Today I am missing the live-in help. By that I am referring to the Hubble and not a nanny I had to sack for stealing my très expensive face cream (lard. I swear by it) and rubbing her mangy little foot up and down my beloved's leg during dinner.
Papa Smurf went back to work this morning after four glorious days off at home during which I sat on my piggy wiggy boco and oinked my way through a glut of chocolate eggs and shouted such demands from the sofa as:
"Feel. Thirsty. TEEEEA!"
"Remote. Lost. FIIIIND!"
"Choc. Egg. Finito. NEEEEXT!"
and
"Nappy. Pooey. CHAAAANGE!" (ickle bickle's you understand, not mine).
I know, I know, it sounds like he is my man slave. Which he is. But he gets treated pretty flippin' well the rest of the time. It's just bank holidays when I get to dust off my crown and poke him with my jewel encrusted sceptre, scweaming for the odd cuppa and peeled grape. Besides, he is really starting to like his gimp suit now.
I freakin' LOVE April and May. Littered with bank holidays I find myself skipping about the house like a Spring lamby, drinking entire cups of tea (Yes, really. A WHOLE delicious cup. Before it gets cold. Piggin' ACE.) and sleeping in until, oooh I don't know, at least about 6.30am. Yippee.
The only thing that would make these months better in fact would be that my birthday could be relocated to say, Easter Sunday? If you can change your name by Deed Poll why can't you change your birthday eh? Might make Chrimbo a bit of a nightmare I spose with all the fruity loops opting for December 25th and pretending to be the baby Jesus. Yup, maybe that's why.
Bank holidays are not even marred by the fact that as self-employed people both Hubble and I do not get paid for these imposed vacations. No, I am quite happy to lose a few squids here and there, even paupering it up good and proper by adopting a gimpy leg and contracting a few weeping sores for effect if need be, just to have my sweetheart home and some bleedin' help with button bum.
For nobody warned me that once tinky winks start crawling, they literally don't stop. NEVER FECKING EVER. I reckon, just like the pooch chases pesky wabbits and bites postmen in her slumber, Boo crawls up Everest, across burning coals and along the full length of the Great Wall of China. Of course in his bestest dreams the Great Wall would be littered with all manner of electrical wires for him to chew on and rickety bookcases for him to climb.
No-one warned me how fast the little tinkers go either. Once Boo gets up his pace he whizzes across the floor as if some bugger has snuck in, given him a Weetabix laced with amphetamines and stuck a firework up his bot. Even getting the dog to lie strategically in the middle of the lounge to act as a speed hump is no deterrent, he simply clambers over her and keeps on truckin'. Speed kills dontcha know Boo Boo? Mummy mainly. I may need an iron lung if he keeps up this sort of lick.
So, basically, I am pooped. Running around after Boo is exhausting and no amount of baby-proofing allows for smidget stuffing the hound's paw down his throat and sniffing out my mobile to speed dial my bank manager and blow raspberries down the line. Fortunately I couldn't have phrased my feelings toward my bank manager better on that occasion. However, constantly hunting chimpy bum down, rescuing him as he attempts to abseil off the dining table and fishing fluff and oomska out of his gob is a wee bit wearying.
To make matters worse my hoover has blown up. Beyond repair. I have even tried shouting at it and kicking it but it remains on the fritz. I am not just relaying this incredibly tedious piece of information because I fancy a reet good whinge, which I do, but also because it means the carpet now appears to be generously sprinkled with Shrek's gruffnuts. So, until the clever wee Doozers from Morphy Richards turn up to shout at it a bit more in a language it understands, my little sproglet has a veritable feast laid out in front of him at every shuffle. *Neurosis shifts up a gear into 'twitchy'*
Thus to have Hubble home and enjoy the advantage of another pair of paws to help block Boo's path of destruction has been lovely. But alas, the long weekend is over and it is back to being a two person race between me and mini to see who can get to the crusty looking unidentifiables on the rug first.
Thankfully however, it is only a three day week as Willsy Poo and Katiekins (oh yes, we're very close and even have pet names for each other. You may curtsey now) have decided to tie the knot and as such, we have another bank hol. But of course you knew that.
What you didn't know is that Watie planned the timing of their nuptials around Boo Boo finding his kneesies and getting his crawl on. Knowing that I would be pooped and in need of either a clone of myself or Hubble to be present in the moments that I am on the bench catching me breath as a result of pegging it after my wickle Thundercat, the Prince and his missus decided to make their engagement a short one and get married at the time when I, weary old Mumsie, need a siesta most. TRUE STORY. *Crosses fingers and waits to be dragged snivelling to the tower for beheading over treasonous claims*
If I wasn't planning on sleeping all day Friday and leaving Hubble to run the gauntlet with Boo you know I might have organised a street party, gravy browned me legs, made bunting out of old undercrackers, baked a rock hard Victoria sponge and broke into a medley of Roll Out the Barrel / God Save the Queen for the occasion, you know, to show my gratitude.
Thing is, I'm just too chuffing cream crackered. Mahoosive thanks and all for the extra day off though Mr and Mrs Windsor, oh, and congratulations (although it should have been me obviously, am clearly Princess material). Your fondue set is in the post.
NOTE TO MUMKINS: If you would like to sign my petition to the palace to wangle a day off every time someone of royal affiliation goes up the aisle, including the Her Maj's third favourite Corgi (I have heard a rumour that it got amorous with a roguish Beagle and now they may have to wed to avoid a scandal), please leave your name, if you're not too tired to remember it or type it, in the comments section.
Tuesday 26 April 2011
Sunday 17 April 2011
Laughing (dementedly) in the face of danger
Having a look around my house this morning, I am filled with a sense of calm. The kind of calm you would experience after an extended mental illness that has seen you impersonate chickens, wear colanders as hats, bash your spam repeatedly against walls, imagine that you are Napoleon and finally, to the relief of you, all your family and chums (even the imaginary ones), carted off to the fruit farm. Yeah, the sort of peace bestowed upon a post-committed wingnut, that's it.
For today my house looks like a padded cell - a guise I was most certainly aiming for but isn't likely to get me on the pages of The Sunday Times' Style supplement - not because I am insane in the membrane you understand (just lingering this side of 'nanas I reckon) but because I have been a-baby proofing.
Sorry, it took a while to get to the point there didn't it? It may be because my new high security, padded, squishy squashy sanctuary is a little distracting. It's as if I have taken up residence in Mr Staypuft's anus.
Baby proofing - sounds easy enough doesn't it? In theory it is. You simply take a glance at your hoosey and pick out all the potential dangers to your cheeky chimpy.
However, those of you who have been through such defence armament will know that one glance uncovers that in fact you have been living in an Afghan minefield for the last five years and your lovely little scrumpy bum is only one shuffle away from being maimed / electrocuted / charred / decapitated / blown-up into a mini mushroom cloud.
The more you look, the more you realise it is a miracle that you're still alive and moving house suddenly becomes a very attractive option. For those whose tots are too teeny to worry about turning your homes into cushiony fortresses just yet and have still to experience the horrifying realisation that you live in a abominable sty, let me put it like this:
If your home was featured on Watchdog, Lynn Faulds Wood would be wagging her finger violently and screaming "pooootential diiiith trap!" in your face.
If Cowboy Builders visited, Dom Littlewood's shiny wee face would be screwed up like an angry pug whilst he jabbed his stubby pinkies into your plug sockets and became almost incomprehensibly cockney in disgust.
Worst of all, if your Mum came over and saw the squalor you have been subjecting her beloved grandie to, visualising your buttonhole lying in a pool of petrol whilst chewing on the frayed laptop lead and playing with steak knives, you'd be sent to bed without any tea.
It's this kind of neurosis that has led me to buy every item available on Amazon to protect my midgey widge from my jeopardous armpit of a dwelling and watch YouTube video after YouTube video featuring experienced Sparkies frying themselves with defective plug protectors and the like.
Long suffering Hubble has, this past month, spent every spare minute of his evenings and weekends clamping stair gates to door frames, screwing socket covers to walls, catches to drawers and mopping the dribble from my chin as I rock myself into a jibbering frenzy calculating the lurking hazards in my home (read: slum).
On the odd occasion that I am not incapacitated with terror, I have scaled the lockable pantry shelves and stored every bottle and container dotted with images of skulls and crossbones (note to chemical and pharmaceutical packaging execs: You're really not helping the hysteria with that one), the Grim Reaper or a baby exploding on the top shelf and moved heavy objects that, inexplicably, are like cat nip for smallies, down from sproglet splattering heights and out of harm's way.
So this morning when I bounced down my foam stairs into my lovely padded room I felt better than I have done in weeks. The fact that pickle wickle has decided to get off his lazy toosh and start crawling this week as well as pulling up on the pooch and using her as a walker, means also I feel rather smug and vindicated in my meticulous preparations. My Brown Owl would have been proud. Badge now please.
Who says you can't wrap them up in cotton wool? Methinks the sleepsuit I'm knitting from flame retardant, anti-suffocation, hypo-allergenic, non-toxic bubble-wrap says otherwise. In your face peril. IN. YOUR. FACE!
For today my house looks like a padded cell - a guise I was most certainly aiming for but isn't likely to get me on the pages of The Sunday Times' Style supplement - not because I am insane in the membrane you understand (just lingering this side of 'nanas I reckon) but because I have been a-baby proofing.
Sorry, it took a while to get to the point there didn't it? It may be because my new high security, padded, squishy squashy sanctuary is a little distracting. It's as if I have taken up residence in Mr Staypuft's anus.
Baby proofing - sounds easy enough doesn't it? In theory it is. You simply take a glance at your hoosey and pick out all the potential dangers to your cheeky chimpy.
However, those of you who have been through such defence armament will know that one glance uncovers that in fact you have been living in an Afghan minefield for the last five years and your lovely little scrumpy bum is only one shuffle away from being maimed / electrocuted / charred / decapitated / blown-up into a mini mushroom cloud.
The more you look, the more you realise it is a miracle that you're still alive and moving house suddenly becomes a very attractive option. For those whose tots are too teeny to worry about turning your homes into cushiony fortresses just yet and have still to experience the horrifying realisation that you live in a abominable sty, let me put it like this:
If your home was featured on Watchdog, Lynn Faulds Wood would be wagging her finger violently and screaming "pooootential diiiith trap!" in your face.
If Cowboy Builders visited, Dom Littlewood's shiny wee face would be screwed up like an angry pug whilst he jabbed his stubby pinkies into your plug sockets and became almost incomprehensibly cockney in disgust.
Worst of all, if your Mum came over and saw the squalor you have been subjecting her beloved grandie to, visualising your buttonhole lying in a pool of petrol whilst chewing on the frayed laptop lead and playing with steak knives, you'd be sent to bed without any tea.
It's this kind of neurosis that has led me to buy every item available on Amazon to protect my midgey widge from my jeopardous armpit of a dwelling and watch YouTube video after YouTube video featuring experienced Sparkies frying themselves with defective plug protectors and the like.
Long suffering Hubble has, this past month, spent every spare minute of his evenings and weekends clamping stair gates to door frames, screwing socket covers to walls, catches to drawers and mopping the dribble from my chin as I rock myself into a jibbering frenzy calculating the lurking hazards in my home (read: slum).
On the odd occasion that I am not incapacitated with terror, I have scaled the lockable pantry shelves and stored every bottle and container dotted with images of skulls and crossbones (note to chemical and pharmaceutical packaging execs: You're really not helping the hysteria with that one), the Grim Reaper or a baby exploding on the top shelf and moved heavy objects that, inexplicably, are like cat nip for smallies, down from sproglet splattering heights and out of harm's way.
So this morning when I bounced down my foam stairs into my lovely padded room I felt better than I have done in weeks. The fact that pickle wickle has decided to get off his lazy toosh and start crawling this week as well as pulling up on the pooch and using her as a walker, means also I feel rather smug and vindicated in my meticulous preparations. My Brown Owl would have been proud. Badge now please.
Who says you can't wrap them up in cotton wool? Methinks the sleepsuit I'm knitting from flame retardant, anti-suffocation, hypo-allergenic, non-toxic bubble-wrap says otherwise. In your face peril. IN. YOUR. FACE!
Sunday 10 April 2011
Mum's the word. Or at least it should be...
This week I have mainly been seething under my breath. Seething whilst drinking tea in the sunshine (as per the positively tropical weather of late) with the little tweety birds twittering and trumpety daffodils fluttering in the breeze however, is far less bleak than it is sitting in a shadowy corner of one's lounge, rocking backwards and forwards in a threadbare armchair like a Dickensian miser watching the pishing Blighty rain spatter against the window so you know, cup half full and all that.
And the reason I have been such a crosspatch? Well, one week ago today I was having a blissful Mothering Sunday, my first nonetheless, with Boo, pooch and the Hubble (my treasured spouse not the honking great space telescope you understand).
I had managed to have a bath - worth mentioning as I believe the last was when I was nine months prego, involved a giant shoe horn and me moaning and sweating profusely like a perverted Teletubbie - and removed all traces of porridge from my hair, read the paper and was settling down for an evening of smallhausen snuggling, Antiques Roadshow, tea and toast. I know, I know, I'm less Keith Richards than Cliff Richard these days but my toast DID have Marmite on it and by my reckoning, that's pretty fecking rock n' roll.
Then, just as I was gearing up for a deliciously devastating valuation dished out by my secret crush (don't judge me), tache-tastic David Battie (I said don't judge me!), from across the room on his father's knee the wee man beams, giggles and pipes up: "DAAAAADDAAAA!"
ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?
You pick Mother's Day to say your first word and it's "Dadda?". A giant cloud of huff instantly descended upon my evening and I felt the hot surge of stampy feet and sniffy, snorty sulk rise up through my body and into my nostrils, inducing them to flare like a peeved warthog.
'Dadda' smiled smugly at me from his throne and much to my annoyance, provoked our little button to repeat his new communiqué, you know, just to rub it in:
Hubble / Stinking Bastard: "What did you say Boo Boo? Did you say 'Dadda'?"
Boo: "Dadda. Dadda. Dadda. DAAAAAAAAADDAAAAAA!"
Poo bags. I went to bed.
Now, I have read the baby books and know full well, in the teeny tiny sensible part of my mind, that little cherubs find it far easier to enunciate "babba" "gagga" and "dadda" hence why most babies utter these words first.
I was counting on my mini being amongst the refreshingly beatnik minority however, and stroking my ego with a beautifully constructed first sentence that went along the lines of:
"I adore thee Mummy, you are my whole world and I love you more than words could possibly express."
A little ambitious perhaps. "Mamma" would have done though. I coulda gone to bed and slept soundly and vaingloriously next to my miffed Hubble with that.
But no, instead Pops gets another point and I am left floundering once again somewhere in the shallow end of the parental dream pool, swallowing verruca riddled Elastoplasts and trying the avoid the floating turds. I know it's unhealthy to have a league table of favouritism that charts how much your dinky dotes on each of you but no-one knows that I have one (apart from you now), not even my beloved (unless he too reads this. Not that he'll have time, he'll be too busy being my son's bestest and practising being smug).
So here we are. A week of scowling and seething and I now have the permanent expression of a Jack Russell terrier who has just seen an unsuspecting rat he wants to bite on the bot.
Still, I have a cunning plan to win back my crown as Mum-ber 1 and laugh victoriously in the face of Hubble.
I am considering repeating the word "Mamma" into a Dictaphone for twelve hours straight, sewing it into Wibbly Pig and playing the recording back to monkey chops as he softly slumbers. I believe this is known as subliminal messaging and is very possibly illegal. Frankly a meagre prison sentence seems a small price to pay to regain my parental sovereignty - just as long as I hear Boo chirp my name before I'm led off to my (likely padded) cell.
The second option is a little more drastic in the form of a sex and name change to 'Dadda', which I'm not quite as into if I'm honest. Not because I think being a fella would be totally rubbish per se but more that I'm likely to turn into Brian Blessed if I take on any more facial hair. Yup, they don't tell you THAT in the lovely floaty pregnancy books do they? I do believe condom wrappers should feature pictures of bearded ladies, Santa, goats and David Bellamy alongside the warning: 'Fasten securely, pregnancy may cause Yetiness'.
I'm not ruling option two out though. Never say never. I'm willing to get me a winkle if midgey widge persists in his exclusive Daddy worship.
In the meantime however, I shall sit here in the sunshine plying my wearying vocal chords with honey and lemon, recording my sweet revenge. I'm pinning all my hopes on you Wibbly Pig. Once you were a mere whimsy, a pre-school plaything covered in Boo Boo's dribble. Tonight my furry porcine pal, you are a double agent.
Sweet dreams my wickle peanut, MA-MA-MA MAMMMMMMA loves you...
And the reason I have been such a crosspatch? Well, one week ago today I was having a blissful Mothering Sunday, my first nonetheless, with Boo, pooch and the Hubble (my treasured spouse not the honking great space telescope you understand).
I had managed to have a bath - worth mentioning as I believe the last was when I was nine months prego, involved a giant shoe horn and me moaning and sweating profusely like a perverted Teletubbie - and removed all traces of porridge from my hair, read the paper and was settling down for an evening of smallhausen snuggling, Antiques Roadshow, tea and toast. I know, I know, I'm less Keith Richards than Cliff Richard these days but my toast DID have Marmite on it and by my reckoning, that's pretty fecking rock n' roll.
Then, just as I was gearing up for a deliciously devastating valuation dished out by my secret crush (don't judge me), tache-tastic David Battie (I said don't judge me!), from across the room on his father's knee the wee man beams, giggles and pipes up: "DAAAAADDAAAA!"
ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?
You pick Mother's Day to say your first word and it's "Dadda?". A giant cloud of huff instantly descended upon my evening and I felt the hot surge of stampy feet and sniffy, snorty sulk rise up through my body and into my nostrils, inducing them to flare like a peeved warthog.
'Dadda' smiled smugly at me from his throne and much to my annoyance, provoked our little button to repeat his new communiqué, you know, just to rub it in:
Hubble / Stinking Bastard: "What did you say Boo Boo? Did you say 'Dadda'?"
Boo: "Dadda. Dadda. Dadda. DAAAAAAAAADDAAAAAA!"
Poo bags. I went to bed.
Now, I have read the baby books and know full well, in the teeny tiny sensible part of my mind, that little cherubs find it far easier to enunciate "babba" "gagga" and "dadda" hence why most babies utter these words first.
I was counting on my mini being amongst the refreshingly beatnik minority however, and stroking my ego with a beautifully constructed first sentence that went along the lines of:
"I adore thee Mummy, you are my whole world and I love you more than words could possibly express."
A little ambitious perhaps. "Mamma" would have done though. I coulda gone to bed and slept soundly and vaingloriously next to my miffed Hubble with that.
But no, instead Pops gets another point and I am left floundering once again somewhere in the shallow end of the parental dream pool, swallowing verruca riddled Elastoplasts and trying the avoid the floating turds. I know it's unhealthy to have a league table of favouritism that charts how much your dinky dotes on each of you but no-one knows that I have one (apart from you now), not even my beloved (unless he too reads this. Not that he'll have time, he'll be too busy being my son's bestest and practising being smug).
So here we are. A week of scowling and seething and I now have the permanent expression of a Jack Russell terrier who has just seen an unsuspecting rat he wants to bite on the bot.
Still, I have a cunning plan to win back my crown as Mum-ber 1 and laugh victoriously in the face of Hubble.
I am considering repeating the word "Mamma" into a Dictaphone for twelve hours straight, sewing it into Wibbly Pig and playing the recording back to monkey chops as he softly slumbers. I believe this is known as subliminal messaging and is very possibly illegal. Frankly a meagre prison sentence seems a small price to pay to regain my parental sovereignty - just as long as I hear Boo chirp my name before I'm led off to my (likely padded) cell.
The second option is a little more drastic in the form of a sex and name change to 'Dadda', which I'm not quite as into if I'm honest. Not because I think being a fella would be totally rubbish per se but more that I'm likely to turn into Brian Blessed if I take on any more facial hair. Yup, they don't tell you THAT in the lovely floaty pregnancy books do they? I do believe condom wrappers should feature pictures of bearded ladies, Santa, goats and David Bellamy alongside the warning: 'Fasten securely, pregnancy may cause Yetiness'.
I'm not ruling option two out though. Never say never. I'm willing to get me a winkle if midgey widge persists in his exclusive Daddy worship.
In the meantime however, I shall sit here in the sunshine plying my wearying vocal chords with honey and lemon, recording my sweet revenge. I'm pinning all my hopes on you Wibbly Pig. Once you were a mere whimsy, a pre-school plaything covered in Boo Boo's dribble. Tonight my furry porcine pal, you are a double agent.
Sweet dreams my wickle peanut, MA-MA-MA MAMMMMMMA loves you...
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