A Blessing in Disguise

Hi all, Sorry it’s been a couple of months since I have put finger to keyboard. You know what life’s like. One minute you're eating your own snot, the next you find that you're all grown up, running about the garden pulling the heads of daffodils… and still eating your own snot!

Actually, I have not grown up as quickly and Mummy and Daddy first thought. They were telling everybody I was 20 months old, but they clearly can’t count as I’m still a few months younger than that. Doesn’t really matter though, as daddy has chucked his baby development books away and allowed me to “freestyle” developmentally at my own speed. I’m right up with the big kids in some things, but I’m not in any real hurry and I quite enjoy where I am right now. It’s nice to have a time in my life where I have no pressure. I spent the first wee bit of my life being monitored and assessed by the Storks so it’s nice just to kick back for a wee while at least.  I kinda think that I might be faced with some situations later on in life where I am going to have to put my big girls pants on, thankfully I have Mummy and Daddy making the tough decisions for me at the moment  so I can just relax, have fun and  be cute little ol’  meeeee!  I do loose a bit of sleep at night worrying about Daddy...or, should I say, The Caped Crusader, as he likes to be known these days. Daddy’s loose grip on reality and the belief that he is a Superhero only cast a shadow over what natural talents he does possess, for example, he can sing, and frequently does, all the verse’s of Paradise by the Dashboard Lights while I am having a rub down with a damp chamois and he has also been witnessed to out “Head, Shoulder, Knee’s and Toes”, Broughty Ferry’s finest Boogie Lady. Daddy did say that he will be gripped in another dance off with her in due course.

 

Let’s not forget about my own talents and super amazing skills, most of which I do tend to keep hidden from the Old’s. Give it a couple of years and I should be tall enough to enter the Open at St Andrew’s. When I win it I’ll be sure to thank Auntie MoMo for letting me practise with Uncle Pat’s Maruman Majesty Prestigio Driver in the backies. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned the golf clubs…hmmm, Oh, well, too late:-0

So, Gentle Reader, what has been happening over the past few months….. no, no, don’t answer yourself, it was a rhetorical question silly. Well, most of you will be aware that I have lived a whirlwind life of social functions and Code Browns since the Storks delivered me. Well, nothing much has changed really. I still enjoy being the centre of attention, babbling and chattering with the best of them and the code browns still come thick and fast, if you will pardon the phrase, due to me not taking any interest in the potty which sit’s, waiting patiently for me to poop in. It’s not like I don’t understand the concept, but at the moment it’s much more fun to use it as a hat than to park my bum on it. To be honest, it’s kinda boring... bog standard you might say... tee hee. Mummy and Daddy were supposed to be getting me one which was recommended on Facebook by a “Friend” who they “Liked”. This potty was the Lexus model of potty’s and even dispensed stickers when one had done a poo. That’s the bad boy that I want. None of your rubbish potty’s, with no flashing lights or sticker dispensers, from the local ASDA.

EPIC FAIL!!!!!!!!!

Goodness, I fare got myself worked up there didn’t I. Actually worked up might be a good  middle name for me  had Mummy  and Daddy not given me far better ones. I like my middle names and it’s nice to be named after my Granny and a Cook, who Daddy say’s, saved his life. I’m sure I shall hear a lot more about these folk and others as I grow up. Mummy and Daddy’s people automatically become my people too. Them’s the rules!

Gentle Reader, See these Terrible Two’s, no fun at all, I said nooooo fun at all. My brain has decided that I am really keen to develop and explore, but I haven’t quite got the physical ability to really do all that I want to yet. I’m not too hot on sharing either and I certainly don’t figure into situations what other people want. I take the strop really easy and I seem to burst into tears for no reason. Daddy says he’s used to this from other members of the household, so nothing really comes as a shock to him. He’s just grateful that all the sharp implements are out of reach for me at the moment. He said he was contemplating building a shed in a few years time in which to seek sanctuary.

 

My routine has also changed a lot too. Mummy has gone back to her full time career as a Take a Break Agony Aunt and I now packed off to be looked after during the day by my child minder, Windie. I’m good with all this though. Windie has other Little People which I really enjoy playing with, so I have lots of fun. Daddy always makes my lunch for me and writes me a wee note saying how much I am loved and what delicacy I am having for Lunch. Daddy must think I have the short term memory of a goldfish if he doesn’t think that I don’t realise that he is simply giving me the leftovers from the previous evening’s dinner with some added sweetcorn. They do try though, so hats off to them. Even at 2 am when I wake up, having decided I am bored and want a cuddle, Daddy will nudge Mummy out of bed to go and fetch me. I really enjoy doing this, but try my hardest not to kick the backside out of it. I suspect sleep deprivation is not what Mummy and Daddy intentionally signed up to, although I am sure that they realised that it would probably come as part of a package deal. I take it easy on both of them as I figure that I had a head start on them and they have to do a wee bit of catching up.

On the whole I think I am a pretty good Little Person. I suspect threats of “We’ll tell Santa”, “we’ll tell the Easter Bunny and latterly “We’ll tell the sheriff” have all been utilised effectively to curb my wayward tendencies to some degree.  With this in mind, Mummy and Daddy decided to have me blessed. Daddy joked.... at least I hope he joked....that the reason for this was that he would be able to tell God if I was being naughty. Silly Daddy.

Mummy and Daddy tell me that they had been married by a Hospital Chaplain a gazillion years ago and had such a nice time that they thought it would be nice to have me blessed and welcomed into the family by another Chaplain, this time fea the cooncil….as they say around these parts. Daddy also thought it would be a good idea to ask mummy to renew their wedding vows at the same time. I seem to remember mummy was happy about this right up until the moment when daddy broke the news that there would be no new rings.

Mummy and Daddy started planning my big day by having a meeting with Charlie (The Chaplain). He’s Daddy’s works Chaplain so Daddy kinda knew him from reading his email sermons  over the past year. Every month Charlie emailed a short story to the good people of the local Cooncil. These parables, like any good episode of iCarly had a point to them and, very much like iCarly one had to sometimes look for the less obvious instructive lesson therein. Anyway, Charlie was a top man, if a little “Avant Garde” but, as Mummy and Daddy had seldom done things in life in a in any way at the right time or straightforwardly, Charlie was indeed the man for the job.

The initial meeting with Charlie was somewhat spoilt by the Hound jumping up on him quicker than he could whip out his Ventolin Inhaler and wheeze that he was particularly allergic to Dogs. Mummy and Daddy then spent the next 5 minutes attempting to capture the Hound who was by this time lying on her back and being particularly determined in flashing her bits at the Minister! Not a good start. Just as I was about to quickly develop Catholic Guilt, Charlie advised that as a work place chaplain, he was not affiliated with any particular branch of Christianity and that there was no intrinsic need for us to bat for any particular team, so to speak. Mummy and Daddy were happy at this and breathed a wee sigh of relief... as did Charlie, when the Ventolin kicked in.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that my folks owned a huge pavilion in the middle of a park.

Imagine my surprise when they told me that they didn’t, but instead they had rented it “fea a man fea the Cooncil”.

Much, behind the scenes, activity ensued and the day of the 26^th came round a lot sooner than we had all envisaged. Mummy and Daddy had gone on a huge shopping spree and purchased gallons of South African Sparking Wine and the enough Fruitshoots to turn the most laid back little person into a sippy cup wielding  psychopath. Daddy had been up for nights making me a pink cake with a pair of wee booties on it. It was OK, but nothing compared to the pair of Pink High Tops which Mummy bought me to wear with my bonny new Frock. Mummy got a new dress for herself and, having read Daddy’s mind, something which she is apparently prone to do, bought him a new suit. You would think that nothing really would go wrong at this stage. Well, you would be wrong!!

With the ceremony planned to kick off at 2.30 pm, Daddy decided to get dressed and load his boy racer car up with his body weight in cake. As he prepared to de-label his lovely new Tesco suit he realised that Mummy had been hiding a dark, dark secret. She was in fact Colour Blind. Clearly, if Daddy had known this previously he would have assumed correctly that Mummy’s outlandish colour coordination and dress sense  was due to problematic Cone Cells as opposed to an underlying  Mania. In the cold light of day it was clear that the Jacket was black and the trousers charcoal Gray. Clearly Daddy didn’t want to have me blessed and renew his wedding vows wearing a suit which made him resemble a semi stirred Double Macchiato from Starbucks, so after exchanging a  few complimentary words with mummy he swiftly leaped into his boy racer car and took off down the road to Tesco. Word has it that Daddy accosted a rather rotund lady in the clothes department and enlisted her assistance to acquire matching jacket and trousers though this may not have gone right the first time, necessitating Daddy to once more return to Tesco, eat humble pie and finally leave with a matching ensemble. The notion of a matching waistcoat proved too much however, and Daddy was subsequently forced to purchase a white shirt having previously hoped that the waistcoat would have effectively covered up the blood stain, caused by some unpleasantness, I would imagine, on the shirt he had originally planned to wear.

Much hyperventilating ensued, but, in the end, we all arrived appropriately dressed to take our place in front of our people to welcome me into the family and to introduce me officially to God. I’m not sure where I stand on the latter, but I guess I am happy that I don’t have to be at the moment and I can let Mummy and Daddy take care of these things until I am bigger.

Mummy and Daddy had invited so many people. Most of them had met me before, but some of them hadn’t so I decided to be extra cute for them all. The ceremony went by in a whirl. Mummy said nice things about Daddy and Daddy said nice things about Mummy and everyone said nice things about me. No one mentioned the suit thankfully. My Godmother’s Lara and Vicky, joined Mummy, Daddy and I at the front and Charlie said some nice words to welcome me. To be honest, I really can’t remember too much. I’m only little. I did get a gazillion presents and eat my body weight in cake. Everywhere I looked there was someone with a camera wanting to take pictures of me. Mummy initially said that all the camera’s reminded her of the makeup aisle in Tesco, but then realised that the main culprit was Daddy’s Italian colleague who was working on the principle that if a camera have a 8 gig SD card you have, by law, to fill it to capacity. He also presented to be of the opinion that it would be unsportsmanlike not to racially stereotype as an Italian Paparazzo!

Well, it’s time for my bed now so I will say good night and hand you over to Daddy for the last few words.

On behalf of YM and I, we would like to thank everyone who has been a part of LP’s life thus far. We are so grateful to have had you all in our lives thus far and hope that you will remain so for years to come. As LP say’s, you are our people. LP has an extraordinary normal life and we never forget how blessed we are to have her in the middle of it.

 

'Til next time.......

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chocolate Angel Delight

Hi Gentle Reader. Oh Oh Oh where to start……….. I’m back after a wee sabbatical, so thanks to LP for keeping the home fires burning….  Not that I would trust our lovely daughter with anything remotely combustable… or pointy or non water soluble come to think of it.

Gentle Reader, we live in dangerous times and there are risks skulking round every corner, with their collars turned up and their hair slicked back, thinking they are too cool for school. Following some unpleasantness at work this week where I was "named and shamed" for not completing some online training, I feel that my once lackadaisical approach to Health and Safety has now been replaced with a keen interest in all things safety. I should point out that my interest is not in any way the same, or as concerning as my Antipodian Sister's fascination for Fire and Rescue personnel. By fascination I mean lust. AA's obsession with Firemen and all things Irish caused South Island in New Zealand to be placed on high alert during the recent St Patrick Day Celebrations.......To be sure, what could possibly go wrong?
I would also like to point out that, having taken up the gauntlet of online training I scored an acceptable 85% in the exam, so LP, YM and indeed my colleagues can sleep safe in the knowledge that I will not be rushing into a building any time soon in order to extricate them. I will merely raise the alarm, but only if it is safe to do so.

My new found confidence has afforded me the opportunity to flirt with danger a little too. It is indeed true that risk can actually be seen as a positive thing and that there is a lot to be said for, as ABBA once sang, taking a "ch-ch-chance".

By way of testing tis hypothesis, in the past few weeks I have taken to cooking lunch at work as I find myself in a slightly awkward and embarrassing position now that Clarkies, the local baker’s, have started to use me in their advertisements in order to purvey more pie’s to the unsuspecting general public. I am also in morning training to prepare LP for commencing attendance of her child minder, who sadly is not Scandanavian……nor in her 20’s, a fact which I have yet to bring to the attention of YM. This means that I have little time in the morning to create a packed lunch or to have more than one cup of coffee and the leftovers of LP’s, not inconsiderable, mountain of fresh fruit and toasted Hot Cross Bun (or as LP say’s "hod-cwo-bum"). My Manager who is affectionately known as "Posh Aunty Laura" (PAL) to LP, appears to casually present at the kitchen door around 12:30 pm, precisely when the room takes on the atmosphere of sweaty Turkish prison, as I attempt to cook pasta with the minimum of equipment or indeed crockery. On the day’s that PAL is not counting calories she assumes a Dickensian pose holding out the glass turntable of a long defunct microwave in her hands waiting to be fed. On one particularly memorable day I just happened (as you do) to have taken receipt of some Summer Truffles (that’s another story). I suggested to PAL that she may wish to have some of the Truffle shaved over her pasta. PAL, my risk averse Manager, recoiled at the very thought and stated that she had "better not " as she had not tried them before and, due to her well publicised allergy to Kumquats had taken to wearing an Epipen round her neck which was frequently confused by less knowledgeable members of the public as a electronic Cigarette. With some persuasion PAL eventually capitulated, but only after I reminded her that it is not every day that a subordinate offers her Linguini with Truffles and Smoked Salmon of a lunchtime. I am, ehm, happy to report that Lunchtime went off without the need to perform a Cricothyrotomy with a blunt knife and a Bic pen.....sadly.

Clearly there are areas in our lives which we can visualise a risk and then take appropriate action. That said, there are also things that lurk, quietly, patiently waiting to reap havoc on the unsuspecting….

Chocolate Angel Delight is one such thing.

Let me take you on a journey…. When I was a very wee boy I lived with my Granny. Everyone called her Bambi, but no one really knew why. It would be fair to say that Bambi taught me how to cook. She made short crust pastry, baked cakes, roasted lamb and made the sort of casserole that you fantasise over. One of my abiding memories was of her making noodles so thin that you could see the pattern of a tea towel through them. Sadly, she then hung the long strands of noodle over a pulley which was suspended from the nicotine stained ceiling and gently wafted by the smoke of many Benson and Hedges cigarettes eagerly consumed by my rather wheezie Grandmother. I remember picking mint, which grew wild in the local park and was only occasionally mistaken for nettles, and it then being dried out in an airing cupboard prior to Bambi deftly chopping it with a strange circular contraption with a zigzag blade, to make mint sauce. Bambi was and continues to be my culinary role model as I hope, one day, I will be LP’s.

So, I hear you ask what has all this to do with Chocolate Angel Delight? Well, there were two desserts that I remember from my childhood. This fact is odd in itself as Bambi produced apple pies and steamed puddings which I now attempt to emulate but never quite manage. The first of the memorable desserts was Bird’s Trifle. This, my young or indeed overseas friends was and still is a trifle in a box which you reconstituted with the appropriate fluid. Despite the number of chemicals therein, Bird’s Trifle was absolutely amazing and my job was to sprinkle the hundreds and thousands on top though, sadly, there was never enough! As much as I loved Bird’s Trifle it was more a Sunday lunch dessert back in the day. Chocolate Angel delight was a week day pudding. I fondly remember Bambi helping me use a rotary whisk to combine the ice cold milk and chocolate flavoured chemicals prior to it being pored into glassware, which I seem to recollect was redeemed from accrued vouchers from the local VG shop.

Soooooooo, Imagine my surprise when YM spontaneously presented LP and I with ikeaaaaaaaaaa plastic bowl’s full of Chocolate Angel Delight. Gentle Reader, I know you won’t see this as anything other than a frankly mundane event. I ask of you to look further into the significance and indeed irony of this.

It’s funny how there are probably a million and one things that LP has done over the months which could be considered as significant moments or even developmental milestones, why is it that I will always remember Chocolate Angel Delight in the same way that I remember Bambi making Mint Sauce all those years ago? In reality, it’s easy to see the interconnected link. The concept of "Set and setting" demonstrates a bond between my mindset and the environment in which I inhabit.

Please allow for some atmospheric, swirly music and a jump forward of 40 odd years and consider the wee ikeaaaa bowl’s brimming over with Chocolate Angel Delight placed in front of LP who is sitting in her ikeaaaaaa highchair having just devoured mince, sweetcorn and roasted new potatoes (Gonna be some funky Code Brown’s tonight!). YM and I had, by this time, adopted the "sod it we were going to replace the carpet anyway" approach to parenting after having finally said goodbye to the Storks and decided that LP was big enough and displayed the appropriate amount of manual dexterity whilst utilising cutlery. LP had demonstrated this having previously speared a slice of lorne Sausage with all the skill of an Amazonian tribesman. It was indeed time to remove the stabalisers and allow LP to attempt pudding by herself. Although LP has developed good skills in the cutlery department, which should be praised, it is clear that she has not reached a stage where she should be left unsupervised with a grapefruit Knife or indeed a lobster pick and allowed to simply get on with it. If this were the case untold damage would befall our home and I suspect the hound’s, quite legendary, patience would be sorely tested.

As LP armed herself with her plastic spoon YM and I should have realised the writing was on the wall. I say writing, but what I actually mean was the Chocolate Angel delight was. As I mentioned earlier LP has grasped the stabbing of foodstuffs with a plastic fork, but is perhaps less proficient with a spoon, having not graduated to "scooping" yet. LP lunged towards her bowl of Chocolate Angel Delight with a demonic glint in her eyes and her wee purple plastic spoon making a frantic stabbing motion. With some force the spoon penetrated the mousse causing the bowl to fire off LP’s Ikeaaaaa high chair and wing the hound. This, in turn, caused the hound, who had taken to circling round LP’s high chair like a great white shark waiting for a 70’s prom queen to go skinny dipping, to charge off, shaking her once bonnie coat in a vain attempt to dislodge globules of Chocolate Angel Delight. LP found all this to be quite hilarious. She demonstrated her deep joy of the situation and simultaneously displayed solidarity with The Hound by smearing what Chocolate Angel Delight which was still adhering to her spoon all over her face and hair. It has to be said that a little Chocolate Angel Delight, goes a long, long way. YM pointed out that that Chocolate Angel delight may have been the work of Beelzbub himself and therefore, by name alone, would have fallen foul of the Trade Descriptions Act. YM also pointed out that bath time was my responsibility and therefore it was my job alone to bathe LP

Now, where did I put those coal tongs?

a fishy story

Hi fwends!!!!

It’s one excited LP here. Daddy is taking a break as he needed to recover after swimming today, but more of that later if there is time…..

Well, I’m now not kicking the backside of being 18 months old, nah, it doesn’t really mean too much to me either really. Well, it wouldn’t have if Mummy and Daddy hadn’t been sent loads of books from wee Alex Salmond telling me what I should be doing for my age and stage. YAWN!!! Ok, so there is nothing like having a wee bit of a benchmark to work around, but to be honest, I am happy just growing up at my own pace in my own time in God's own country.

Anyhoooooo… More of Mr Salmond later, but for now it’s time to talk about my favourite subject… toy’s.

For those who have not been lucky enough to visit The Hood in recent months, you should be aware that I have like a gazillion toys. To be honest, I am soooo lucky that I don’t really know exactly how many toys I have. This may be due to the fact that I am only little and therefore can’t count. Mummy and Daddy also feel that there is a bit of dubiety about my concept of what precisely constitutes a toy. OK, so I have a “Toy bucket” which looks suspiciously like it was purchased in Wickes and then retrofitted with Bob the Builder stickers. Yes, I found this ironic too. My toy bucket is not filled with concrete and off cuts of coving, rather, it is overflowing with Duck related toys’ One La La, several keyboards and a microphone which Daddy uses to do Darth Vader (“LP I am your Father”) and Elvis (“Thank you very much”) impressions. If you step away from the Nirvana of the Toy box there are many, many other toys which I regularly use to climb on furniture, overturn on the Hound or simply chew. Antipodean Aunty (AA) and WSG (wicked Step Granny, who isn’t really wicked at all) has been particularly generous with regard to toys. For weeks after the Storks delivered me to Mummy and Daddy there was a constant stream of Post Office vans queuing up at the door with deliveries of crocodiles, piranha fish and indigenous tribes people……well all the boxes did have Amazon on them……Tee Hee

Anyhoo, back to Mr Salmond. It’s been a fishy kinda week. As I mentioned earlier wee Eck and his pals in the Scottish Government sent me a big pile of books which, I think, Daddy enjoys more than me. It’s odd the folk who are sending me books. I got ton’s from Dolly Parton (really) before the Storks even delivered me to Mummy and Daddy and now I’m getting the first Minister delivering me books via a big blue bus that drew up outside the local parent and toddler Chapter House a week or so ago. I say drew up, to be clear, it was more of a drive by and lobbing of books out of the window. To be honest, I didn’t really see if it was Alex doing the lobbing, might have been though.  The upshot of this is that Mummy and Daddy got a ship load of books, I’m sure mummy said ship…hmmm…, some with Nursery Rhymes, some with songs and some that just inform the olds where I should be developmentally, well,  within a 6 month window anyway. To be honest, Mummy seems to have a wee bit of a relaxed approach to this which I find works best. Daddy seems to have developed a competitive streak, which, he say’s isn’t helped by a colleague returning to work after maternity leave. Apparently her wee boy is now able to throw a miniature or “fun size” Nemo branded Frisbee, say at least 14 and a half words and has sat… I said sat… on a potty, which is more than I have done. Throwing a Frisbee is way off on my “Things to do before I’m Two” list, as I am just getting used to using my opposable thumbs to chuck the hound's drool encrusted ball back. As for words, I can say all that I really need to say for the moment “Mummy, Daddy, Doigy, Ball, Juice, Nana (as in Ban) and Phone” the extent of my vocabulary has served me well for the past week or so and Daddy read in a book that I understand 10 times the number of words I say and that I learn a new word once I have heard it over 500 times. To be honest, I wish the olds didn’t know this. They have entered into a really boring competition in an attempt to manipulate my vocabulary to their own ends. It gets a wee bit boring when Mummy keeps on saying to me “Daddy’s a bum” and, equally Daddy should realise that I’m not going to say “Mummy Farted”. As for a potty, well, I have to thank Daddy for explaining what one of those is. Daddy was perhaps not the best person to do so as he explained that I really didn’t have the plumbing to be standing up to pee, which, to be honest, I tend to do in the bath. This conversation was interspersed with awkward silences and we both agreed to leave such conversations to Mummy in the future.

I’ve digressed again. I seem to remember that I was talking about all the toy’s I have, well my absolute favourite is a wee Little Mermaid cassette thingie that plays “Under the Sea” sadly I took this statement a little too literally, but more of this later. The cassette thingie was somewhat of a family heirloom, having been given to Daddy a decade ago by a colleague who knew about, but never judged his “fondness” for Ariel.  Clearly, it’s not much of an heirloom although Daddy is never slow to remind us all that he came to the “Toon” with 2 bread baskets of belongings, so I guess we make heirlooms, like we make memories when we can. The cassette thingie sat on Daddy’s desk at work until the good people of the Cooncil enacted a clean desk policy which meant that Cassette thingie, Darth Vader helmet, barking doggie and miniature Henry Hoover all ended up getting shoved in a drawer never to see the light of day again until they were periodically rediscovered over the years as Daddy looked for mint’s and/or Nicotine Replacement Therapy.  I really took to this wee cassette thingie after Mummy used it by way of distraction when I was having a wee psycho meltdown. I carried my miniature ghetto blaster about with me all the time infuriating Daddy as I kept on pushing the button, thus returning the song back to the start when Daddy was in full voice. I even carried it with me to the bathroom and, mindful that my favourite toy had a picture of a mermaid on the front, decided to see if it would swim. Alas, it did not. Sadly the phrase “Darling it’s better down where it’s wetter” did not ring true and my favourite wee toy met a watery grave.

So now you are (probable) asking yourselves what’s the connection to Alex Salmond……. Salmon…. tee Hee.

LatersJ

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As you know I am now  

 

A Duck's Tale

 

Gentle Reader, Sooooooo…….. Where are we this week?  Fresh from the excitement at the start of the year we find ourselves in February and STILL waiting to make Snow Angels with LP and to pick crusty “yellow snow” from in between the Hounds tootsies. All very exciting, I’m sure you will agree. One thing is for sure, if I was just to wait for the big things to happen then life would be a little tedious. It’s the wee things which make all our LP’s unique, so todays’s Blog is going to simply be about them.

As you know I’ve mentioned loads about bath time. It’s that quality time when I get to scrape Bolognese Sauce from our daughters face,  become adept at timing the removal of  a nappy precisely so LP doesn’t code brown on the floor (having given up on bathroom rugs) and sing to my heart's content knowing that it’s between me, LP……and the baby monitor.  

You would imagine that neither LP or I would be able to derive any more excitement from bath time. Indeed, I have often thought I had heard Scotty from Star Trek proclaim “But Captain she canna take it. She’s gonna explode if she has any more fun”. Gentle Reader, wait for it… wait for it…LP has now learned to stand up in the bath!!!!!!
OK, so you're not over excited by this? Allow me to paint you a picture, an oily painting,  if you will. LP’s bath times have, if I am totally honest, been missing something. Bubbles!  LP’s had a wee bit of dry skin and, as a precautionary measure, she was prescribed many lotions and potions  by her Quack (so called because LP likes Duck’s and is not too sure of Doctor’s yet). Half a cap full of said lotions/ potion made LP as slippery as a bar of soap in a prison shower… if you will excuse the analogy,  and therefore impossible grasp or indeed to wash as said lotion appeared to build up an impervious membrane which prevented the thorough removal of tomato sauce or carrot based foodstuffs from her skin. Shame really. This orange glow, which illuminated her little face gave her a look of criminal genius akin to The Joker. This was very apt as, since the day LP was delivered by the Stork, she has been brought up in the knowledge that I’m Batman.

Anyhoo, our now once  slippery offspring is no longer, um, slippery as, due to the wonders of nature appears to have grown out of flaky stage all by herself and perhaps with a little assistance of the lotions and potions. This now means that LP is no longer trapped in the bath, totally dependent on her Daddy (or YM at weekends, holiday’s and Bar Mitzva’s and in times of my near terminal episodes of sinusitis preventing me from attending to my duties) to scoop her up and wrap her in a fluffy towel to the local manta of “ehm gonna wrap you up like eh Sasaj roll”. LP now asserts her independence by standing up in the bath as soon as she gets bored with playing with her seven Rubber Ducks and Daddy’s renditions of Itsy Bitsy Spider and Wee Willie Winkie (who’s internal clock seems to readily change between 6 and 7 pm of an evening).  Truth be told, our newly vertical bath time LP poses a few more problems than she does solutions at the moment.

Number One being that I can actually see her peeing in the bath water rather than just assuming she does do this anyway and declines to tell me.

Number Two…. No! Let's move on quickly from Number Two’s, save to say that they are more concerning than the aforementioned Number One’s. 

Number Three: Normally I have the height advantage over LP. Hopefully this will continue on for the next 20 years or at least until I succumb to Oestioperosis. It  has to be said that, as far as height goes, baths are a great leveller.  Hunkered down on the floor bathing LP once meant that we were at the same height and therefore, both armed with water pistols we found our relationship devoid of any power imbalance. Sadly LP’s decision to stand has meant that she easily towers over her Daddy  and takes every opportunity to soak me.
This became abundantly clear during hair washing time. Yes, Yes LP does have her hair washed. Faithful Readers will be aware that I have, on occasion, all be it semi unintentionally,  ingested baby shampoo, this is a thing of the past and I have learned my lesson. As LP is now totally declining to be fed, even if I do make the sound of an airplane stalling midair during a WW1 Dogfight in an attempt to get yogurt into her, she continuously gets the majority of her tea entwined in her golden locks. It would clearly not be financially prudent, or medically  prudent for that matter for me to continue to drink baby shampoo when LP’s follicles could utilise it far more appropriate. With some inevitability and with a glint in LP’s eye, at the moment when  I am about to rinse the shampoo off of my daughters golden tresses she will take a step forward and direct the water out of the bath and over me. Much to the delight of LP and to my soggy distress.

Anyways… time to move on to the tale of the second duck. LP loves ducks. She has many ducks. We have a duck print shower curtain, bowl’s, cute ducks on clothing and a duck pushy thing which plays the same tune over and over and over and over again until I want to come downstairs in the middle of the night and attack it with a hatchet, chopping it into little tiny shards of yellow plastic until it stops….please make it stop….please. Oh, did I tell you YM, LP and I have a few ducks. This in itself is odd as certain members of our family have a poor history with ducks. Many moon’s ago, before LP was a twinkle in the Storks eye, YM and I would while away the days taking the Hound for long walks in the country whilst our wee puppy would run about as if YM had slipped Amphetamine into her Pedigree Chum doggie food. On one of these occasions, as YM and I strolled in the Spring sunshine, the Hound thought it would be a sufficiently good idea to check out the duck pond. As many of you will be aware, the Hound’s obedience training did not go well. Suffice to say that the only rosette she ever won was for having the wagliest tail at puppy training class. It was the kind of award that gets handed out  the “special” puppies in an attempt to make them feel included. YM and I were so proud of that Rosette, in fact I believe YM cried with pride when it was awarded.  Sadly the unpleasantness that ensued traumatised two young children, left a father having to gently explain the “circle of life” with some emphasis on the fact that there is no such thing as immortality, oh and a dead duck. The latter becoming very much apparent to the adults and children who watched in horror as a male Mallard Duck sunk quickly and without trace having been broadsided by our over exuberant Hound.

Anyhoo…. Gentle Reader, I am sure I can hear you say Get to the@&%$£&%$ (you counted them trying to spell the expletive didn’t you?) point. OK, the point is that LP, YM and I have developed a new game. Having undertaken a wee bit of research into such things, I discovered that a child increases their vocabulary by hearing words said repetitively. The literature states that “repetitive” is defined as over 500 times. Sooooo, realising that I couldn’t ask LP to go get me a “No” or a “code brown” or indeed a “God No!!! Don’t chew that cable, you’ll blow us all up”. I settled for “LP can you please fetch me a Duck?”. Never before have I been so enthralled by our wee girl and the speed at which she is developing. As soon as I asked LP for a duck she stopped what she was doing (having a mini meltdown) and set about looking for a duck. At the time I was really quite unsure of this as she randomly ran about the living room and then lay on the carpet and stuck an arm underneath the settee to retrieve her first duck. She grasped the wee duck in a wee hand and then went over to her toy box. A few seconds later and she had added another duck to her collection. LP then waddled over to me, with outreached arms and a huge smile on her face and presented me with both duck’s. I was, and continue to be totally impressed by this. I guess I should at this point apologise to my work colleagues who must have been totally skunnered (fed up) with hearing me prattle on about LP’s duck related shenanigans. I do have to thank one of my colleagues who suggested that I should in future years say to LP “Bring me my tea please” as I have more chance of that happening that YM doing so

(Sorry YM :-))))

 

 

LP's Day in Court

Gentle Reader, from my previous rambling’s you will hopefully be aware that despite much chatter about Code Browns and Chucky teeth, LP is and  will always remain, incredibly cute. Sadly cuteness is no indicator of one's daughters potential to remain under the radar of the Criminal Justice System.  This is a small pearl of wisdom which I believe should have been imparted by YM way before things got out of hand. Perhaps YM was less than proactive in nipping this behaviour in the bud as she is aware that it will be me alone  who will succumb to this cuteness now and in later life and allow our daughter to twist me, her Demented Daddy,   round her little finger. It will be me alone who will have the bottomless wallet to pay bail money and fines as well as provide the obligatory free late night taxi service.

As you know, YM and I could be considered not to be in the first flushes of youth. YM’s drooling over Donny Osmond and her love of Craniology would demonstrate this fact. Clearly (Hmmmmm) both YM and I have been blessed with youthful good looks. This is perhaps indicative of the fact that we have not had a family until now and if we had we would need slightly more than a motivational speech to turn our perma-frowns upside down.

As for Craniology, well, admittedly this is indeed a strange hobby for anyone in the 21^st Century to actively pursue, however, consider the fact that YM is the world’s numero uno Donny fan and is in the Guinness Book of records for owning the largest collection of thimbles from countries beginning with D, then you will understand why YM sitting polishing her Craniometer of a winters evening is not outwith the realms of reality.

The pursuit of measuring a person’s facial features in an attempt to ‘scientifically’ measure their likelihood of committing an offence (Craniology to you and I) is, perhaps, not practiced widely around these parts or indeed this century. Sadly, YM’s once flourishing career on the checkouts at ASDA was spectacularly cut short as she attempted to measure the forehead circumferences of every potential ne'er-do-well and scallywag who passed through her till with their weekly shop. If YM had adopted the same obsessive behaviour towards LP she would perhaps have been able to divert her from the path which would lead a Senior Officer of the Court to advise LP that he did not, ever, want her to appear in front of him again.

“So DD”, I hear you ask…. “Just what has YM been up too???”

A good question and, if I may say do, well asked.

Long story cut short…. Aye that’ll be right……

Gentle Reader, as you will be aware the story of LP, YM and DD started a wee while ago now. After much heartache followed by great joy, the Stork delivered LP to us in last summer. We all grew up together and many lessons were learned, especially by myself, sometimes quickly (Don’t attempt to blow bubbles by swallowing Baby Shampoo) and sometimes slowly (attempting to do up a babygrow from the legs upwards results in spare poppers in the area of bifurcation). Well the culmination of this growing up together malarkey is that the Storks have decided that we no longer need them and, after eating their weight in Mincemeat pie’s just before Christmas, it was agreed that LP would be able to just ‘hang wid da olds’. As you can imagine this was happy news to YM and I, although the occasional visitation by the Storks didn’t really bother us too much and, to be honest, we quite liked them anyway. YM and I enjoyed showing off LP and were happy that our audience was happy with our collective ability to be a top notch Mummy and Daddy tag team. Clearly they may have been some frownie foreheads if they had witnessed LP’s predilection for sharing Spaghetti with the Hound or my infuriatingly poor attempt to put on a night-time nappy that would withstand the sweet corn code brown test. Thankfully, none of these trivialities mattered. All that does is that LP, YM and I continue to grow up and grow older together as a family with all the ups and downs that brings in the knowledge that YM and I have the necessary attributes to do this. In truth, the thought of this has scared me, but I guess every parent feels the same from time to time… or perhaps a lot of the time.  Clearly there is something amazing about being entrusted with a Little Person’s life.  As for the future, well we can only plan so much. LP will always have family to care for her and if YM and I find ourselves, one day, to be rocking back and forth wearing pyjama’s in the day time, watching the world go buy from the window of or maximum security eventide home, then we can rest assured that Kirkton Niece will bring LP to visit us in order to create a distraction whist she steals our supply of Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons.

Anyhooooo,  a wee while ago YM and I found ourselves pacing back and forward in anticipation of an appointment at the local Court House with LP. We had been anticipating this day for a long, long time. That day was finally here.

YM had spent ages choosing an appropriate dress for LP whilst I had considered wearing my multi-functional Wedding/Funeral/Court suit, although, thankfully YM had persuaded me not to. YM was being cool as a cucumber though I suspect she was holding it together for both YM and I. That’s the way she rolls and I don’t always give her the credit she deserves for her ability to do this. Her ability to be a calming oasis in the face of hissy fits and hyperventilation is indeed one of YM’s many strong points.

Today  was the day that YM and I had been working towards for all our lives. The reason we got up for the past two years and the reason why we kept going despite the twists and turns which we endured. This was the day that LP legally became ours.

So, booted and not so suited, we headed off to the Court House and were met on the steps by the Storks. We entered and waited whilst LP jumped back and forward through the metal detector and the nice young security man attempted to catch her. Eventually both got fed up of this game and we headed off to the Chambers.

YM and I sat quietly whilst LP stole everyone’s hearts. We were ushered into a wee office where the Sherriff waited for us. He ushered us all in with a dramatic wave and we took our seats in front of him. By way of breaking the ice the Sherriff lobbed his wig at LP and advised her that it was a cat. YM and I both copped a feel and were informed that the wig was made from horse hair. All very interesting, if a little unexpected. As if this didn’t sweeten the deal the Sherriff then opened the lid of  a cut glass bowl and offered LP a Gummy Bear. When I say Offered LP the emphasis is on LP….. not YM who unceremoniously had to be restrained by Court Officials for, with sleight of hand, grabbing a fist full of Gummy Bears before the Sherriff managed to replace the lid on the bowl. Clearly he won’t make the same mistake next time.

Thankfully this crisis was averted by perjury on my part as I informed the slightly shaken Sherriff that YM was diabetic and was attempting in a crude way to overt hypoglycaemia. Composure descended as the Sherriff leaned forward and advised LP that it was lovely to meet her and that he hoped never to see her again, at least in a legal sense. I am sure that after the Gummy Bear incident he did not wish to meet with any of us ever again in any circumstances.

With the flourish of a signature LP became legally ours. In truth we had become her’s the minute we saw her.

So LP, YM and I said goodbye and thank you to the Storks and then walked/toddled out of the Court House and into the world. The fantasy of fireworks or 21 gun salutes was just that. It could never be an anti-climax…… but…..hmmm…Nah, who am I kidding! How do you top a day like this?

Well there is one way……….

As we turned the corner into the street, a clearly over excited Kirkton Niece came running towards us. After much hugging and happiness and welcoming of LP officially to the family we all agreed that the only course of action was to go and eat out collective body weight in ice cream.

Job done J

 

 

Post Christmas recovery (Jan 2014)

Hi, LP here. Hope you all had a good Christmas and New Year. As my Great Granny, or “Bambi” as she was known, would have said if she were here “Aye (Sigh) Back to auld chlaes and Porridge” AKA it’s time for things to get back to normal.

Normal!! Normal!! I’m still trying to recover from the effects of my first Christmas since the Stork brought me to Mummy and Daddy. I know you will not  be surprised to hear, it did not go without incident. I’m over the festive period as much as the next little, or indeed big, person is but it would be remiss of me not to acknowledge a few ‘incidents’ which did occur.

I’m scared to go to the dentist. A relatively innocent statement, perhaps made by someone not fully recognising of the advances in both treatment and analgesia which the dental profession has made over the, say, past 200 years, you might think. Not in this case Gentle Reader, as Daddy call’s you all. Cast your mind back to Christmas Eve and inhale deeply on the aroma of festivity. Can you smell it? Can you? Can you?..... Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, mince pie’s baking in the oven, eggnog doing whatever it is that eggnog does and carrots, yes, carrots… if you don’t believe me that carrots have an aroma go sniff one….. being, um,  peeled and cut into batons. Without wishing to digress from the plot too much, although you know I will, Mummy and Daddy felt they had a wee bit of catching up to do with regard to the festive period and decided to go all ‘Christmas to the MAX’ on me and force me to participate in all the Yuletide traditions all at once. This was their attempt to make up for being somewhat late to the party, so to speak.  So Mince Pie’s cooling on the counter and carrots, peeled and cut into batons by the Chef of the residence  all for Santa and his Reindeer, it was then Bathtime, thankfully without the performance, as the Olds were woefully behind schedule in the wrapping department and it would be only a few hours until I would be up and about gazing expectantly on a Christmas tree and surrounding area festooned with brightly wrapped presents.

Christmas Eve is clearly no ordinary day. The planned pattern  of events for my post dinner ablutions would be Daddy  giving me a  wee rub down with a damp Chamois before mummy distracted me with her, much fabled and somewhat boisterous, rendition of Away in a Manger,  in order for Daddy to go through the pretense of attempting  to make me think he was an electric toothbrush to try and make dental care more enjoyable for me  and clean any trace of spaghetti with pesto and cheese from my, presently bonnie, teeth. FYI Daddy, just because you go “Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”  it doesn’t make dental care any more enjoyable for me. As for Strawberry flavored toothpaste. BOAK!  (Which, my non Scots friend, means “Puke”).

Despite the Olds best intentions, it was clear that Christmas Eve was going to be a late one for us all. The first spanner in the works was my new beanbag. Antipodean Aunty had observed me via the wonders of SKYPE being strapped in, airplane test pilot style, to my wee reclining seat which has long since stopped vibrating, in order to allow me to consume warm, full fat, milk in relative comfort, with the Olds safe in the knowledge that I will not attempt to feed my milk to the hound. Apparently through the power of Voice Over Internet Protocol,  Antipodean Aunty or AA as she is known (and, somewhat ironically, would probably benefit from) suggested to Daddy that a bean bag is the way forward as it limits my movements much in the same way as the straps do but without the stress of strapping me in  and with more of a psychological  element of restraint. As Mummy and Daddy had been on the look out for a new form of baby prison since I had filled the house with toys and there was no room for Catagory A  portable Baby Prison in the living room, they jumped at the chance to hit “one click purchase” on Amazon and a few short days, in which Mummy and Daddy whiled away the time hypothesising  whether AA had spent far too long reading the works of E.L James or watching Yokai rich Japanese Psychological Horror movies. Neither of which I, thankfully know anything about,  took delivery of a bright orange plastic covered beanbag  which looked like a Space Hopper with the fun kicked out of it. Despite their initial disappointment  the beanbag was deemed to be “a sensible choice” as it was wipe clean and that I would, apparently, grow into it.....Mummy and Daddy, I have to say that it's a good job that you did well on the Christmas present front as the bean bag was a little bit of a letdown. It should also be noted that reading me Jack and the Beanstalk whilst the good people at the Royal Mail did their thing was no the best of ideas. Imagine my shock when I was presented with a gazillion bean’s when the blooming thing arrived. Daddy would definitely need a bigger garden!

Fresh out of my rather lackluster bath, devoid of toy’s and with only a spirited performance of  Away in a Manger to look forward to..... Though clearly I was not looking forward to this as as much as mummy who was frantically stuffing pillows round her waist and building a manger out of scatter cushions and occasional furniture, I was assisted into my ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ babygrow and placed on top of my beanbag. Daddy quickly popped an Ikeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bib on me, the one with the strange angular representation of a reindeer emblazoned on it and I was then ready for my milk.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee as I slid down, winter Olympics style, to the bottom of the beanbag.  Daddy quickly rushed to my rescue and lifted me back up atop of my very own Cresta Run. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, I slid down again, my bottle falling out of my hands and landing perilously close to the Hound who had decided to make an appearance as he wondered what all the fuss was about. Full marks to Mummy, or should I say Mary for waddling  to my rescue before daddy suggested he staples my baby grow to the shiny orange mountain.  Sadly by this time the damage had been done. The air and my bottom were heavy with electricity caused by a build up of static from my constant sliding. Mummy and Daddy I am not a Van De Graaff Generator for your amusement and I would like to thank you for not laughing at me as my hair as my bonnie locks floated upward to the ceiling.

If you are following my ramblings you will be wondering why I started out stating that I was scared to go to the dentist. Gentle Readers.. Revenge is indeed a dish best served cold and in Daddy’s case with a dollop of Lignocaine. Just before I went to sleep and a good 10 mins before the static electricity dissipated through the lightning conductor attached to my cot (one can never be too careful), daddy apparently decided that Rhudolf and his mated had way too many carrots to eat and he decided that he would take a bite out of one. This action resulted in Daddy loosing a filling and having to put up with the inconvenience of dental pain over Christmas.

I love it when a plan comes together.

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy Brain Syndrome (Summer 2013)

Another week’s worth of knowledge…..

LP kept YM and I on our toes this week. This in itself was not any easy task as we skated about on a sea of snot for the best part of it. Although we thought that LP might succumb to the odd childhood infection, well not perhaps an "odd" infection like Trans-fat Induced Personality Change (AKA Potato Chip Rage), I'm talking about the usual scratchy type conditions that any well rounded childhood contains. To be clear, I don't want LP to be ripe with disease but I do want to be able to say, just once in my life, "Cursed child she hath the pox" in a booming Brian Blessed type voice.

Anyway poor LP awoke on Monday morning after her usual 12 hours of, save for a brief babble, uninterrupted sleep (Yeah! Check us out!!!). YM brought a sleepy and slightly less smilie LP through to the living room whilst I zapped 6 oz of Actamil for 20 seconds. LP somewhat lethargically sooked at her milk whilst YM prepared breakfast and I released the hound.

On my return from our morning constitutional YM was struggling to get LP to eat breakfast. YM had even switched to the chopped strawberries and Petits Filous option, which is normally so much of a winner that it cannot be prepared within sight of LP for fear she would use her 3 “Chucky”teeth to gnaw through the baby gate to get to it. Sadly, on this occasion LP was having none of it. Over the past weeks you might think that I had learned a thing or two about keeping my gob shut and not in any way making any suggestions with regard to the parenting of LP. On this occasion I scored an epic fail when I suggested LP might manage herself if she was in her Bumble seat. A swift response of “Well if you think you can do any better, you blood try” was offered by YM as I covered LP’s ears to protect her from this YM’s expletives. A Micky Mouse bowl and plastic spoon was then thrust into my unsuspecting hands which I took as an indication that YM had capitulated and that I was indeed correct all along.

YM was swiftly transferred into her Bumble seat with retro-fitted straps and I positioned myself, cross-legged on the floor, facing LP. I resembled a rather skinny Budda, having gained a few inches round the waist over the past month due to a breakdown of the time/baby continuum which has effectively removed all opportunities to exercise for the time being. I charged LP’s plastic spoon with diced Strawberries and Petite Filous and adopted the ‘mouth open, spoon poised’ pose. I learned this from my nursing day’s whilst working in care of the elderly. It didn’t really help then though and probably just made me look rather vacant. At this very moment LP sneezed and two streams of green snot were simultaneously expelled from her nostrils and strung out like crazy string which descended down her Minnie Mouse Babygrow. Far from being distressed about this LP proceeded to scoop the snot onto the back of her hand and stuck it in her mouth then rubbing her hand back and forward made a “lub, lub lub” sound. It has to be said that this is LP’s party piece, though minus the mucus, and it is normally encouraged by YM and I. On this occasion though, the green snot was now making YM and I think that LP had been abducted by Martians overnight.

One of the many questions of the week is how long I can use “Daddy Brain” as an excuse for virtually everything I forget to do or attempt to do but not quite succeed at?

Daddy Brain Syndrome (DBS) presented way before the Stork delivers LP. It first occurred at work when I allowed my mind to wander and daydream about the joys or abject fear of impending parenthood. My DBS presented as thoughts of taking LP to B&Q to take part in the kids DIY classes. I clearly had not given this too much thought as, due to LP’s age, it would be some time before I am legally and morally allowed to let her loose with a circular saw. YM, who has clearly been reading way too much Freud, suggests that this attack of DBS was simply a surreptitious attempt to improve my skills to cover up for my shortcomings in DIY department. In a rather poor attempt to restore some vestiges of my masculinity, YM did kindly point out that I do make a rather moist Victoria Sponge.

Acute exacerbations of DBS (symptoms include: proud smiles, tears and early onset impecunity) have occurred whilst gazing at LP or being separated from LP in a queue at the café in Morrison’s Supermarket. There is no treatment for an acute exacerbation however the symptoms do appear to reduce over time and present as being further diminished by sleep deprivation, stealth baby puke and poorly timed, but well executed, code browns.

Although DBS has been as yet incurable, there are a number of self-help techniques which can reduce the adverse effects of this debilitating condition.

 

Moving Home (First Published September 2013)

Things I have learned or should have learned in the past week….or so.

Faithful reader if you have been holding your breath for the past week waiting to hear about LP’s shenanigans then you are now a flesh eating Zombie. Anyways much learning has taken place my Zombie Overlord.

I have read somewhere that moving is rated as one of the most stressful things to do. I am here to tell you that moving with LP is THE most stressful thing to do ever in the history of stressful things involving moving. I have returned to work this week and I swear if someone asks me once more if I have enjoyed my holidays I will give them a Paddington Bear stare. I would rather be caught in flagrante delecto with a cactus than move house ever, ever again. Possibly the only good thing about this sorry episode is the opportunity to post on Facebook that a lady from the “Cooncil” gave me a semi. This is and shall always remain a favourite joke and indeed chat up line of mine.

Poor LP, she wasn’t able to access her full range of clothes and accessories for a week as the chaps from the removal firm decided that LP’s lovely Ikeaaaaaaaaaaa wardrobes looked like cardboard boxes and removed them on Tuesday. Tuesday would have been ordinarily fine but this Tuesday was the day that all our boxes were flung onto the back of a skip (dramatization: these events may not have occurred) and taken to our new home. The major problem being that all of LP’s fabulous clothes and the odd carrot stained baby grow were all in the wardrobes having been alphabetized by YM prior to moving. The removal chaps put LP’s couture in a bedroom of our new home then decided to pile boxes up and round the wardrobes clearly in an attempt to cover up their shame at not being able to distinguish an ikeaaaaaaaaaaa wardrobe from a cardboard box. Sadly I have to acknowledge that I did play a part in this debacle. After posting a, slightly belated APB to Facebook, requesting assistance from my legions of Facebook friends to help ‘Amish Style’ in forming a human chain to carry boxes (but not ikeaaaaaaaaa wardrobes) to the waiting removal van, the response to my request would best be described as quality not quantity, a concept which YM says she has experienced throughout our married life. My friends H and G kindly took up the opportunity to have their karma restored. G remarked that he was keen to help as ‘[he] likes to lift heavy things’. Kudos to G as he managed to smile through the pain of bilateral inguinal hernias caused when he swung YM’s collection of Donny Osmond Memorabilia onto his shoulder. I should have stood firm to my plans and insisted that the human chain, which was missing some links, was still a practical solution to move the boxes down 70 steps. Alas I was undermined by the removal chaps, who relied on brawn rather than brain to get the job done.

So…. LP’s wardrobes, travel luggage, baby prison and favourite leapfrog activity centre had disappeared behind a room full of boxes which greeted us on Wednesday morning as we took possession of our new home. After making several unsuccessful attempts to ascend the North Face taking the Donny Osmond Memorabilia route traversing Hello and OK magazine collection, we acknowledged defeat and withdrew to base camp to reconsider our plans. I had originally suggested that YM be sent/encouraged to make an attempt on the summit, as after all, they were her bloody clothes. I had made tentative plans to have the hound assist LP and was considering preparing some bottles of Actimal to fortify LP in her endeavours, figuring that the hound would be up to carrying the bottles like her cousin the St Bernard.

Somewhat luckily for LP my plans were interrupted by our niece who, following a return from teaching ventriloquism in Spain, found herself temporarily ‘between jobs’ and had come to visit LP and gorge on Sugar Free Farlay’s rusks. Downfield Niece or as I like to, and shall call her, Kirkton Neice (KN), selflessly agreed to step in and take on the challenge of the North face. So, armed with a Philips head screwdriver and a can of WD40, YM and I hoisted KN up to the top of the boxes where KN smothered herself with WD40 in order to slide between the ceiling and boxes to head toward the ikeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa wardrobes. KM achieved this with ease and was soon beavering away dismantling the top of the wardrobe and extracting LP’s dresses. Oh to see the excitement on LP’s wee face as as KN handed over her bonny frocks. Bravo KN you saved the day.


KN was also responsible for one of the things I have learned over the past week

1. LP is the families LP not just YM and I. This means that LP will never be alone and always be loved. I never thought of that before and needed my wee niece to say it.

2. Planning anything with LP is impossible.

3. Stuff works out when it is supposed to, not when I plan for it to therefore there is no need to worry

4. Breath

5I am extraordinarily lucky

The 5 Stages of "good grief" (Summer 2013)

Yet another week has passed and the dawning that life will never be the same resonates deep within YM and I.

To be fare Saturday Night fajita night may not, in the great scheme of things, be a great loss. In the same vein, sleeping until 8 am on the weekend, being able to allow more than one person to consume coffee in the presence of LP for fear that one, or both cups, will scald her and Sunday afternoon…. Um…. snuggles, may seem no great loss in place of the pleasure of the company of our little bundle of joy. Loss, none the less, requires some adjustment and the process of grief has to be undertaken somewhat akin to the‘journey’ all X Factor contestants undertake. The Kubler-Ross Model indicates 5 stages….

Denial:

“It’ll be no problem keeping fit and we will both be able to attend Bootcamp and Kettlebells” said Wendy as LP was delivered by the Stork. Several weeks later and we have both found that eating regular meals and ironing clothes has gone south as has maintaining personal hygiene, housework and topiary. There is no time for Bootcamp. The closest we will ever get is removing footwear from LP mouth as she now attempts to use any object lying about as a teething ring. Kettlebells only serve to mock by reminding me of every lukewarm cup of coffee that I have gulped down in the past few months for fear that a marauding LP will snatch it from me and become even more active than she already is.

Anger: Gentle reader, I understand that you may find it difficult to believe that YM and I would ever utter a cross word towards each other. Clearly we are both well balanced individuals. If you don’t believe me, we have the assessment reports to prove it. So there!! However, from time to time we have been known to have an occasional disagreement which is usually resolved easily and with little acrimony by YM telling me to go away, or words to that effect and/or linking pinkies. The latter being my preferred method. Add our LP into the mix and what was the occasional letting off of steam takes on a whole new meaning.

Me: “I left some poppers open as it was warm and I didn’t want LP to overheat.

YM: Shite! You still can’t do them all up can you?

or

Me: Did you put some chopped fresh Strawberries in that Petits Filous?

YM: I’ll chop you, ya fud!

The good thing about the undercurrent of anger is it does allow for the kissing and making up process which is, or at least was, always fun. Alas Sunday afternoons are not taken up snuggling or treating Bee stings…which is another story for another time. Sunday afternoons are taken up by playing catch up on basic household chores or visiting elderly relatives and keeping LP’s hands away from cat litter, neither of which are as much fun as a triple x throw down.

Bargaining : “Can you just give LP her breakfast whilst I pop to the loo”, said YM today as she headed upstairs with a pristine copy of Take a Break, whilst thrusting a bowl of fruit porridge into my unsuspecting hands. Bargaining, like negotiation has never been one of YM’s strong points really. I suspect YM takes the opportunity to carry out her ablutions whilst considering her plans for herself and LP. What clubs to attend, where to do lunch, what country to invade, that sort of thing. Although it may be more realistic that YM simply wishes to maximize her bathroom time realising that this opportunity will be lost for the next 8 hours until I, once again, return home and assist as best I can with caring for LP.

Depression: The reaction to any given stressful situation may cause one's mood to dip. Add to this the major stresses of having an LP, moving house and feeling obliged to catch code brown’s in one’s hand rather than let them fall onto the carpet which you have just cleaned after the last sans nappy code brown incident. As YM stated “how can something so beautiful produce something so unholy?” Add to this and the lack of exercise, sleep and snuggles within the household and we are potentially sitting astride a powder keg of doom and despondency. All this would clearly overwhelm most people and it may well have taken its toll on YM and I save for two protective factors.

1. Chocolate.

2. LP smiles.

Both of which increases the uptake of serotonin and cause waves of joy and laughter. It is indeed the little things in life that make all the difference.

Acceptance: The final stage. The stage of understanding, realisation and perhaps, even the stage of total and utter capitulation.

Some years ago I saw a slogan on the back of a Punks leather jacket. “So many people can control the way you die but only you can control the way you live”. This, and a few other mottos have stood me in good stead for some time. Having an LP in our lives completely takes over what little control I had, or thought I had, in my life. This is no bad thing really. The realisation that nothing will ever be the same was daunting but now it seems quite fantastic. I do occasionally like to feel that I retain some control. This usually takes the form of ‘scoring’ one of LP’s Petits Filous . YM and I waited for LP to come along for a long time. The daydreams and fantasy of what parenthood might hold have proven to be just that. The reality is even more amazing. It’s about seeing the little things, the funny things, the almost words, the almost steps, the smiles. Yes, the smiles.

J