I am also waiting for the police to inform me that Mothercare has lifted their restraining order and are thankful that I have seen the error of my ways and stopped licking their windows and scaring their pregnant shoppers by dropping to my knees, gently stoking my face with nipple shields and weeping uncontrollably whilst barking all sorts of unsought advice at them like some deranged 'end-of-the-world-is-nigh' sandwich board moon buggy.
Thusly yes, aside from the odd episode whereby I sneak up behind unsuspecting Mumkins and give their newborn's head a damn good sniff in Sainsburys, I'm feeling much better thank you.
So much better in fact that I have gone back to rooting around in my goober schnitzel's bedroom, with the intention of making space for all the squillions of toys and sparkly fun shit that boohound will be gratefully receiving for his 1st birthday next month *gulps at sheer magnitude of occasion, senses familiar gush of broodiness, gets smidge tearful as collates mind montage of poignant moments in the last year accompanied by suitable soundtrack such as The Supremes' 'Baby Love', pulls self together when Hubble mentions The Cupboard and invokes spirit of old iron bollocks, Margaret Thatcher, whilst repeating mantra 'knick knacks on, no harm done; knick knacks off, up chuffing duff.'*.
However, instead of crumbling into a fit of hysteria over a simple piece of cotton (See?! If I wasn't like sooo over the quackie duck onesie and as mentally Zen as Buddha then I couldn't refer to it as a mere piece of cloth now could I? Yep, that's right, these days I'm a double hard bastard) I noticed all the purchases I made when I was pregnant that were either still in their packaging or had been used once and then hurled into the back of the wardrobe in disgust due to its 'doesn't do anything like what it pigging says it does on the tin' ineptitude.
In fact the pile of useless frippery that promises to keep your baby breathing, make them into a mini Stephen Hawkin (without hopefully the Motor Neurone Disease and the voice of a Speak & Spell) and make them happier than teensy wickle piglets in poop, that I assembled, was quite astounding.
Fortunately I have no morals whatsoever and will quite happily sell all these feckless fandangles to overly neurotic, hormonally charged bun bakers on eBay. But for those of you who might be thinking about buying them and are, lets face it, brilliant and probably very beautiful and intelligent for even thinking about reading my blog, here's the shit that Mr Bigass Baby Brand, the porky pie telling pedlar of crud, says you need when I, slightly unhinged poop cleaner of bot, say otherwise:
* Under mattress breathing monitor - they go off ALL the chuffing time making you vomit into your mouth, run like a crazy horse up the stairs, trip up and smack your spam on the landing. But never when your baby has stopped breathing. Because babies like most people, as stupidly inexperienced as they are, tend to just carry on, you know, breathing because it helps them live really and they get that. Clever babies.
They are designed with the sole intention of scaring the bejesus out of you and frankly there's enough to be worried about thank you. Plus you will be standing over your mini potato head for the first few weeks (read: FOREVER) watching them sleep / holding a mirror up to their nostrils / poking them in the face every 25 seconds to make sure they're still alive, so they are needless. And a waste of dosh. Save it and spend it on Gin, much better for calming ones nerves.
* Baby sponges - as rough as a cats anus. Only useful if you want to sand back your baby's bot and give it a lovely French polish. Serves me right for shopping at TheChildCatcher.com
* Pram shoes - Yes they're cute but unless you're giving birth to a foal, your newborn isn't going to be walking and thus necessitate shoes any time soon. However, if you find your lilliputian does exit your womb and suddenly make a run for the door, please give me a call, I would like to
* Infant Stimulation Mobiles - Bedtime. Traditionally a time for catching zs not, as these bastard contraptions seem to think, for whipping your poobum into a frenzy or encourage them to snort lines of talc or indulge in a scratch mitt rendition of 'big fish little fish cardboard box'. Bedtime is not for raving. GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP.
* Pee-pee Teepee - "A must-have diapering accessory for newborn boys; excellent baby shower gift with guaranteed giggles!" Yes, I nearly died laughing. Putting ice cream cones on my child's penis always reduces me to tears.
* Wipes warmer - if you want your binky bubblebum to grow up like Little Lord Fauntleroy then this is the product for you. Your life will be littered with scweams of: "Mamahhhh! What is this muck you're trying to feed me? READY BREK?! Do I LOOK like a backstreet ruffian? Fetch the Fois Gras immédiatement and tell that simpleton, Sir Poochalot, to bring the moo cow walker around, I feel like a turn about the estate", and the like.
The choice is yours but heed these wise words from, erm, some very clever Mumkin who may or may not write this blog: "A toasty botty wot a coddled crumpet createth." Yeah I know right?! I'm basically the Dalai bloody Lama.
* Steam sterilizer - This honking great space station of a twat takes up nearly one whole length of the kitchen and melts everything in its path into submission. You may as well invite a Dalek to sit on your work top and ask it to lick all the germs from the bottles. Get a microwave one. Or a dishwasher. Or a Dalek...
* Baby cologne - Because babies smell DISGUSTING don't they.
* Swaddling blanket - Upon finding himself out of a job, ousted by the dastardly Ben Shephard, poor Gordon 'Krypton Factor' Burns decided to get his own back by inventing the world's hardest puzzle.
Introducing the Swaddling Blanket - 25 pieces of Velcro that can never and will never meet up to make a fastening and 8 frustrating holes for which no-one knows the purpose (whose baby has 8 limbs? Oh right yes, you Mrs Tarantula, I do apologise. Oh no no noooo I wasn't all suggesting that your baby is a freak...although YOU are for getting it a with a spider, dirty arachnid fiddler).
Well Gordo, you succeeded in your cunning plan, my brain is now but a pile of liquidised turnip. And my wee flipflop is cold. Oh but hang on, there's a proper blanket over there! And looky here! If I wrap it around nutterly butterly...it SWADDLES him! Who knew eh? Who kneeeew!? Genius.*
I could go on but I fear I may sully my reputation *hears shouts of "What reputation? You're a twazzock love!" Meh* by painting myself as a compulsive shopper of total crapola and also wildly offend any of you who may have bought this stuff and found it to be absolutely chuffing wizard. *Bum squeaks uncomfortably in seat*.
The moral of this story boys and girls is to never go shopping when you are hormonal. If you feel like your belly dweller is telling you to buy this stuff because he/she neeeeeds it, back away from the Pee Pee Teepee and reverse out of Boots in the manner of someone who has just detonated a bomb (always a laugh to make the shop assistants brick their undercrackers and create unnecessary panic, narf!), go and find a cake shop, stuff yourself until bilious and then count all the money you didn't just spend on an item to decorate your loft.
Right, I'm off to coerce pudding club dafties on eBay into buying all the doohickeys and floss I just warned you off. *Oh hello Mr Devil, yes, yes I know you're here to take me to hell for my acts of villainous extortion and cashing in on the misfortune of wibbly gestationals but is it ok if I just wait til the auction for the Wipes Warmer ends? Hang on, you don't fancy it do you? You know, in case we hear the pitter-patter of tiny cloven hooves one day? Awww go on, £2.99 'Buy it Now', for the warmest toosh in the underworld. Bargain!*
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