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...