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.
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