The Santa Dummy Spit

Santa. The fat man in the red suit. Ah, the joy he brings children. Or perhaps, sometimes, NOT! But that time of year is here again (whether we like it or not) and, amazingly, he seems to be popping up at every shopping centre from here to Timbuktu. Well. Probably not quite Timbuktu. I don't imagine Timbuktu have the amazing range of shopping centres we do here in Melbourne. Even rather dingy shopping centres, like my local, where (up until the appearance of a Myer store a few years ago), the shopping experience there was nearly dominated by the appearance of crappy two-dollar shops, and the like. Now. Where was I? Ah, that's right! Santa!

Santa and my little madam go way back. All the way to the start of December 2008, when I decided to take her (at three months of age) to a local shopping centre - not my regular local, but one of the many in the vicinity - for her very first photo with Santa. And what a breeze it was. Although, it did take little madam (who has always been a rather serious child) a few minutes to break into a smile. But, overall, the experience was lovely, and the photo I have to remember it by gives me nothing but fond memories. Unfortunately, the experience almost a year later, to the date - little madam must have been fifteen months if I'm not mistaken - did not go quite so well.

I ended up taking little madam to my local shopping centre (yes, the dingy one which, by now, wasn't so bad due to, not only the appearance of a Myer store but, a couple of other tasteful stores - the ABC shop being one of them). Unfortunately, although little madam didn't seem frightened by the sight of the fat man in red, who was seated in a large throne and surrounded by an array of sparkling, not-to mention extremely eye-catching, decor, the queue to see him was quite lengthy. Lengthy enough for little madam to become rather interested in one of the impressively decorated Christmas Trees (along with a giant toy soldier) that made up Santa's impressive set. Therefore, when it was time for her to do what you'd expect any "normal" little child to want to do (ie. sit on Santa's knee) she was less than impressed to be dragged away from the sparkling tree that had captivated her attention. I'm actually surprised that Santa managed to leave that day with a full set of teeth, mostly due to the fact that little madam (my sweet, innocent little madam) almost kicked them out in fury. So violent were her actions, that I literally heard Santa mutter an extremely surprised, "Oh!", as he was forced to duck for cover from her flying feet. Needless to say, the photograph that was captured on this particular day, to remember the experience by, does not give me fond memories. As, captured in this photograph (due to the fact that I was forced to grab hold of little madam and literally pin her to my lap, while I took the seat next to - not on, lucky for him - a very surprised Santa) is an embarrassed red-faced with teeth-baring - no, I most certainly was not smiling - mother (me) with her arms around a furious and red-faced little girl (little madam).

Now following this horrifying, and somewhat mortifying, experience, I had absolutely no intention (following the birth of little man at the end of October) of going through similar turmoil and torment the following year. The Santa photo this particular year just happened by chance. We were strolling through my usual local shopping centre (my husband, little madam, little man - he wasn't strolling, by the way. I was carrying him in a sling - and I) and we happened to pass by Santa (the same Santa from the year before, believe it or not). Well. I'm not sure why - whether it was the fact that there was no queue to allow for little madam's attention to be taken by a Christmas Tree or a giant toy soldier - but little madam walked straight up to Santa and climbed (without a single second of hesitation) onto his lap for a terrific shot. I also managed to unhook a sleeping little man from the sling, as well, and hand him over to a rather nervous-looking Santa; no doubt he was probably nervous over the prospect of having to hold a sleeping, four-week-old baby. The photo captured was gorgeous, and despite the fact little man was sound asleep (and it was obvious he really didn't give a fat rat's bottom about the fat man in red) both my wonderful children (even a smiling little madam) featured in it. Needless to say, I have very fond memories of this experience.

Now, this brings us to experience number four, the experience of the current year, that took place only a couple of weeks ago. We returned, once again, to our local shopping centre - the one that now has an improved reputation thanks to Myer. Although, not for long as I hear that Myer is being replaced by Harris Scarfe sometime in the New Year and it will, therefore, no doubt become the dingy shopping centre it once was - and sought out Santa, following several pleas from little madam that she'd like to see him. It was late in the morning, on a Sunday, when we arrived and, after locating the jolly old soul (the same one from the year before AND the year before that...geez, he must really love kids I'm guessing!), we joined a queue behind ten-or-so other excited little children (and their anxious looking parents). This time, little madam was not distracted in the queue by Santa's surrounding decor, and she waited patiently. Little man, on the other hand (I realised as the wait time in the queue passed the half-hour point) was the one who was going to pose a problem. I can't really blame him. Half an hour is a long time for a little person to sit still. So, after making enough noise to wake a dead cat, I ended up getting him out of his pusher and holding him. Anyway. Little madam seized the opportunity, at this point in time, and took a seat in the pusher - her little legs were probably tired of waiting, too. I didn't think anything of this, at the time. It wasn't until we eventually got to the front of the queue (almost an entire hour after arriving, believe it or not), that this - the fact that little madam had found herself a comfy spot - became a problem. Now I don't know whether it was the intimidating photographer (she was a woman, by the way. I'm not sure whether I've mentioned this before, but little madam has always been much keener on men), or whether it was the fact that little madam simply got sick of waiting. But when she was invited, by the over-enthusiastic photographer, to come and take a seat on Santa's knee, she refused to budge.
Now unfortunately, with a long queue of people behind us, I didn't feel that there was time for negotiations, so I simply insisted that she get out of the pusher. She, again, refused to budge. My final attempt to try and get her to stand up out of the pusher involved an even firmer demand (as I glanced at the impatient queue of people waiting behind) which resulted in her turning to daddy with tears in her eyes and pleading with him desperately. Of course, there was no way Mr Softy (aka daddy) was going to force a tear-streamed little madam out of her comfortable position in the pusher and onto Santa's lap, so my battle had been lost. In the end, a lovely photograph of little man on Santa's knee was captured; he managed to smile for just long enough for the shot to be taken before he realised he wasn't all that keen on Santa.
Now for the dummy spit part. And ,for a change, it wasn't little madam or little man responsible. Embarrassingly enough, it was me. After rescuing a terrified-looking little man from Santa's lap, I made my way over to the table where the price-list for the photos was located. And it was then, that I realised, that I'd just waited an entire hour for little madam - the little madam who'd pleaded with us to be taken to see Santa - to not feature with little man in one lousy photograph that was going to set me back almost thirty dollars. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't the money that was the problem - although, prices had risen significantly since the year before as I remember paying just under twenty-five dollars for an entire pack of photographs! A pack that even included a nice calendar! - it was the principal. So I began to express my disgust at little madam, who was now glaring at me from the safety of little man's pusher. I expressed my disgust (ie. spat the dummy) so loudly, that daddy was forced to remind me that I was in the middle of a busy shopping centre; not to mention the fact that I was probably overreacting slightly to the situation.
So there you have it. Santa experience number four. And probably the last one I'll bother with; EVER! Alright. Probably not. I'll probably forget my woes in a few weeks and be back for more punishment with the fat man in red next year. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Thanks, little madam, for making me wait an HOUR in a queue to see a fat man in a red suit. Sorry about the dummy spit, by the way. I have to admit, now that I can look back and laugh...well, almost...it wasn't an entirely necessary reaction. I guess I can blame that on being HUMAN! Sorry, also, to little man for making you sit on Santa's knee; despite the fact that it wasn't an entirely enjoyable experience. Love you both!

And for those who've been reading, and hopefully enjoying, my blog (even if you've only gotten around to read one or two posts), thank you very much. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my stories, which are all about what it's like to be caught up in the chaos that is motherhood (or parenthood, of course), and I hope you continue to enjoy them in the New Year. I probably will take a short break (a couple of weeks) and be back to update you with more madness in the first week of 2012! Until next time, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

The Soft-Soled Shoe Shock

Now, as a parent with two young children, I've been there, done that - learnt my lesson, so-to-speak - with regards to how unpractical shoes for babies are. I mean, don't get me wrong, little shoes look cute, but (in my opinion) shoes for babies – babies who aren't yet walking – are almost a complete waste of money. I did say almost, though. After all, one practical use for baby shoes is, they can be relatively effective at preventing your little one from behaving like my clever little man, who has formed the rather annoying habit of being able to pull his socks off (and usually lose at least one of them) while being pushed around in his pusher when I’m busy rushing around, out and about, trying to get things done (things like grocery shopping and other less-than-exciting tasks). Needless to say, little man’s sock drawer is crammed full of lonely, single, socks that are sadly, unlikely to ever be reunited with their perfectly-matched partners.
Of course, I didn't realise that shoes for babies were almost a complete waste of money a few years back when I was having my first child (my little madam). I was, naturally, thrilled to bits when I received, as a gift, a tiny pair of baby Nikes - I’d never seen anything so small and sweet in my whole entire life - and, I was even more ECSTATIC when my wonderful sister showed up a short while later with a brand-new pair of pink baby Ugg Boots. This, of course, was the beginning of little madam's lovely shoe collection, which I added to, somewhat regularly (at my own expense, of course), quite a bit before she was born. I guess, aside from being a useful way to save her socks from spending the remainder of their lives single and lonely – although, come to think of it she wasn’t nearly as determined to force her socks into a life of loneliness as little man has been - it wasn't until she was walking, at fourteen months of age, that shoes really became practical and necessary. And, to my dismay I realised, at that point, that all her sweet little tiny baby shoes that she'd never had a chance to wear – even the tiny baby Nikes – were now all far too small. For the benefit of my sister, though, I’m pleased to say that the Ugg Boots did, in fact, manage to get worn once. And, of course, they looked as cute on little madam as they did off!

So, as I said, I've learned my lesson and, therefore, I didn't go to the trouble of buying any special little shoes in anticipation for little man's arrival thirteen-and-a-half months ago. I was given, however, a really sweet little pair of Converse One-Stars (the lace-up boot style with the soft sole) and it was while I was getting little man dressed the other day, for a particularly chilly December days outing, that I spotted the little shoes and decided (after being reminded by a good friend that this might be a good way to prevent him from forcing his socks to lead a lonely existence) it was time for little man to give shoes a try.
Now I have to be honest. This wasn't the first time I’d tried to get shoes on little man. I did attempt get a pair of blue, cotton, booty things – these were a gift, too, by the way - on his feet when he was only six-months-old-or-so. And I realised that – even though they were made of really soft cotton, and were more like socks than shoes – getting shoes on a baby isn't easy. It was, seriously, like trying to stuff a horse-hoof into a rubber glove. Especially due to the fact that little man decided it was time to show me how well he could curl his toes; so effective was his toe-curling ability, in fact, that his foot (while I was struggling to try and get it into this small pair of booties) resembled a closed fist ready for a fight.
Perhaps I should have remembered this first attempt when I tried the Converse-One-Stars the other day. Perhaps if I'd remembered this first attempt, I wouldn't have been so shocked, or surprised, by his reaction. But, of course, I'm human, and do forget things. I guess I was feeling pretty determined on this particular day, though, and really wanted to make sure he didn't manage to pull off his socks because it was, as I said, particularly chilly for December (what is going on with the weather, I ask?). So, after dressing little man completely, I began to embark on the task of putting on his shoes. Of course, the feat wasn’t easy and It took quite a bit of stuffing and swearing (don’t worry, I was careful little madam wasn’t within earshot) till I eventually managed the get one of the little lace-ups on. Unfortunately, my excitement over this small achievement was short-lived because, when I finally succeeded...Well! Anyone living remotely nearby, and not extremely hard of hearing, would have (I’m certain) heard the carry-on. First, little man, upon realising that one of his feet was now bound by a strange and foreign object (aka, a shoe), gave me a look of sheer and utter terror. But once the shock wore off, not more than five seconds later, he began to make the most horrible shrieking howling sound; while, of course, doing his best to try to yank the little shoe off. After realising, though, a short while later, that the odd thing covering his foot wasn't going to come off as easily as a sock, he really started to bellow.
I was rather flustered at this point, as the effort of just putting the one shoe on had wore me out somewhat - and I was feeling a bit bad because I really had no intention of causing little man any grief - but I decided (despite little man's desperate pleas, and even a few shouts of "Mummy! Take them off! He doesn't want to wear them!" from his big sister, little madam, who, AMAZINGLY, had heard his cries for help and come to his rescue), to persist and quickly try to put the other shoe on. Thankfully (and rather miraculously, I might add) after a more shouts of protest from little man (and little madam, too...it was quite a scene), and a little more toe-curling and some kicking, as well, both shoes were soon on.
Now I have to admit, apart from feeling flustered (and a little guilty, too, for being the cause of little man's apparent turmoil), I was relieved a short while later as, after a cuddle and a kiss from well-intentioned-mummy, he calmed down completely and was back to being the happy little man that he normally is. Although, it was funny for a while afterwards - actually, until the clever little sod did eventually manage to pull the shoes off in the car not more than an hour later- because, although he seemed to have forgotten the horrendous ordeal, every now and then he'd catch sight of his feet and give me the shock look - the look of terror - again. Poor bugger.

Whoever thought that an innocent thing like a small pair of shoes could cause such a fuss? Wow. Not even I, the unsuspecting parent, could have anticipated such a shocking reaction to a pair of shoes, not to mention the guilt I’ve been left with for causing him so much apparent turmoil. And now that little man is beginning to take a few steps – well, he’s not quite walking, but almost – I can only begin to imagine how difficult and tumultuous the task of getting him used to wearing shoes will be.

Thanks, little man, for making me (once again) realise that I won’t be one of the lucky few in the running for the mother of the year awards, due to the fact that I insisted you wear something as shocking as a little pair of One-Stars. Love you!

What goes around, comes around

Rewind time thirty years and picture this. It’s a typical summer day in the quiet, yet quaint, town of Mansfield in Victoria. A young mum (who is carrying a one-year-old baby on her hip) grips her little girl – who is aged around four years old – by the wrist as they cross the main street. Suddenly, the little girl spies an overweight woman crossing the road in the distance, and decides to – rather than be polite and ignore his woman’s probably unavoidable (or perhaps typical) middle-age-spread –shout, at the top of her small (but effective) lungs, “Hahah! Look at that fat lady over there, mum!!!!” In case you haven’t guessed, the little girl in this story is ME! And the poor (and no doubt extremely embarrassed) mum, with the one-year-old baby attached to her hip, is my mum.

Now I want you to fast-forward thirty years, and picture this. It’s a typical late-spring day, in the hustling bustling city of Melbourne in Victoria. A mum (who has a one-year-old baby sitting in front of her in a pusher) keeps a watchful eye over her little girl – who is aged three-and-a-bit-years-old - as they wander through Federation Square. Suddenly, the little girl spies an overweight man in the distance, and decides to – rather than be polite and not pay any attention to this man’s probably unavoidable (or perhaps typical) middle-age-spread – say (as soon as the man is within earshot), in a rather loud, and clearer-than-usual, voice, “Hahah! Look at that big man, mummy!!!” Now in case you haven’t guessed, the little girl in this story is, none other than, my little madam. And the mum, standing behind the pusher, is ME! Now that’s what I call Karma!

And, just to further reinforce my belief in Karma, just the other morning little madam threw up all over me. Of course, I was concerned about her wellbeing at the time because she's not sick all that often, and the Karma thing didn't occur to me immediately. It wasn't until later in the day, after I'd relayed that morning's incident to my wonderful sister, that I was reminded me of the following scenario that took place many years ago (sorry, mum...I just never get tired of laughing about this one!). We, my sister, brother and I - along with some overnight bags, and a sleeping bag or two - were crammed into the back of a Mitsubishi Express Van on a long and exhausting journey to visit my aunty, uncle and cousin in the small town – well, it was back then - of Horsham. We must have been about halfway there, when the beginnings of a tummy bug began to bite me. I only have one clear memory of this experience. It was the memory of me relaying my sudden stomach discomfort to my mum (who was sitting directly ahead of me in the front bench-seat of the van, and probably trying her best to use the journey to take some time-out, from her three constantly quarrelling children, by having a short snooze) - in a rather whingy, whiney voice, I might add – with a, "Mum....I feel sick." Without even turning around, my mum’s response – before I violently vomited the entire contents of my lunch (it was salami and gherkin sandwiches on rye bread that day...something I wasn’t able to go near for years after this incident) over almost the entire back of the van, including all over my sister and one of the sleeping bags (which had no hope of being saved and had to be ditched on the side of the road – that’s the sleeping bag, not my sister, by the way) – was, “Tough!”

Now, before these incidences occurred – the incident at Federation Square that caused me to cringe and turn redder than the flesh of an over-ripe tomato, thanks to little madam’s innocent, yet extremely embarrassing, comment, and the incident that resulted in me being covered in vomit – I already believed in Karma, despite the fact that I’m no Buddhist. But I thought I’d already been paid back for my behaviour in other ways; such as having to deal with my own, near-impossible to control, middle-age-spread. I honestly believed that the reason I'm a little on the plump side (and have been for a large chunk of my life) was because I loudly, and very rudely, made fun of a fat person when I was little. But now I know otherwise. This fact in itself (the fact that I now realise that Karma has paid me back in an almost identical way on these TWO occasions - and probably many more if I put my mind to it), makes me shudder with dread as I picture myself, not only as a young child but also, as a teenager. Not just an ordinary teenage, mind you. A horrible, revolting, rebellious teenager that couldn’t give a fat rat’s backside about anyone but herself. Now I look at my beautiful daughter, my sweet innocent little madam, and wonder if it could be possible for her to become like me one day (the horrible rebellious teenager who didn’t give a fat rat’s backside about anyone but herself – and who, no doubt, caused her poor parents a fair amount of angst and turmoil during those terrible teenage years). And then I experience an incident like I did that day at Federation Square - or witness little madam’s true personality (the personality that makes me realise that there is no such thing as the “terrible two’s”; it’s the “terrible three’s" you really have to watch out for - and I'm reminded, without a shadow of a doubt, that what goes around, most certainly comes around.

Thanks, little madam, for making me realise that Karma has only just begun to rear its awful head. I'm sure Aunty Kerri really appreciates the payback on her behalf, too. Love you!

Mr Messy Mealtime Moments

Like the character out of Roger Hargreaves' eighth Mr Men book - the fluorescent-pink blob of scribble with eyes - my little man (although he's not quite fluorescent pink) has a really nice smile and is also extremely messy. He's so messy at mealtimes, in fact, that I'm beginning to dread the task of having to feed him; so are my poor knees. Because after every single meal - due to the fact that little man (who's now thirteen months old) has decided to adopt some early independence and refuses to let me feed him anymore - I have to spend (on average) a good twenty minutes on my hands and knees scrubbing the dreadful mess that he's managed to splatter about.

Now I’m not sure whether it's his age, or whether it’s a “boy thing” (as I honestly can't remember little madam being nearly as messy), but mealtimes in our house, have become an almost despairing and exhausting experience; this is mainly due to little man's inability to keep his food on his plate (or, better still, get it in his mouth). Instead, little man has managed to turn mealtimes, into mess-times. And did I mention he’s also quite keen on using his food for target practice?

For instance, the other morning's despair began at breakfast time. I was running a little behind - this isn’t that uncommon in my household, by the way, and is something you'll probably hear often from me due to my inability to get my arse up and out of bed early for the purpose of organising myself somewhat before little man and little madam get up themselves - and I'd given little man some toast, and a small bowl of Weetbix with milk, in his highchair while I managed to sneak away for a quick shower. I returned a couple of minutes later all clean and dressed, with a nice new pair of thongs on my feet, not only to have a full spoon of mushy, slushy Weetbix hurled in my direction. To my disgust, it flew off the edge of the highchair and landed, with a loud SPLAT, right on top of my foot. Needless to say, my thongs have never been the same - or looked quite as new as they were - since. Not to mention, I was then required to spend time (time that I really didn't have on this particularly morning due to the fact that I was RUNNING BEHIND!!!) on my hands and knees – which were still a little sore from the day before - cleaning the mess off the floor.

A few nights ago, I also made the disastrous mistake of serving rice for dinner. Now I know rice can be messy - little madam has proved this many times - but little did I know HOW messy (not to mention ANNOYING), this particular ingredient can be. After making an unsuccessful attempt to feed little man, I decided that I'd take a few deep breaths and forget about the floor for a short while. After all, we have floorboards. What does it really matter if a few grains of rice get dropped during mealtime? I plonked a small bowl of rice with chicken stir-fry in front of little man, along with a large plastic spoon, and then joined little madam at the table and ate my meal, while little man began to plough through his bowl of food in the highchair beside me. Now I wasn't surprised (given the fact that he's only really just started using cutlery) to see, a short while later, a large plastic spoon (with some food on it) flying through the air. After all, I can only imagine how frustrating, trying to put a spoon full of food in your mouth only to find you’ve lost half – or sometimes more – of the load on the way, can be. But little man carried on eating, and continued to give me the impression that he was enjoying his meal, using his hands; he actually seemed to be getting more in his mouth this way so I was thinking Terrific! Go little man!
Unfortunately though, when I took my eyes off him a short while later, to take in another mouthful of my own meal, I heard a strange noise. At the time, I mistook the noise (strangely enough considering the weather had been typical for Spring that day) for rain and so I glanced out the window to see if the weather had suddenly changed. Oddly enough, though, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was then, when I heard the noise again, that I realised it wasn't rain that I'd heard after all. I turned towards little man just in time to see the third handful of rice leave his tiny fist and fly through the air. Now at this point, I could have broken out in song to the tune of It's Raining Men, and replaced the word Men with (yes, you guessed it) Rice. But for some reason (perhaps because I knew my knees were going to be really sore again later) I didn't really feel like singing at the time. I felt, instead, like SCREAMING! I quickly left my seat at the table to grab a cloth from the kitchen - I wasn't thinking too clearly at this stage, and taking the bowl away from him hadn't even occurred to me...I am human, remember - and he let fly another two handfuls of rice, and managed to hurl the bowl a good two metres before I returned.
All I could manage to do, at that point in time, was shake my head at little man (and his rice covered surroundings) and mutter something along the lines of, "You've gotta be kidding!" Little man just looked at me with one of his really nice smiles and I wondered then how I could possibly start teaching him not to throw food. I decided that the best way would be to make him wait for his desert while I cleaned up some of the mess. I guess my logic behind this was, if he worked out that throwing food meant his desert would be delayed, he might be less inclined to do it. Unfortunately, though, as I got down on the floor and began to clean-up the rice, little man decided to play a target-practice game again and throw some of the collection of rice he had in his lap (and on the highchair table) onto my head. My, my. The joys of motherhood.
I gave up my quest to clean-up immediately, no doubt, and decided I'd give him desert immediately to distract him from the task of giving me a cold and soggy rice shower - clearly I'm terrible at following through with my lessons. So it didn't surprise me at all to find myself, at the end of the meal, cleaning up almost an entire tub of yoghurt, which had also - like the rice - been creatively splattered about the floor almost like a work of art from Pro Hart.

It also didn't surprise me, the following day, that almost another tub of yoghurt ended up on my good friend’s lovely mahogany-coloured polished boards when she was kind enough to offer little man a tub at her house. Sorry Terri!

Thanks, little man (aka Mr Messy), for forcing me down onto my knees more than well-trained horse. I’m sure the floor really appreciates your sharing efforts too. Love you!

The Trials and Tribulations of Toilets and Toilet Paper

Thank goodness only one of my two children is toilet trained. Although, there are many benefits to having a child grow up and begin to independently use the toilet. For starters, there’s nothing fun about changing a nappy full of crap and, at the end of the ordeal, finding it smeared all over the place (including all over my hands) thanks to my little one’s inability to stay still (AHEM! Not mentioning any names, little man...but that’s a story for another day). On the other hand, this independence (the independence of your little one being able to use the toilet by themselves)comes with a whole heap of inconveniences not even I, an unsuspecting parent, could have possibly anticipated.

First and foremost, I'd like to say, I was pleased when, a few weeks ago, little madam (strangely enough after an outing at the Museum), stopped using her potty altogether and began using the toilet; all by herself. The reason this was such a big deal was because, since she’d finally decided to give up wearing nappies during the day – at the age of around two-and-ten-months-or-so (a day where I was able to breathe a huge sigh of relief because, for some months prior, I honestly believed it might never happen) – and was quite determined to continually use the potty following a small scare which involved her dreaming up the belief that she might actually be able to fall in and be flushed away. It took months of reassurance (not to mention several demonstrations by friends of a similar age) for her to finally raise up enough courage to sit on the toilet and just do a wee. And, although I was required to hold on to her (so she wouldn’t fall in and become prey to the hungry toilet) it was a relief, because I was getting sick of having to hastily run and collect the wee-filled potty off the floor, in a bid to avoid little man exploring (and having a splash around in) the contents. The number two’s, sadly, took far longer (and it’s a far messier exercise to clean crap out of a potty – almost worse, in fact, than having to change a pooey nappy). But, with all that said, I’m pleased to say little madam is finally over her toilet phobia, and is now able to go (both to do number one’s AND number twos), all by herself.

Did I mention there’s a negative to this aspect of independence? Well. If I didn’t, please allow me to; because there is! The first negative (and the most time-consuming by far) is that little madam has decided to develop a...well...I guess I could call it a kind of addiction to using unusual toilets. And by unusual, I don’t mean extraordinary. I simply mean toilets that are not our normal boring toilet at home. Now, every time I set foot in a shopping centre, little madam decides to stand with her legs crossed and say, with a great deal of sincerity (enough sincerity for me to actually believe she might be telling the truth ) “I need to go to the toilet.” Amazingly, this will happen several times in a very short time span, despite the fact she may have been just before we left home (not to mention the fact that she’s quite capable of holding on for hours at a time when we are home). And, as a result, doing a short spot of shopping can now take an unbearably long time.

Another negative to little madam’s self toileting is, it doesn’t matter where we are (or what the facilities are like) she is determined to make sure her addiction is satisfied. For example, some years ago, our local shopping square decided to remove the public toilet facilities (which were previously located inside the supermarket), and replace them with one of those strange metal cubicles outside. If you’ve never seen one of these before, I’m certain it won’t be long before you do, as they seem to be popping up all over the place; probably due to the fact that they claim to have the ability to “self clean”, and, therefore, supposedly reduce maintenance costs significantly. However, despite the claim that these metal cubicle toilets are, “self cleaning”, and despite the fact that (once the door is locked) music plays over the loudspeaker to allow you to, I guess, better enjoy your experience, the one at my local shopping square is repulsive; it always smells worse than a bin full of crap-filled nappies, and looks more unclean than the dunny at a really busy truck stop. And, therefore, I do my best to avoid it.
Unfortunately, though, I made the mistake, a couple of months back (before little madam was as independent as she is now), to point out the metal cubicle at my local shopping square and call it, “the funny toilet.” Now, every time I go anywhere near my local shopping square (which I sadly have to because, well, it’s local and therefore extremely CONVENIENT) little madam plays the leg-crossing game and insists she needs to use, “the funny toilet.” Turning my once extremely CONVENIENT shopping square experience, into a complete and utter filth-ridden INCONVENIENCE! Aaagghhh!

Now. Where was I? That’s right. The negatives of self-toileting. Another negative (yes, there’s another...and probably several more I won’t get to mention in this post), is that our household use of toilet paper (and requirement to replace it) has now increased by, at least, four times; even though there’s been the addition of only one small (but significant) toilet user in the house. I swear, just the other morning I replaced the roll only to find myself having to replace it again a few hours later. I couldn’t understand how we’d been through a whole roll of toilet paper in such a short amount of time, and began to think I must have lost track of time (I actually began to believe that I had last replaced the roll yesterday). That was until I heard daddy - who’d gone to make sure little madam was okay after she failed to re-appear five minutes (or more) after she’d announced she needed to go to the toilet – loudly declare, “You’re going to block up the toilet if you put any more paper in there!” or something to that effect. The mystery had been solved. Did I mention that this incident will inevitably result in me having to make a premature (and INCONVENIENT, now, thanks to “the funny toilet”) trip up to my local shopping square to buy more toilet paper?

Hooray. The trials and tribulations of toilets and toilet paper. The worst thing about this whole thing is, I really should be celebrating little madam’s independence, not complaining about it. After all, it really is a huge milestone. Although, I should add, we’re not quite entirely there yet. She still wears nappies at night, after all. I can only begin to imagine what fun and games night toilet-training is going to entail. Or perhaps there’ll be less to report when it’s dark and I’m half asleep thanks to being woken suddenly from my deep slumber by the sound of the toilet flushing, or the tap running. But for now, all I can do is feel (while I’m still having to spend three hours at a shopping centre for an hour worth of shopping, and while I’m still having to pay a regular visit to, “the funny toilet”, which, in my opinion, is about as revolting as a fly in my dinner) that this stage of independence is most certainly just a little inconvenient.

Thanks, little madam, for dragging me into more public toilets over the last few weeks than I have visited (almost, anyway) in my entire lifetime. Not to mention forcing me to endure all the unpleasantness's of that revolting "funny toilet" far more times than necessary. I’m sure readers of this also really appreciate the much needed insight into what some public toilet facilities in this city are truly like. Love you!

What a load of RUBBISH! The Terrible Sin Involving The Poor Kitchen Bin.

Perhaps it's a boy thing (because I'm fairly certain little madam wasn't at all like this), or perhaps it's something else entirely, but little man has such an inquisitive nature that it feels as though I can't turn my back on him for a second. Although, needless to say, of course I do; he is the second child around here, after all. But since he's been on the move - which has been quite a few months now - I've had to make some serious adjustments around my home to compensate for the fact that he loves getting into things. And when I say, "things", I mean virtually EVERYTHING.

One of the most annoying adjustments, by far, I’ve had to make to date, as a result of little man's over-zealous attempts to explore, involves the kitchen rubbish bin which, up until a few months ago, I considered to be safe and happy sitting on the floor (next to the recycling basket) in a corner area of our rather small kitchen. The first time he became interested in it, I found him touching the bin-lining bag and, naturally, just assumed he just enjoyed the sound of the plastic rustling; at the time, I wasn’t too concerned. After all, I didn’t think he would be capable of actually removing the bin-liner bag so I wasn't too worried about the safety aspect.
But then, a couple of weeks later, I caught him sitting by the bin, with something in his mouth. And, upon further investigation (as I couldn't recall offering him a snack since the morning meal - which was over an hour earlier, mind you), I discovered that his small mouth was stuffed full of some cold, soggy toast, covered in a rather large dollop of milk-soaked Weetbix. That's odd, I thought, shrugging my shoulders half-heartedly. I wasn’t at all worried, at the time; that was, until I spotted the small pile - which contained remnants of leftover food scraps, along with some plastic wrappers and the like (ie. RUBBISH) - at his feet and realised that, although he was indeed filling his face with that morning's breakfast leftovers, the piece of toast, along with the mushy weetbix, had been put to rest into the bin when I'd done the big brekkie clean-up some time earlier. Therefore, as a result of this incident, I really had to try hard to make sure that, when the rubbish bin (yes, the bin that's designed to hold RUBBISH!!!) had rubbish in it, it was kept high up and as far away as possible from my very inquisitive little man.

After a while, I noticed that little man had not shown interest in the bin for some time, and I was feeling relieved – not-to-mention more than a little pleased - that his horribly revolting rubbish-rifling stage had passed. So I began to forget, every-now-and-then, that the first incident – the incident that saw my little man helping himself to leftover toast and Weetbix from the rubbish bin - had ever happened (I guess it was the HUMAN in me causing this), and I started to leave the bin on the floor in its normal spot again.
Just the other day, I left the kitchen unattended – hang on a minute. That sounds rather odd, doesn’t it? Please don't misunderstand me. I do leave the kitchen unattended quite often, and certainly don't spend every waking moment there, just to clarify - so I could tend to a few things around the house. I returned to the kitchen a short while later to find little man playing with the lid of the rubbish bin (it's got one of those flappy lids - not sure what it's called exactly). Anyway. My immediate reaction was to shout out, rather loudly, "NOOOOO!!", and take a giant leap in his direction so I could quickly remove the bin from the floor. After placing the bin on the dining table (not a great place for a rubbish bin, I know, but it's the only place within reach that's high enough to prevent my little man from accessing it), I then began to check little man's mouth for any food scraps and rotting fruit or vegetable peelings. Thankfully, I found nothing, and was happy to wipe my brow and mutter "Phew!" as I assumed, at that moment, that I'd made it in time to prevent another potentially disgusting incident involving little man doing his small bit for the environment (ie. recycling, or, in other words, EATING THE RUBBISH).
It wasn't until I used the bin later that day, as I was preparing dinner, that I realised what my little man had been up to. Because there, sitting on top of a grotty, discarded tub of yoghurt (probably the same yoghurt little man, or little madam, had eaten only half of for lunch that day) and nestled amongst some of the previous night's dinner – I’m pretty sure we’d eaten ghoulash or something equally as repulsive - was a small blue matchbox car. Needless to say, I was feeling pretty annoyed - annoyed with myself, more than anything, for being so lax and forgetting to keep the bin off the floor - and disgusted, so little man and little madam’s small matchbox car collection is now one less.

As for the bathroom bin, I've decided it's far safer (yes, safer) to avoid using it altogether. After all, I’ve grown tired of having to add, “pick up dirty tissues, used band-aids and cotton buds (probably quite dangerous in the hands of a baby) off the bathroom floor”, to my endless list of things to do around the place, thanks to my little man's rubbish-rifling habit. Now, if I have used tissues, band-aids, cotton-buds etc, I take the time to deliver them straight to the kitchen bin. That way, I only have one collection of rubbish I really need to think about guarding and monitoring.
The other bin that I now avoid using, as a result of my little man's determination, is the small bin in his room; before I realised that he had a fetish for rubbish, this bin was primarily used to dispose of his dirty nappies. Needless to say, the dirty nappies are usually delivered straight outside to the big green bin now, or, if I don't have time for this immediately (and quite often I don't), placed in the, now well and truly over-utilised, kitchen bin.

So, the next time you're visiting my place, and the smell of dirty nappies wafts into your nostrils as you're enjoying a cuppa at my dining room table – or perhaps, better still, you find that your lovely cup of tea has to share the dining room table with a revolting rubbish-filled bin - please spare a thought for the poor misplaced, over-used bin. After all, I’m certain that, before my little man became a rubbish obsessed fiend, it led a perfectly satisfied life on the floor collecting (and not having to share a scrap of) genuine household rubbish; the exact job it was brought into this world to do.

Thanks, little man, for reminding me that even rubbish has the potential to turn an ordinary experience, into something quite extraordinary! Love you!

The dangers of owning, and living with, your very own talking Parrot

No one warned me when I first had children, that there was going to be a danger that they would, one day, be capable of behaving just like a talking Parrot. And repeat almost every single word I dare to speak out loud; even the not so desirable ones. The first instance of this occurring happened quite some time ago, and it happened with my little madam, who would have been no older than two-and-a-bit. I realised, at this point in time, that I must learn to express my frustration in ways other than using colourful, and perhaps undesirable, language. It's amazing because, until she began shouting from the back seat of the car, "Bloody hell, bloody hell!", I had no idea that traffic (or perhaps it was the fact that I'd encountered YET ANOTHER red traffic light) had such an impact on me.

Unfortunately, like many regrettable incidences, I managed to put the firm reminder to myself out of my mind (in other words, forget that I mustn't use swear words in front of my children - particularly my little madam). So the other day I found myself rushing more than normal (due to a variety of small factors which caused me to run behind - including a rather hasty tidy-up of the bathroom floor following the removal of everything, yes ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING, from the bathroom cupboard, thanks to a very inquisitive little man). I was due to have dinner with my family - my sister and brother-in-law had returned that day from their overseas holiday - and I was really looking forward to seeing them. I guess in an effort to leave the house in an as orderly state as possible, to avoid having to clean up later that night (when I knew I'd be in no mood after a couple of drinks and the rather hearty meal I was expecting), I'd been running around for a good half-an-hour-or-so, collecting toys and other bits and pieces off the ground (including the ENTIRE contents of the bathroom cupboard, of course). I wasn't trying to achieve perfection, by any means, however, was trying to ensure that when I left for dinner, the house did not resemble a post-kids-party zone.

I'd just about finished my clean-up, when I discovered my little man (after forgetting to close the laundry door - yet another lesson so easily forgotten - after delivering some washing to the rather overflowing basket a few moments earlier) in the cat food. I'm not sure what he could possibly find appealing about little brown
pellets that apparently have a chicken and rice flavour, but I - who was a little
more flustered than usual - expressed my disgust by muttering (or perhaps
mutter is putting it mildly - I can't really remember) a rather profane word (a
word beginning with the letter "F").

Now I have to admit that, as I do have a rather exceptional vocabulary, filled with an array of rather filthy and disgusting words, I have had to really try hard, since having children (particularly since the incident in the car I spoke of earlier), to avoid expressing my frustration using these words. After all. I do not want to be the parent that receives a phone call, when my littlies eventually attend school, from a disgusted and rather annoyed principal telling me that my daughter or son's language - some of their vocabulary, perhaps - is unsuitable for use within the school grounds.

I also recall vividly, a story told to me by my aunty (she's my "cool" aunty, who I admired - and still do, of course - greatly as a child, thanks largely to her rather uncensored use of colourful language in certain situations...not to mention the fact that she's told some of the best rude jokes I've ever heard), who was once sitting at the bus stop with my cousin, who was aged around four at the time. Apparently, my young cousin was reciting a rude version of the Captain Cook rhyme; it included a verse that went something along the lines of, "Captain Cook knocked his c*** on a rock" - or something to that effect. Anyway. An elderly lady, who was also waiting at the same bus stop, asked my young cousin you taught him the rhyme he'd been reciting. And, to my aunty's horror, he had no hesitation in proudly revealing , "My mum!"

Now you're probably wondering, What sort of upbringing has this mother had? Well, I'll spare my parent's the disapproval now. I can say, with all-certainty, that
I had a very respectable upbringing. In fact, I grew up in house where the most profane word uttered (I'm certain) was "bother". No kidding. I even remember vividly the horrified faces of my parents when they first heard me utter the "f" word. I would have been at least eight or nine years old at the time, and I hadn't even used it in context. I just decided to share the new word I'd learned with them. I don't even remember where I'd picked it up. School, most likely. And, aside from school, I guess I picked up the use of foul language (in context) later in life, when I was a rebellious and horrible teenager.

Anyway. I immediately regretted using "the F word" on this particular day, because standing right behind me was my little madam. Who, right at that moment, decided "being a parrot" was in. Sadly, it wasn't the first time she's heard me say this word. Nor the first time I've heard her test it out (not that she understands the meaning of it - or at least I don't think she does - I'm pretty sure she just says it to get a reaction from me - because reacting is what I tend to do when I'm reminded of the fact that it's entirely my fault my little madam is already familiar with "the f word"). Because she began to utter it repeatedly, with a larger-than-normal grin across her face.

I guess she was waiting for me to laugh at her. And I could have. After all, it did sound rather funny (and terribly odd, of course) to hear my little madam, who turned three not so long ago, to repeatedly utter a word which she has no idea the meaning of. But, you'll be proud (or relieved at least) to hear I didn't laugh. "You are not allowed to say that!" I said sternly and hurriedly, as I collected my little man off the floor and wiped the brown muck that was dribbling out of his mouth from his chin. Although, I'm certain now - perhaps because I was distracted with the revolting task of removing soggy pellets of cat food from my little man's mouth - my stern warning was about as effective as giving her a lollipop and a pat on the
shoulder, because she continued to say it with increasing volume.

Now I had to think hard. How could I make it clear to my little madam, that the use of this word was unacceptable? After all, mummy had said the bad word first. I decided that, on this particular occasion, I'd remain calm and not react; try a bit of the old, "ignore it and it will go away". Thankfully, on this particular day, at this particular time, this strategy worked. I guess she was looking forward to dinner with my family as much as I was, so she quickly forgot her game and we were soon out the door with no further undesirable language uttered from either of us; that is, until I dropped my car keys only metres from the car! Well. Come on. My arms were practically falling off as I struggled to hold on tight to two large bags and a one-year-old.

No. Just kidding. The truth is, I hadn't forgotten my lesson that quickly. What I
did, though - and have been trying to do ever since my little madam brought
about the realisation that I express myself using my rather colourful
vocabulary (ie. swear) far too much - was use a replacement word. I decided that, after dropping my car keys, it was time to express my frustration in a new, innovative way; by naming a really revoltingly sugary breakfast cereal (aka - fruit loops!). I can't promise, though, that I'll keep this up too long. After all, I caught myself (just this morning) muttering the good old "f word". Thankfully, my little madam and little man, were far from being within earshot. But as I've said before, I am definitely human (not to mention often distracted by the endless supply of
washing in the washing basket) and, therefore, more than capable of forgetting;
even the most horrific experiences and well-learnt lessons.

Thanks little madam for reminding me, once again, the
dangers of living with my very own talking Parrot. Love you!

The Great Shopping Stand-Off

I have to say that, like most parents, I am extremely proud of my two children. At times I am so amazed by them; amazed by the things (small and big) they say and do. With my three-year-old (let's just call her, for the sake of this story, little madam), I have to say, with some relief, that I haven't yet encountered nearly as many of the loud screaming tantrums I expected when I first entered the realm of motherhood. Not that she's by any means perfect, but I guess she's quite a reserved child for the most part. And being reserved (although in the right company, she can talk the ears off an elephant), she has a tendency to avoid public displays of frustration (ie. public tantrums).

Like displays similar to the one I witnessed a few weeks ago at my local shopping centre. Where a little boy (who was probably a little younger than my little madam),after deciding an ice-cream was what he really wanted - and after being told, "no", by his mum (a very brave woman who, after denying his request, began to walk away, leaving him to shout his demands at random shoppers and passers-by) - put on the most amazing public display of frustration by throwing himself on the ground about two metres from (and in the path of) the well-intentioned mother, and kicking and screaming until the entire shopping centre (which I thought, at the time, was in danger of imminent collapse from the violent actions of this small boy) was filled with his screams and shouts of despair, not to mention the horrified faces of witnesses who were close enough to see. I, who was terrified my little madam might in fact learn something from the fist-flying, ground-kicking little boy, didn’t hang around to see how the incident ended; whether, or not, the mother decided to give in to his demands to appease the furious boy.

I was reminded of this incident only a few days later, though, when I thought I might be in danger of encountering a similar display. Up until this point, my little madam has been a terrific shopper. I've not once felt that I was about to be embarrassed by a public tantrum. After all, she's such a well-behaved child in public, most of the time (yes, most of the time. After all, she isn’t perfect). Although, in saying that, I believe children are also wonderful at proving you wrong.

Now I'm well aware of the clever tactics used by shop marketers – tactics such as the strategic placement of child-appealing items, such as sweets and even small toys, at checkouts so, if asked, you feel as though (particularly with a queue of impatient shoppers behind) you have no choice but to agree to buy your little one/s a treat. But, thankfully for me, I’m proud to say – up until this particular day - my little madam has never asked for anything...not even a small checkout chocolate bar. And - up until this particular day - I felt confident that if she did, she'd have no trouble accepting, "no", for an answer. So great was my confidence – up until this particular day, of course – that I had no hesitation in taking my little madam through a large department store (one we’d visited often in the past) straight to the toy department. On this particular day, however, my little madam was about to test my confidence. We (my husband, little man, little madam and I) decided we needed to shop for some gifts. My husband, who was determined to inspect some of the more boyish toys - such as the remote control cars etc, which I'm certain were more for him than for little man - wandered off pushing little man in the pusher. And I was left with little madam who, at that particular moment, found something that caught her eye. And, I'm devastated to say, took her fancy. Now my immediate response to her question - actually, come to think of it, there's no question mark at the end of "I want that", so it was, in fact, a demand - was, "No way". I even made a snorting sound (similar to the noise a pig with a blocked nose might make) when I spoke because I found the quiet, but rather firm, demand quite surprising. Well. In hindsight, perhaps my response was too abrupt. Perhaps I wasn’t diplomatic enough when I answered her. Or perhaps I should have tried to, "negotiate", a little more (that's what some of the so-called experts suggest). But the truth was I simply wasn't expecting her to throw such a demand my way. I guess the reason for this is because, as I said earlier, she's never really asked for anything.

Well. Perhaps I'm lucky that my abrupt response didn't result in my little madam throwing herself on the ground. It did, however, result in the sound of her repeating her demand (“But I want this!”) in a much louder voice – a voice loud enough to be heard (I'm certain) across the entire department store. I was a little embarrassed already, and beginning to feel flustered, so I took a slightly different approach (or perhaps not) and answered hastily with, "Well you can't have it", before, like the mother I'd witnessed a few days earlier with the little boy and the ice-cream tantrum, I turned and began to walk away. A few seconds later a small, yet satisfied, smile crossed my lips when I realised she was (without another word) following. I'd won. And it hadn't been too much of a battle, either.

That’s what I thought at the time anyway. If only life, when you involve children, could be that simple. Sure. She was following me. But the problem, and the thing I’d missed when I took that sideways glance to make sure she was behind me, was that she still had the toy firmly in her grasp. And, after catching sight of daddy in the distance, she ran towards him and attempted a very heartfelt plea in the hope that he would agree to buy her the toy – the same toy that I had denied her request for less than a minute earlier. Thankfully, I caught on to what she was doing quickly and managed to signal my husband and make him aware that I’d already said no, and he managed to back-up my original stance.

It wasn’t until this point that I realised the danger. Before this moment, I really felt there was no way she was capable of doing what that little boy a few days earlier had done when he’d been refused his ice-cream. As she turned to glare at me – I’m certain she felt (or knew) that it was entirely my fault daddy had also said, “no”, – my heart skipped a beat. I was suddenly terrified. And, despite my apparent fear – the fear that, at any moment, my little madam person might actually throw herself on the ground to express her frustration – I hastily requested she return the toy to its place on the shelf. Several seconds passed. Nothing happened. She simply stood there staring at me with the toy clutched firmly in her grasp. I waited. I watched. I repeated my request then held my breath. Little madam remained still and continued to stare at me. Her lips began to pout. I closed my eyes. Here it comes, I thought. But again, nothing happened. And after a short minute-or-so long stand-off, I’m proud to say, my little madam returned the toy (not to its original place, I might add...I told you she’s not perfect) and I was able to breathe a long sigh of relief when we left the store without any further embarrassment immediately after. Although I am sad to say she did chuck a reasonably large wobbly when it was finally time to get in the car a short while later. She insisted on getting in herself, and when she didn’t, I decided to take the initiative and put her in. Thankfully, when this happened, there weren’t any onlookers though. I guess that counts for something when you’re a mother desperate to prove that you’re capable of some kind of control over the little ones in your life. I guess time will tell if my little madam proves me wrong, yet again.

Thanks for being such a terrific shopper little madam! Well, most of the time, anyway! Love you!

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!