"Pole Dancing Midgets" (or "Vertically Challenged Gyrators")

Here I am, sat at my well-worn kitchen table (once brand-spanking new it now boasts crayon marks, unidentifiable stains and is a bit wobbly due to Dumps practising his pole dancing by swinging off the fruit basket and gyrating like a randy little midget). Dumpie, as always, is in the background making some mess or another which eventually I'll have to see to. He's my naughty shadow, my ever-constant sprite, and even now as I type he's on his hands and knees enthusiastically 'scrubbing' our kitchen floor with a big mug of apple juice and a sopping wet dish towel.

I've said this before, but I feel like in Dumpie I'm raising my father and my husband combined. Both men being the most strong-willed, complex and sometimes difficult creatures I've ever known, it is no surprise then that I find myself challenged every single bloody minute. Sometimes he's my miniature Mussolini and rules this household with a will of iron, screaming orders at me like "More milk MaaaaMaaaa!" and "Buy me looons!" (balloons) and whipping unwanted vegetables across kitchen when I have the audacity to adorn his dinner plate with broccoli, carrots, or anything not crisp or carbohydrate-based. At the ripe old age of two he has a definite idea of the clothes he wants to wear and will simply un-dress himself if you force him into an outfit he's not 'feeling' that day.

Other times he is the most charming, loveable creature that ever lived. He'll clamber onto my lap, stroke my cheek and say lovingly, "Maamaaa...." making me feel like I am the madonna personified. (True, this behavior often occurs just after he has once again raided my secret sweetie drawer and is riding high on chocolate-fueled seratonin...but still) The thing is, he is rather good company; we often have ridiculous back-and-forths in changing rooms when he'll say "Like" or "Don't like" to various outfits I'm trying on, and I'll try and persuade him otherwise. The salesclerks must think I'm a touch unbalanced as who in their right mind would ask a two year old their thoughts about the new seasons fashions? (Um...a socially starved fashionista with a 'two-going-on twenty' toddler perhaps?).

I mean, as long as you've clocked the exit and have made provisions to bustle the two of you out at a moments notice, there is no reason why you can't enjoy the odd Starbucks or Cafe Nero visit - even if Dumpie thinks it's funny to pop extra sugars or even some salt into a coffee mug of some neighboring unfortunate who has been foolish enough to turn away for a moment. Given your undivided attention, in public, Dumpie will reward you with all number of pranks, which given his diminuitive size is made all the more hilarious.

He loves to hop out of his pushchair when we're grocery shopping, and unbeknownst to me, fill the bottom compartment with all manner of odd confectionary and any products which happen to catch his eye. I now know to check the pushchair for unpaid goods before exiting, but of course occasionally I forget and hence sometimes arrive home, confused, with a jar of pickled beetroot or something else equally as random.

Once we were exiting a clothing store and just seconds before we passed through the alarmed doors I just happened to glance down and see that Dumpie's arms were tangled up in some weird black and red polyester material. It turned out to be some slutty, cheap 'lingerie' that he's obviously grabbed off a passing rail, and I just KNEW that we would have been stopped and I would have been blamed for trying to use my young innocent to set up Mummy for a night of third-rate passion. Panicking, I yanked the horrid panties and garter belt out of his hands and and flicked them into the pile of empty carts near the door, hightailing it out of there before I could be questioned by the glaring security guard.

Eggie in contrast is a lot like myself at that age. He has inherited his grandmother's sweet and sensitive soul, but has also inherited his genetic share of clever craftiness, a touch of moodiness, and a rather alarming propensity to lie as of late. I am hoping that this compulsive lying is merely a stage, as I don't much relish seeing my beloved firstborn on a televised 'Most Wanted' special about some genius but botched white-collar crime in the future.

Most of the time though he's just a cool little kid, whizzing down the streets of Southwest London, blond hair flying in the breeze, Adidas All-Stars on his size 10 feet and decked out in his little black leather jacket, managing more effortless style than his father ever could (sorry but it's true my darling former 'Chino-wearing', sport-socked hunk of burning love...lucky thing you ended up with a fashion-crazed wife or you might have been relegated to 'Dad-wear' for the rest of your days).

Egg is happiest when surrounded by OUR friends, and his upcoming birthday party this summer shall be interesting given that he's now into the 'birthday party circuit' at school and will for the first time in his life have a celebration that doesn't involve a load of thirty-somethings lounging around drinking wine, playing loud music and giving him pointers on how to pick up girls :)

When I was five I remember being terribly precocious and lecturing my dear mother on relationships, spiritual matters, and even advising her on consumer purchasing. Not much has changed I suppose, except now I have learned to keep some of my more controversial thoughts hidden away and tucked out of sight where they shall not offend or cause problems. Though how I am supposed to reconcile my love of honest discourse with a totally public, easily accessible BLOG I do not quite know.

To that end, I have now turned on the COMMENTS option on this blog and would love to hear from anyone who has an opinion on anything or everything. If you are not a screaming two year old or lying four year old - all the better.

So please, if you care to, do feel free to enlighten, scold, mock or deride, where and as you see fit (oh, and by the way I hope you know that this does not include YOU dear husband - you forfeited that right the moment you put that ring on my finger and promised to make out like I was a goddess for the rest of your days).