Baby2011 is making me pasta, custard and tea. Then I expect he’ll pull up his tiny stool, sit down at the keys and serenade me on his piano (microphone included!) whilst I pick the Weetabix off his high chair and persuade the cat to get down off the top of the fridge. He plays a bit on his own now. As much as I’ve longed for this freedom I feel a but redundant.
Anyone would think it had been Christmas. My conservatory (posh eh!?) is like a toy shop. Flashing lights, joyful songs, and a bit chaotic – bit like dad2011 on Christmas day (boom boom). Baby2011 running excitedly from fireman Sam toys to Thomas the tank engine and he looks so thrilled.
In the run up to Christmas baby2011 and I hit the Toddler Group Christmas party. We survived. 50 under 5s making Christmas crowns (baby2011 insisting on wearing one he didn’t make upside down the whole time!) dancing and singing with Jo jingles and a few ounces of sugar made father christmas’ reception – well, Interesting.
Poor bloke probably wished he was in the pub opposite or at home in an arm chair watching deal or no deal with a cup of tea rather than absolutely terrifying each child there. He was a lovely chap but it was hilarious as each child was called they clung to their parents knees looking as terrified as a turkey at Christmas. They were sh*tting themselves. Parents of more than one child in hysterics or rolling eyes and first time mum’s trying to jolly up screaming child and explain the magic to them (no one wants the screamer do they!?).
Thank god a warm bottle of milk sent baby2011 to sleep that afternoon and me and a friend thought it would be best if we checked the mulled wine stock was ok for our husbands.
On Christmas eve baby2011 had been washed, fed and watered and put in a nice cosy bed. He’d put a carrot out for the reindeer and a triple jack Daniels for father crimbo and he was asleep. Bliss…my mind began to wander. Romantic notions of opening our stockings in bed on Christmas morning, laughing and excited filled my head.
The reality was that we we were woken in the night by the puke monster. Baby2011 and his spectacular vom made for a night of washing machine loads, carpet scrubbing and half sleeping, waiting for round 2.
The moral of this Christmas tale. You’re not the boss, you’re not in control, but with friends, family, children and wine…you’re definitely winning.
(I think I’ll need a hip flask once he hits nativity play age)