I am spent. Having whiled away the last three hours booing like a wounded goat into several plastic storage containers, folding and refolding Boohound's newborn era threads whilst growing intoxicated by the lingering scent of Lenor’s ‘Essence of Sprog’ fabric softener, my face now resembles something between a puffer fish and bum-soothsayer, Jackie Stallone.
For in my naive ignorance of the power of a 0-3 months quacky duck onesie, today I blithely began the business of sorting out Mcmuffin's drawers with the intention of making space for his big boy dungas and summer wardrobe.
It seems bloody unfair by the way that my dunkin' doughnut, a BOY nontheless, has a seasonal collection of clothes whereas I have feck all. I own approximately one cruddy old jumper with spag bol stains for winter and a summer dress with a pigging great rip from a day of denial whereby I tried to stuff my enormous preggers bulk into it. And failed miserably. Then spent the rest of the day crying mahoosive hormonal tears and refusing to go out lest I be subjected to jeers such as: “Oi! Nelly! Pack up your trunk and naff off back to the circus would ya?!” *imaginary cockney rascal clicks heels, links arms with Dick Van Dyke and The Artful Dodger and skips off to the chimes of the Bow Bells through Laaahndaaan Tahhhn. Tsk.*
However, me being jealous that nippy longstocking has more clothes than the entire cast of Sex and the City is not the issue here. The fact that sorting through Boo's just-born togs reduced me to tears and nearly impelled me to rip off Hubble's undercrackers, wrestle him to the floor and demand that he impregnate me immediately, is. Again, nobody warned me about the power of a 0-3 months quackie duck onesie, so I am warning you.
Things is, now that rinky dink is virtually self sufficient (well not in as much that he plants taytos, cultivates Swiss chard and milks his own moo cow), so far as holding his bottle, entertaining himself and probably, if he felt so inclined, cooking a perfect lobster soufflé whilst conducting a shares trade on his Chatterphone and teaching the dog Mandarin, I feel like I am slowly becoming obsolete.
I know this is silly really. I know that I am still called upon to wipe crap from botty wots and scoop Weetabix from chins, walls and pooch’s spam, implement mountain rescue missions for scuppered attempts at bookcase scaling and perform the fish-and-flick manoeuvre for masonry nails, shards of glass and rusty razor blades that Boo has inexplicably discovered under the sofa and stuffed recklessly into his goblet but I miss the hazy, sleep deprived, covered in weird yogurty smelling poop months of total dependency.
Yes, it’s so wonderful that my little fruit bat is thriving, growing-up and becoming his own person but one never quite realises that the time between ejecting them from your twinkle to packing a box of impossibly small rompies, booties and all sorts of other cutesies, ready for the loft, has gone by lickety-split until you’re wailing like a foghorn and blowing your hooter on a teeny weeny quacky duck onesie.
Odd isn’t it? How anyone can miss being relied on completely? Well firstly, I am a bit *read: ALOT* mental. Secondly, all that neediness makes you feel super important. As important as say, oxygen or food or telly – yeah, that’s right, TELLY. Pretty freakin' important then.
Because, as much as you might have been CEO at your company during those heady days of employment, you didn’t have to breastfeed the Accounts Manager every three hours did you? *Oh you did? Er ok, sicko...* And you didn’t have to sing the receptionist to sleep because you were the only one who could or change the intern’s nap-nap whenever they did a monumental turd that stank out the office.*Oh, again, you did? What sort of frickin’ company were you running you mucky reprobate?!*
Anyway, back in those first few months, you were needed. In fact you were actually completely chuffing vital...and now you’re not. Well, not as much. You’re just a bit of a shitty party pooper really Mummy because you perpetually interfere with plug socket play and force boring old lunch down tiddlywink's throat just as he was about to conduct electricity. Bah.
So yes, as fruitloopy as it sounds, I miss being God and controlling everything and being pigging indispensable so now I’m a bit emotional and a smidge power hungry.
And now I want another baby. A tiny one that is basically as incapable as a potato. Oh quacky duck onesie, what have you done?!
Thus, to prevent myself mounting my poor, exhausted and now rather terrified hubble at every given moment and demanding another totally reliant moppet, I have taken to watching Teen Mom on MTV. A natural course of action I’m sure you’ll agree.
This programme, in case you’ve missed it (quite likely really if you're over 13 years old and haven't been grounded), is what doctors should prescribe to prolific procreators who refuse to use contraception and horny adolescents who think that parenthood looks like a reet hoot and no harder than keeping a Tamagotchi alive (which is actually pretty chuffing hard so another comparison may have been more suitable. I mean, why does one need to feed a keyring exactly? Do keys get hungry?).
Whilst I am not a teen and do not have parents that hate me / live in a shoe / sprinkle crystal meth on their Cornflakes / want their grandchild to be called Franchise, Bidet or T-Bone, the daily grind that these young Mumkins face caring for their wee ones in the first throws of parenthood changes very little as time moves on and one supposedly gets older, wiser and less libidinous *yawns at mere thought of rumpy, pulls on pjs with split in the arse and smell faintly of chips, fastens chastity belt securely over the top, swallows key and collapses face first into ungainly heap on unmade bed*. You may even find that you empathise with the mini Mumsies. And suddenly remember why you make Hubble wear eight condoms and shower in spermicide before a round of mattress dancing post-monkeychops' arrival.
Thus, if you’ve yet to start sorting your treacle tart’s too small smalls into ickle bickle piles ready to be stored away, arm yourself against broodiness - take the opportunity whilst your lovely stationary milk dud is sucking on your nip to flick over to Teen Mom.
Now dig out that quackie duck onesie. Go on, give it a good sniff. Can't even FORCE a tear can ya eh?! Even if you jab yourself repeatedly in the eye with a teething spoon you can't quite muster a blubber. And why might that be you hardened embittered old fart? Because the image that is ingrained in your mind of some spotty spud in Juicy Couture looking at her screaming newborn with utter disbelief that it has dookied up its back and created a poop toupee for itself for the 14th time in two hours, has popped up and slapped you in the face. No, really, there's no need to thank me. Thank Teen Mom - the most effective form of birth control since Y-fronts.
So, no more babies for me just yet thank you please. Guess I’d better put the scissors down and back away from the diaphragm then. Unless I want a new MTV series named: ‘I was hornswoggled by a quacky duck onesie into making multiple Boo Boos’ *swells with pride at incredibly succinct and catchy title, lights cigar and considers new career as TV fat cat* made about me.
No, perhaps not. Although I am now considering calling my next child Bidet...
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