless gloom. “But it’s so cold and he’s so quiet. And he’ll want to jump in all the puddles”. She reminded me of the dinosaur biscuits and dragged me off of the sofa to prepare a small suitcase of munitions. Spare trousers, spare pants, spare shoes, wellies, plastic bags, towels, wipes, hypothermia blanket, pressure washer hose and scraper.

“We’re going on an adventure” I informed Chickie as I vacpacked him into his old coat, one size too small. He couldn’t move from the neck down, but at least he was snug.

“Where we going?”
“To the best puddles in town” I replied, already planning the five stage clean-up operation in my head.

As we pulled into the Bluebird Cafe car park, puddles as big as paddling pools rippled in the icy winds. Within approximately two minutes, Chickie was lying on his back in one of the larger ones. He turned his head, like a robot, to see how mummy was going to react to his baptism. His first of three as it turned out.

As I skidded along behind his mud caked frame, watching him testing puddles with his special ‘adventurers stick’, I knew these were the memories I’d dreamt of making before being introduced to the magic of antibacterial wipes. We watched the river for crocodiles, poked the unblinking frog (gently) to check his vitals and had sword fights with our sticks. I even jumped in a muddy puddle.

We returned home with red cheeks, runny noses and muddier than a pair of pigs.

It was probably the messiest day of my adult life, but it’ll be the one that I remember long after my son considers going anywhere with his mummy an ‘adventure!’.

The Beer Chart

As Chickie and I sat at the dining room table, gluing together our latest craft project, he looked up at me like a dog about to go walkies.
“Daddy’s going to love this, isn’t he mummy?”
“Yes, he’s going to love it!”
Rather ungratefully, I thought, it turned out that daddy didn’t love it all that much. He mumbled something about reward charts being for children before wandering off to examine the inside of the fridge.
“But we made little beer glass stickers” I chimed, holding them up. “To motivate you.” He stayed in the fridge. “When you get 5 stickers, you get a real beer!”
Chickie and I looked at each other, wondering how long one man could survive inside a fridge freezer.
“All the jobs are listed down the side. Put the bins out. Don’t leave scissors in Chickie’s room. Wash the car etc.”
Still nothing. Chickie and I went to play in the other room. “He’ll come round to the idea” I told Chickie.

He didn’t. Apparently he had his own system and my thoughtful attempts to stimulate productivity were not required. I didn’t exactly agree as I considered my car wash request of five months ago but thought it best, at this point, to stay quiet. By the next morning however, I was ready to reveal my plans to excavate Accountants inner dynamo. He was less keen. As I began talking about prioritisation, multi-tasking and the perils of procrastination, he made his way back to the fridge, where he remained until he was quite sure I’d gone away.

It was like school assembly all over again. Left to do everything myself. Who turned the music on when everyone came in and went out? Who’d put the date and composer of the day up on the board? Who checked the rain fall and temperature and coloured in the weather graphs by the assembly entrance? Who tapped the barometer and stood outside in the rain with the anemoter collecting wind speed data? Who then compiled all this information into a thrilling report which she also presented each day to keep all informed of the latest weather conditions? Who sat at the front, facing the whole school, in her special chair, wearing her music monitor badge? And I played the recorder along to the hymns. And the clarinet. And all by 9am. Every day, aged 9 years old.

How annoying. Hand higher in the air than all the others, mouthing, “pick me, pick me” as my bum bounced up and down on my little chair. Thinking about it, even my teacher looked irritated by my enthusiasm asking if anyone else, preferably without a lisp, would like to read the weather report. Sadly for him, only Lispy Lizzie was available.

When Accountant returned home, I showered him with kisses, feeling sorry for the poor man that had been too kind to leave the hyperactive kid bouncing on her chair, picking her over a quieter life.

Oh No!

Somewhere amidst 1976 and 2009, a big dent had snuck up on my face and wedged itself deeply between my eyes. I scowled at it, before realising that was why I had started to look like ‘Churchill the nodding dog’ in the first place. I stopped scowling at once, experimenting instead with pulling my eyebrows up and across my forehead.

Downstairs, Accountant cranked up his piercing ‘whistle while you laze’ routine and I watched my eyebrows ping back together as if joined by elastic. ‘Of course’, I whispered to myself, stroking my sagging jowls, as a decade’s din from Accountant’s internal wind instruments assembled in my head. “It’s all his fault”. Living with Accountant, the one man band, was like living with a human bagpipe that never runs out of air. Previous lodgers used to comment before they moved out. No wonder I was wrinkling around the edges.

Now Chickie had joined the Tinnitus Two supplementing Accountant’s bluebottle style ‘bzzzing’ with velocity and determination. Whilst Accountant would whistle ‘Go West’ in the upper register, clicking his tongue between key changes, Chickie would roar a la Godzilla in accompaniment. Then Accountant would spend forty minutes perfecting his ‘dripping water’ impression.

I don’t know if it was the water torture or acoustic shock that sent me flying down the stairs crying, “JUST BE QUIET!” but, it worked. For about twenty seconds. Then it began again with renewed impetus, now that a reactive audience waited in the wings.

Feeling sorry for myself, I went back to the mirror, to review my situation. The scowl was so big now, it had been joined by two smaller scowls that stood like a pair of bodyguards either side of it. I wished I wasn’t too scared to Botox them to hell, figuring the suspension of all facial expression at this age, could leave my face frozen in 2009 forever. I liked that idea but stopped myself from smiling. Nor would there be any more laughing, talking or raising of eyebrows.

The evening was spent online reviewing ‘Miracle Creams’. “Hope in a Jar” caught my eye. Add to basket. Next - “Treats for Tired and Puffy Eyes”. Two hours later, my basket overfloweth. I just needed an investor. I proposed a mutually beneficial deal with the root of my problem, reminding Accountant that Valentine’s Day was looming and I could take all the hassle and romance out of it for him with just one click. I closed by mentioning that if he didn’t comply, he would have to move out.

I now await delivery of my fresh new face. In the meantime, I’ve been using Sudocrem as it used to work wonders on Chickie’s nappy rash. It has dual benefits – not only is it so thick you can no longer see your face underneath it, it would seem that, smelling like a bottom is also an excellent Accountant deterrent.

This Little Piggy Shouldn't Watch The Crime Channel

Despite knowing myself well enough to realise that watching endless hours of the Crime channel might not be the ‘healthiest’ outlet for someone with a colourful imagination and neurotic tendencies, I did it anyway. It left me altered.

I changed my walk, adopting a self-assured swagger that alluded to martial arts expertise and my ability to transform from housewife into ultimate fighting machine in just a jiffy. I scrutinised new acquaintances for signs of imbalance. Familiar people too - for if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it is that you’re more likely to get disembowelled by your local lollipop lady than a stranger. And that is my excuse for what happened next.

When our post arrived with the word “Pig” scrawled on the back of one of the envelopes, I thought it was something to do with Accountant. Whilst other husbands sweetly refer to their wives as ‘darling’, my husband has branded me ‘Pig’ by way of endearment. I did wonder fleetingly how Accountant could have intercepted a utility bill delivered by the postman, but, when the thinking all got too much, I concluded it was his fault, as all things were. Two days later, a Christmas card arrived with ‘Pig’ on the back. I put it with the other piggy post and waited for my husband who denied all involvement.

“But that means someone else is writing ‘Pig’ on my letters!” I whispered, sitting down as I contemplated what this could mean for my future. I looked out the window, into the darkness, wondering what might be looking back in. A flashback from a Ted Bundy documentary came to mind. The one with all the pre-murderous stalking.

“It could be the Postman” deduced Accountant. I gasped.
“We’ll have to move” I responded before considering the problem of redirecting the post when your stalker works for Royal Mail. I pictured myself setting up multiple PO Boxes all over the country and devising elaborate postal pick-ups using zipwires, body doubles and a spandex cat suit.

I spent a fretful night next to Accountant who masked his concern with instant unconsciousness whilst I contemplated my new life as Mrs Smith of no fixed address.

Long, jittery days crept past with no further ‘incidents’ but, now living with a simmering sense of foreboding, I decided to confront the problem - postman on.

As I stood on my drive clutching the ‘evidence’ and my personal attack alarm, listening to him politely explain how P19 was an abbreviation for ‘Packet 19’, I should have quietly skipped away. Instead, I said how I had misread it as ‘Pig’.
He shook his head.
I then told of how my husband called me ‘Pig’.
“Nice” he said.
In conclusion, I rambled about how nice it would be to live again.
“Right” he said, slowly backing away.

So now, whenever he sees me, the Postman looks scared, clearly unable to fathom how I ever got released into the community.

Bah Humbug!

As I came to an emergency stop outside the dazzling facade of a semi-detached house in Durrington, Chickie let out a small gasp in awe. It was an impressive display. Reindeers pranced, Santa scooted up and down a ladder and snowmen vied for attention amidst the festive anarchy. There wasn’t a blade of grass or roof tile left in darkness.
I looked back at Chick, his nose moisturising the car window and his mouth ajar, the reflection of thousands of lights twinkling in his eyes and potentially doing long-term damage to his retinas. For him, the magic was just beginning.
I drifted back to my own childhood, remembering staying awake to stake out Santa. The anticipation overwhelming as I crouched behind my door wearing night vision goggles and a balaclava, vowing quietly in the darkness to wait –“no matter how long it takes!”
Mum and dad’s weary little faces as they took it in turns to traipse back and forth to see if I’d fallen asleep, their pitiful pleas that I return to bed, minus the facemask, ignored. “I’m in stealth mode. Sleep is not an option” I explained without moving my lips. Their foiled attempts to turn my clock back in the vague hope I might consider 3am an unreasonable hour to start opening presents. The promise of all those wishes just a sleigh ride away. The whole world captivated, as we all waited and watched to see if the story would come true.
Chickie had begun stuttering an inventory to ensure that I hadn’t missed anything. “There’s an angel mummy and ..a....a reindeer and a ....a. snowman and....” I nodded along as we built our memories, wishing whoever lived there could see him delight in their sense of fun. I loved them and all those like them. Clambering onto their roofs with sleighs and 3ft reindeers, risking their lives to make their little part of the world twinkle. Those people who could still be bothered to go all out, staplegun at the ready, when it’s so much easier not to.
And, admittedly, it would be easier not to have to cook dinner for 18 people, especially when you don’t particularly like half of them (all direct blood relations excluded!). And not to have to search for presents for people who already have more stuff than Argos. And yes, it is commercial and starts in autumn but, the beauty is, it doesn’t have to be - it can be whatever you make it! (and just think how drab October would be without baubles!)
So to any bah humbugs out there- why not get your ladder out, fling a reindeer on your back and shimmy onto that roof? (taking all necessary Health and Safety precautions of course!)
It may bring a whole new perspective and perhaps a festive smile! You may even find a sad mother and son combo, pulled up outside, smiling gaumlessly back at you.

Sweet Dreams

The solemn vows Accountant and I committed to on our wedding day were swinging in his favour. Whilst he seemed to be basking in all the ‘for betters’, I was up to my neck in ‘for worst’s’.
He lay sprawled diagonally across the bed, splayed out like a tubby starfish, his hot pink ‘sweet dreams’ eye mask protecting his delicate eyes from any disturbing lights and his ears plugged tight against any noise that may jeopardise those sweet dreams.
I, however, lay curled up like a hedgehog, driven into a far corner, Accountant’s knee wedged into the base of my spine, his elbow burrowed into my cheek. However, it was the snorting and disturbing imaginary chewing that found me reaching for the elastic on his mask, pulling it back like a catapult and releasing it with a satisfying snap. With no girlie scream forthcoming, I set forefinger and thumb to mega-flick before aligning them with the most sensitive part of Accountant’s upper ear.
Every night, without exception, I use these gentle ‘coaxing’ techniques to rouse my beloved and, every night he gasps in shock, peers at me all bewildered from under his mask and enquires as to why.
Keen to discuss, I begin, “Did you know that your snoring costs me, on average, 49 minutes sleep every night? ” He turns over, outraged, and recommences his snoring.
I was very pleased with just how far I managed to get his earplug up his nose before he was peering at me again. I took the opportunity to mention that lack of sleep can contribute to mood swings.
As he re-homed his ear plug, I wondered who exactly had thought co-habitation was a good idea and, with a potential 18,250 nights of this still to come, wasn’t there somewhere better Accountant could sleep? Was that new Travelodge on the seafront open yet?
When he awoke for the third time to question why I was applying sellotape to his nostrils and stretching them across his face, I kindly offered some words of support. “Snorers should lose weight and reduce alcohol intake.” I pictured Chickie’s forlorn face earlier as we searched for chocolates on the Christmas tree.
“Where’ve they gone mummy?”
“Have one of your special dinosaur sweeties instead!” I tried. Except daddy the truffle pig, had scoffed them too.
With that in mind, I took the opportunity to experiment with Accountant’s air supply, in the vague hope that a more lasting solution might present itself. Fortunately, inspiration hit as my hand hovered over his mouth. The hippo and duck from the bed adverts – they were an equally disproportionate couple yet always seemed well rested!
Online, I added one super king snuggle memory deluxe bed to my wish list and emailed it to Accountant at work, accompanied by a short prayer that a Silent Night, all calm and bright, might be mine, all mine, this Christmas.