Sunday, 19 August 2007

'Just CHILL Out Mama!'

My three year old expounds these words of wisdom to me on an almost daily basis now. Not sure where he got it from, but more often than not he's usually right. (Although in my defense, discovering that he's just pee'd on my brand-new expensive laptop bag for no apparent reason, I find these sentiments rich...but then he is only 3 and I am thirty-___!)

I am pleased to announce that toilet training is coming along swimmingly. We have only had two accidents so far of the 'poo variety' (one was so horrific that Egg had to be hosed down in the shower and scrubbed within an inch of his life....and the other one unfortunately occurred yesterday morning when Jay was lying immobile in bed nursing his hangover and awoke shouting at the top of his lungs about the 'poo-oozing gremlin' plaintively whining, 'Dada....Dada' at the end of the bed).

However with the advent of the 'treat bag' we turned the training corner sharply and Egg obviously decided that he had had enough of torturing us and that his will was a small price to pay for copious amounts of chocolates and candies he could ingest. Now i'm trying to wean him of the habit of dipping his greedy little hand into the treat basket and extricating sugar-coated goods in exchange for no nappies, but he's wised up to my trying to hand off a few m&m's as a treat, and now, before he sits down on the toilet he makes me promise that HE gets to choose the treat from the bag and not me (sigh). So i've now a cleaner but more hyper, probably more unhealthy male specimen ruling the household. Oh well.

As for the other one, Ollie Dumpie (aka Noah) is developing in leaps and bounds as our heads are turned. For instance, twice this week I found him up on the first landing where he had quickly clambered up eight or so stairs. He also now needs no help getting off our high bedroom mattress. He simply wriggles to the end of the bed, stretches out one fat little toe and does a rather elegant hip wiggle until the aforementioned fat toe touches solid ground, then he simply lets the rest of his body down (in the manner of a portly yet graceful middle-aged male ballet dancer) and crawls away to wreck havoc elsewhere.

Much like Egg did, Dumps has also discovered my beloved bookshelf and the treasured collection of books Jay and I have lovingly collected through the years. Everyday I find at least two dozen of them scattered throughout the room, as he has obviously discovered the joy in pulling them down and watching them tumble heavily with a resounding 'Bang' onto the floor. I am sure it is a most enjoyable game for him, but is doing no end of damage to the books and I despair as it is our sole bookshelf in the flat and there is nowhere else to put them (or him!)

Speaking of space, I have been on the hunt for a new house for the past few weeks and I am growing more despondant by the day. Property in central London is now so outrageously expensive that it has become laughable. What would have bought us a lovely 4-bedroom home nearby with a garden two years ago, apparently now only gets us a dodgy, ex-council run-down 2-bed flat in a nasty part of the borough. Ouch. India looms every so temptingly in front of us, but Jay has his job contract to see out and the plans to 'sabatical-ourselves-into-oblivion' seem to have been put on hold for one more year (sigh).

So after a tummy full of delectable homemade blueberry pancakes (drenched in pure maple syrup and fresh whipped cream), a stronger than usual cappucino, and two (relatively) quiet babies chilling out (oh yeah - and a husband returned to normal), I embrace this rainy, cozy Sunday with about as much enthusiasm as i can muster.

I wonder vaguely about the current thinking on when is too early to have the first glass of wine in the it 12 noon or five o'clock?...

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