Earlier this week as I was contemplating life the universe and everything or alternatively what the hell to put in this blog, Beautiful Daughter and Incredible Grandson were on FaceTime and we were discussing the relative merits of baby rice plain or baby rice banana flavour. When apropos of nothing whatsoever we segued into a discussion about Sesame Street.
Reminiscing being a joy when you are talking to your children!
I reminded her of the rather unnerving Tickle Me Elmo that she had - Imagine Elmo on acid with maniacal laughter and you pretty much have the idea. I then recalled Beautiful Daughter also had one of those awful Baby Born things that cries and gurgles and shits itself.. quite unpleasant;
The Christmas these delights were purchased, Her Father and I were still together...
There we were, slumped on the sofa, Christmas evening, small people all in bed, us both clutching a drink too exhausted to even drink it, listening to the sounds of small happy people sleeping peacefully, when suddenly there was a high pitched screaming.
Cue two exhausted Christmased out parents leaping into action, running around the room waving their arms in the air panic struck! It took us about 5 minutes before we realised it was the sodding Baby Born thing in its travel seat in the corner of the room. We then spent a further 15 minutes desperately trying to pacify the damn thing before our ears bled. Rocking it up and down, burping the fucking thing had no effect whatsoever. We’d just resigned ourselves to digging a large hole in the back garden and burying it forever when a small tired voice in the doorway said,
'Mummy, stop being such a silly, she just wants her dummy.'
Small Beautiful Daughter wandered over, stuffed the ghastly Baby Born's dummy into its mouth - which by the way engendered sucking noises of a magnitude never heard from an actual baby - removed herself and Baby Born and went back to bed. Much to our utter delight. We put the shovels away and returned to our exhausted state of the sofa, slightly bemused and a little disturbed.
It should be noted that three days later, after getting up multiple times every bloody night to shove the fucking things dummy back in its mouth, I worked out how to turn the appalling thing off...there should be parental warnings on toys like these!
I was sharing these heart warming memories with TBT during one of our long meandering chats a couple of days later - we are both too old to have really enjoyed Sesame Street, but we did discover a shared love of the Muppets. He had a crush on Miss Piggy, my favourite was Animal, (Bec’s favourite too apparently, not sure what that says about our friendship) there is a message in there I feel but I don't care to unwind it.
TBT thoughtfully mentioned that maybe I should put it the blog. Then went on to say how he felt that the blogs were a touch negative - specifically about him, very brave of him I thought!
My measured and reasoned response went along the lines of,
“Its not all about you you know . And if you are that pissed write a rebuttal and I will put it in.“ I was pretty confident that this wouldn't happen.
However Dear Reader I was wrong.......
As he doesn't actually deserve a voice in our blog so here are some edited highlights:
”So let me introduce myself TBT here, although the moniker does make me sound like a serial killer of some sort, Torture Bind Tickle anyone?
It appears that I get a bit of a bad rep in some of these blogs. Seriously I have no idea why?
But Bricks, faces and the punching thereof with said heavy hurty object occur on a fairly frequent basis.” Note from Editor : “And you know why....”
“I just can’t imagine why?“ Is TBT’s plaintive response a sure indication of his total lack of self awareness.
Pip says I’m a fucking delight?” I refer to the comment above.
“Having said that, I think that the Jax Teller-esque hairdo has had a calming effect on Her Indoors (if I have a moniker its only fair that she does too) as HI does like a bit of Sons of Anarchy .”
It’s worth noting at this stage in my benevolence in giving TBT a platform in our blog, that egos the size of planetary systems usually go hand in hand with an under developed emotional intelligence quotient.
Since I write fifty percent of this blog, I don't need to maintain anonymity.
Back to TBT’s contribution,
“HI says its more like Sons of Arthritis, The Ibuprofen Chapter - given the amount of aches and pains I complain about with monotonous regularity.”
He does complain and its irritating in the extreme.
I am now sorely regretting my challenge to invite TBT to contribute because he appears to want to take over. His thoughts continued in the following vein, a bit like a broken record, it was now difficult to shut him up.
“I recall that the last blog mentioned something about flowers. More specifically the lack of them in HI's life.
I'm pretty sure HI has me confused with someone else on this point as generally my gifts are either alcohol based or practical.”
Come to think of it, the flowers I receive are from friends.
“In my defence, I did purchase a rather nice dining room table as a moving in present for her new house.“
It’s funny how people remember things as it was me who purchased the table and you simply transferred the cash romantically into my bank account.
“You know the sort of gift the shouts 'I love you and remember I'm sat here and I need feeding!'”.
That was the end of TBT’s contribution and he will never be invited ever again which means I can write about hitting him in the face with a brick inside a sock as many times as I wish. Perhaps the reader, now has a sense of my frustrations in that the dining room table was more about him being comfortable as I fed him, rather than my own domestic bliss.
After that brief insightful interlude...
Back to reminiscing and an insight into the lives of our most favourite characters in the blog.
Special Precious Boy around the time of the Baby Born incident was a very small person indeed and wonderfully had a favourite pair of underpants. Tiny little boy briefs in red.
It was handy that he had a pair of underpants that he would wear because he randomly and repeatedly removed all of his clothes at a moments notice, almost always in public places (I wonder if he still does? Note to self: ask Lady Wycombeee if he still has this unfortunate habit.)
I have a vivid memory of a shopping trip to Somerfield (for those that don't know Somerfield was a Northern based supermarket chain akin to Kwick Save or a tiny version of Walmart.)
Now SPB was a difficult little person - not that he has changed that much, except he is much bigger now.
This particular day he had decided that he was going to walk and most definitely not going to go in the trolley and that's all there was to it.
So Beautiful Daughter is sitting being wonderfully well behaved in the trolley chatting away, SPB is trundling along behind us being slightly objectionable, nothing unusual in that.
Somewhere around the frozen food aisle I realise that I haven't heard a grumble from him in a while. I begin to notice people pointing and laughing, my heart sinks as I wonder what the hell he is doing (note: he was partial to having a poo in things that weren't either a toilet or a potty so my nerves were slightly on edge as I wondered if he was pooing in the household aisle section in a mop bucket.)
I turn around very slowly giving myself time to find a coping mechanism for whatever is going to assail me and there he is SPB, stripped right down to his ickle red pants, clothes in a line behind him, seriously telling a concerned bystander that
”feese is mine faborite pants becousing fey is wed.”
I was rooted to the spot. Horror apparent in every fiber of my being, my chosen coping mechanism having failed me miserably, I wondered momentarily if I could get away with just leaving and admitting no parental responsibility.
But no Beautiful Daughter has now clocked her almost naked younger brother and is shouting gleefuly (and loudly),
”pwants pwants I cans see yous pants!”
SPB yodels back,
”fey is wed”
My humiliation was complete. Thank fuck for the red underpants!