It's been a pretty big month round these parts. Firstly, a few weeks ago, my 'baby' Squit turned four to much fanfare and a bright red ride-on mini Ferrari. The first thing he did was run over the husbands foot and then reverse into his 18-month old cousin. To be fair he was fairly jubilant and likely high on the giant wedge of Red Velvet birthday cake he'd just scoffed...but still.
A few days after this momentous day, I had parent teacher meetings and it was gently suggested that given Squit was now four and showing no signs whatsoever of giving up his beloved nappies, I might want to seek professional help.
That was it. I think it triggered some form of primal parental shame which had puzzlingly remained intact up until this point.
I strode home and marched straight up to Dumpie - who was so focused on one of his 'addictive as crack' video games that he let me stand there like a moron for a few minutes before bothering to even acknowledge my presence.
"Make Squitty go on the potty and I'll give you twenty quid."
He glanced up, only mildly interested.
"Fine. But you don't have to pay me that much money. I'll do it, but can you buy me some more gold coins for my game?"
"Done," I said, and with that, he led Squit into the bathroom, firmly shutting the door, and proceeded to work some manner of goodness knows what manipulative magic on his adoring little Mini-Me. A short while later, he emerged, triumphant and victorious, yet entirely nonplussed.
"Okay. Buy me the coins please."
Bish bash bosh. And that, people, is apparently how it's done. What has taken me years to totally fail at, Dumps managed in ten minutes.
And so thus ends yet another era, another parental milestone crossed off the list: the 'baby/toddler' stage dispensed with sans fanfare and ceremony (save the special thrill of permanently deleting nappies from my online shopping lists and realising with a small burst of joy that my weekly spend on 'nammies' can now be used in the purchasing of a fine bottle of Rioja. Nice one.)
Tuesday, 23 February 2016
Saturday, 6 February 2016
Three remains one of my favourite ages as little ones possess just enough chubbiness to hang tentatively on the precipice of babyhood, but are clever enough to start using language in unintentionally hilarious ways. Age three has always epitomised 'Munchkinhood' and a part of me will from this day forward be in mourning for that sweet baby smell (garnered from the back of the neck or the forehead in a pinch) and the sweet cherubic smiles and silly eggbeater-esque running gait (or maybe that's just Squit...in fact, I'm pretty sure it is).
At any rate, Squit turned FOUR(!) on the weekend and as usual, we celebrated with balloons, cake, too many pressies and plenty of boozes for the attending adults. As a special treat, this year Squitty had his beloved Grandpa in attendance - who good-naturedly put up with the insistent birthday menu request of Domino's double cheese and pepperoni pizzas and diabetes-inducing million-calorie Red Velvet Cake smothered in rich vanilla icing and covered in about 500 Smarties.
(To be fair it was divine and the next day the remains were fought over bitterly, with yours truly pathetically indulging in deliberate subterfuge with the under-twelves in order to secure the biggest piece. Oh, the shame.)
But the highlight was the 'yes-we-know-it's-disgustingly-indulgent-but-it's-our-last-little-one-so...' miniature bright red Ferrari motorised car (sigh). Thing is, I've ALWAYS wanted one, ever since I was a little kid around Squit's age, and snuck off in a huge mall and sat hiding for hours in a toy car just like this one, whilst my parents and store detectives stood wringing their hands, on the verge of calling in the police to report an alleged kidnapping.
Obviously Egg and Dumpie were writhing with envy, and who can blame them? We were forced to drag out the husbands scale and weigh Egg in order to prove that he was WAY over the 25 kilo weight limit of the little car (38.5 kilos to be exact) even though he had somehow miraculously managed to wedge his pre-teen lanky frame into its confines. Even Dumps is a touch too heavy (26.5 kilos) but adores it so much that he has managed to take possession of one of the ignition keys and has claimed it for his own.
And so proper boyhood beckons for our littlest fella and it's bye-bye forever to the Fat Baby. And in a few months or so when the monsters have managed to trash the little red sports car (I'm calling a head-on into Dada's precariously constructed 'DJ Booth') we'll also have a giant piece of recyclable junk which we'll probably never manage to dispose of properly and will sit out back in the garden slowly rusting and becoming a world class hotel for wayward snails.