The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Handset

My little man has just turned one-year-old. And I'm not sure whether it's the Y
chromosome in him (the y that I'm certain stands for "Why on earth is he into rifling through the rubbish bin, again?", or, "Why is it so hard for me to remember to close the door to the separate toilet when I'm having a shower?" - this one is especially relevant to this story, by the way), or whether it's his age (although, I have a three-year-old girl, too, but I seriously can't remember her being quite as inquisitive), but he's into EVERYTHING. And I don't just mean toys and books and age-appropriate things. I'm talking about absolutely EVERYTHING he can get his hands on. And so, my story begins.

It was just a way - a new innovative way - to try and distract the little man from wriggling and squirming, like a freshly dug-up earthworm, while I tried to change his nappy this morning. Offering him the cordless telephone handset seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I'd just finished a telephone conversation when the whiff of a post-breakfast pooey nappy filled my nostrils, so I quickly leant down and collected the little stinkpot off the ground. Well naturally, he immediately went for the thing that was in my hand; the telephone handset. So I thought, what the hell, what harm could possibly come from letting him play with the handset while I change his nappy? before locking the keypad (in an effort to avoid him accidentally dialling triple zero - a thought that crossed my mind with terror, when my daughter was around his age, after I realised that randomly pressed buttons on a telephone handset might actually result in a knock on the door from a very cross police/ambulance officer whose valuable time has been wasted. I used to shudder at the thought of having to explain to an annoyed police officer, "Oh I'm so sorry for wasting your time officer, but my daughter just adores playing with the telephone." It'd be pretty similar to, or worse than, the time on the train a couple of weeks ago when my daughter actually did reach out and press the emergency button (which, mind you, for some ridiculous reason, is conveniently located at the perfect height for a toddler or pre-schooler...and, it's also the colour RED!) But that's a story for another day.

Anyhow. Where was I? Oh yes. That's right. So, after locking the keypad on the handset, I made my way to the little man's room and had him changed in a flash, while he was (for a change) miraculously preoccupied the entire time by the silver and black thing (aka the telephone headset) which was gripped firmly in his tiny but rather capable fingers (amazingly, as I'd locked the keypad, it wasn't even making noise, but it still did the trick). After the deed was done in record time, the little man decided it was time to play on the floor, however, he wanted to hang onto his new (but temporary) toy. So, eventually, after careful consideration, I left it with him. After all, I was desperate for my morning shower - something I hadn't yet had the chance to have. And besides, what harm could possibly come to the telephone handset left in the hands of a tiny one-year-old?

I'd taken my shower, and was just getting ready for a trip up the street when I noticed the telephone handset cradle was missing something; the handset. So I thought back: Where was I when I last used it? Aaggh! That's right. I gave it to the little man to play with. I checked his room (where I'd seen it last), then conducted a thorough search of the entire house, but to no avail. I was in too much of a hurry at that point to dwell on the matter too long and bolted out the door a short while later.

It was sometime after arriving home that the mystery - the mysterious case of the disappearing handset - which I'd forgotten all about due to my mind being filled with other pressing matters (including, What are we - my two children and I - having for lunch?, and, How many loads of washing need to be done today to try and stop me going insane? etc) was solved. I was actually doing a virtual sweep of the house - which, at the time, could have easily been mistaken for a small play centre after a really busy and messy day (after all, my little man and his sister had been greatly amusing themselves while I showered earlier) - for pieces of washing to add to the immense and ever-growing collection, when my daughter alerted me to the fact that the little man (her little brother) was, "In the toilet!" Believe it or not, my first word at this point - and an appropriate word given the news I'd just received - was, "CRAP!"

Now you'd think an experienced mum - no, that's not right. I'm not an "experienced mum". I think a more fitting term is probably a "mum with some experience" - would know better, wouldn't you? Yes. I know. Surely I should be aware that the toilet is not the place for a curious little person. Surely, the last time I visited the toilet, I should have known to close the door. But, for some reason, I don't always remember. I don't always think back to the time when I found my little man - who was only five-to-six-months-old at the time -in there with the toilet brush in his mouth. I don't understand why this is, but perhaps it's mainly because I am HUMAN. And being human, I am very capable of forgetting things. Even the most horrific experiences, can be forgotten. After all, not even the sight of my five-to-six-month old little man with his tongue on, no doubt, the most germ-covered thing in the entire house (perhaps the entire world) isn't enough to make me remember to close the toilet door every time I visit there.

Anyway. I dropped the pile of washing I'd managed to accumulate on my tour of the house, and ran. When I arrived, I was suddenly reminded of the mystery that I'd been unable to solve earlier. As, after quickly grabbing the little man, who'd taken it upon himself to stand up in front of the toilet - grabbing hold of the toilet seat for support (although he's not quite walking yet, he's great at pulling himself up on things), I caught sight of something there, under the water, in the bottom of the bowl. Something that didn't belong. Something that is as foreign to the toilet as I am to the country of Zimbabwe. Yep! You guessed it. The mystery had been solved. For there, lying in wait, drowning in revolting dirty toilet water, was the telephone handset!

Although, at first, I was unsure what to do, and I just stared at it for a while with a look of pure and utter disgust on my face - the same look that I might give my daughter's shoe if it were covered in cow-manure - I did manage to put my thinking cap on and (after covering my hands in a set of old rubber gloves - which have now been well and truly disposed of, mind you) I rescued the handset and gave it a thorough rinse in some disinfectant. Although I left it in the laundry to dry out, I'm not sure it will ever work again. But I can tell you with some certainty, I won't be too sad if it doesn't.

Thanks for keeping me on my toes today little man. I really appreciate it! Love you!