Hi, I have changed the address of the blog. So if you can be bothered to look for it its over LittlepersonandDD@blogspot.com

Enjoy

Back to Auld Clother and Porridge

Hi, LP here. Hope you all had a good Christmas and New Year. As my Great Granny, or “Bambi” as she was known, would have said if she were here “Aye (Sigh) Back to auld clothes and Porridge” AKA it’s time for things to get back to normal.

Normal!! Normal!! I’m still trying to recover from the effects of my first Christmas since the Stork brought me to Mummy and Daddy. I know you will not  be surprised to hear, it did not go without incident. I’m over the festive period as much as the next little, or indeed big, person is but it would be remiss of me not to acknowledge a few ‘incidents’ which did occur.

I’m scared to go to the dentist. A relatively innocent statement, perhaps made by someone not fully recognising of the advances in both treatment and analgesia which the dental profession has made over the, say, past 200 years, you might think. Not in this case Gentle Reader, as Daddy call’s you all. Cast your mind back to Christmas Eve and inhale deeply on the aroma of festivity. Can you smell it? Can you? Can you?..... Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, mince pie’s baking in the oven, eggnog doing whatever it is that eggnog does and carrots, yes, carrots… if you don’t believe me that carrots have an aroma go sniff one….. being, um,  peeled and cut into batons. Without wishing to digress from the plot too much, although you know I will, Mummy and Daddy felt they had a wee bit of catching up to do with regard to the festive period and decided to go all ‘Christmas to the MAX’ on me and force me to participate in all the Yuletide traditions all at once. This was their attempt to make up for being somewhat late to the party, so to speak.  So Mince Pie’s cooling on the counter and carrots, peeled and cut into batons by the Chef of the residence  all for Santa and his Reindeer, it was then Bath time, thankfully without the performance, as the Olds were woefully behind schedule in the wrapping department and it would be only a few hours until I would be up and about gazing expectantly on a Christmas tree and surrounding area festooned with brightly wrapped presents.

Christmas Eve is clearly no ordinary day. The planned pattern  of events for my post dinner ablutions would be Daddy  giving me a  wee rub down with a damp Chamois before mummy distracted me with her, much fabled and somewhat boisterous, rendition of Away in a Manger,  in order for Daddy to go through the pretence of attempting  to make me think he was an electric toothbrush to try and make dental care more enjoyable for me  and clean any trace of spaghetti with pesto and cheese from my, presently bonnie, teeth. FYI Daddy, just because you go “Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”  it doesn’t make dental care any more enjoyable for me. As for Strawberry flavoured toothpaste. BOAK!  (Which, my non Scots friend, means “Puke”).

Despite the Olds best intentions, it was clear that Christmas Eve was going to be a late one for us all. The first spanner in the works was my new beanbag. Antipodean Auntie had observed me via the wonders of SKYPE being strapped in, aeroplane test pilot style, to my wee reclining seat which has long since stopped vibrating, in order to allow me to consume warm, full fat, milk in relative comfort, with the Olds safe in the knowledge that I will not attempt to feed my milk to the hound. Apparently through the power of Voice Over Internet Protocol,  Antipodean Auntie or AA as she is known (and, somewhat ironically, would probably benefit from) suggested to Daddy that a bean bag is the way forward as it limits my movements much in the same way as the straps do but without the stress of strapping me in  and with more of a psychological  element of restraint. As Mummy and Daddy had been on the look out for a new form of baby prison since I had filled the house with toys and there was no room for Category A  portable Baby Prison in the living room, they jumped at the chance to hit “one click purchase” on Amazon and a few short days, in which Mummy and Daddy whiled away the time hypothesising  whether AA had spent far too long reading the works of E.L James or watching Yokai rich Japanese Psychological Horror movies. Neither of which I, thankfully know anything about,  took delivery of a bright orange plastic covered beanbag  which looked like a Space Hopper with the fun kicked out of it. Despite their initial disappointment  the beanbag was deemed to be “a sensible choice” as it was wipe clean and that I would, apparently, grow into it.....Mummy and Daddy, I have to say that it's a good job that you did well on the Christmas present front as the bean bag was a little bit of a letdown. It should also be noted that reading me Jack and the Beanstalk whilst the good people at the Royal Mail did their thing was no the best of ideas. Imagine my shock when I was presented with a gazillion bean’s when the blooming thing arrived. Daddy would definitely need a bigger garden!

Fresh out of my rather lacklustre bath, devoid of toy’s and with only a spirited performance of  Away in a Manger to look forward to..... Though clearly I was not looking forward to this as as much as mummy who was frantically stuffing pillows round her waist and building a manger out of scatter cushions and occasional furniture, I was assisted into my ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ baby grow and placed on top of my beanbag. Daddy quickly popped an Ikeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bib on me, the one with the strange angular representation of a reindeer emblazoned on it and I was then ready for my milk.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee as I slid down, winter Olympics style, to the bottom of the beanbag.  Daddy quickly rushed to my rescue and lifted me back up atop of my very own Cresta Run. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, I slid down again, my bottle falling out of my hands and landing perilously close to the Hound who had decided to make an appearance as he wondered what all the fuss was about. Full marks to Mummy, or should I say Mary for waddling  to my rescue before daddy suggested he staples my baby grow to the shiny orange mountain.  Sadly by this time the damage had been done. The air and my bottom were heavy with electricity caused by a build up of static from my constant sliding. Mummy and Daddy I am not a Van De Graaff Generator for your amusement and I would like to thank you for not laughing at me as my hair as my bonnie locks floated upward to the ceiling.

If you are following my ramblings you will be wondering why I started out stating that I was scared to go to the dentist. Gentle Readers.. Revenge is indeed a dish best served cold and in Daddy’s case with a dollop of Lignocaine. Just before I went to sleep and a good 10 mins before the static electricity dissipated through the lightning conductor attached to my cot (one can never be too careful), daddy apparently decided that Rudolf and his mated had way too many carrots to eat and he decided that he would take a bite out of one. This action resulted in Daddy loosing a filling and having to put up with the inconvenience of dental pain over Christmas.

I love it when a plan comes together.

 

 

 

 

 

Happy New Year from LP

Happy New Year from LP

Jings, Crivens help ma boab, as they say around these parts. It’s Hogmany and Mummy  and Daddy are both in their “comfies” and about to sit down to watch TV. I can’t believe what a couple of party poopers they are but I guess they are getting on a bit. Mummy got a birthday prezzie of a pink leopard skin Onesie  and has decided to put it on. Daddy is clearly not a fan of the Onsie and has struggled for the past 4 months or so to do up my baby grow’s without having ‘spare’ poppers. I suspect he may be similarly  frustrated when it comes to mummy’s Onesie.
Anyway… Once again I digress. I just thought that I would say Happy New Year to you all. It’s been a great year for me and although I have say  cheerio to a few people I have said  hello to others. Don’t worry though, all those who have played a positive part in my early life thus far won’t ever be forgotten and mean an awful lot to me.

Mummy and Daddy have had a bit of a year too. The Stork brought me when the weather was way too hot. During the day I was covered in factor 50 and by night, the heat didn’t really help the blackout blinds stay stuck to my bedroom window, despite Mummy using a party pack of Duct Tape.  I’ve got to say that, once Daddy calmed down a bit, they were both quick learners. Code Brown’s, which used to cause consternation are now easily dealt with. As for food, well I eat pretty much anything, except for Steak Pie, which, to be honest, I don’t really understand. I think they will do just fine though. There were a few things that they should have realised sooner rather than later and saved themselves a load of worry.
Terminal Nappy Rash happens due to teething and not due to being novices in the nappy changing and the bum washing department.
Learn how to collapse my buggy before you place me in it and don’t drive 20 miles to Mothercare in order to ask rather than contacting the Stork. How embarrassing are you guys. MINTER!!

As you will all know I had my first Birthday a wee while ago. That went fine, em, yes, FINE! So fine that I can barely force myself to speak of it, but I feel that I can’t carry this resentment any longer. Daddy, no party bags, epic fail!!! You didn’t even redeem yourself by handing out crappy party cups. In future I shall leave the party planning to my future Godmother as she has proved her credentials when she bought me my first pair of pink Converse.

On the same subject, I also have to be grateful for my lovely family. Everyone has welcomed me in with open arms. I couldn’t feel more wanted, needed and loved. Mummy and daddy are very grateful for this too. It’s not only family who are important. I have all of Mummy and Daddy’s friends who care for them and me too and are so happy that my Mummy and Daddy have their very own Little person at last.

Well that’s enough from me. Thank you all again for being a part of my life. Keep a wee eye out for my future adventureshttp://ddandthelittleperson.blogspot.co.uk/  and be sure to fuss over me when next we meet.

The olds and I wish you good health and happiness for 2014
One last thing… If something, or someone is worth fighting for. Fight.

The 12 Day's of Christmas LP Style

One Little Person…..

One day, not so long ago LP came into our lives and totally took over. Whatever we were doing before seems like a dress rehearsal for having our we girl. YM and I had to wait way too long for our daughter, we must have been in the remedial Mummy and Daddy class and put back a few terms, but all the cool kids are, I guess! So, if I plan this right Gentle Reader you should be reading this whilst LP is fast asleep cuddled up next to her new best friend “Dooigie” whilst YM and I run about like headless chicken’s, wrapping prezzie’s and finishing off preparing Christmas dinner in order to allow me the opportunity to sit down for an hour and a half on Christmas Eve to become an emotional wreck, and it takes very little to push me over the edge these days,  watching Marley and Me.

LP asked me to say, “Babble dum bab da bum de”, which, as I am sure you are all aware, means Happy Christmas to you all of you with love from LP and her Mummy and Daddy

YM and I have the best Christmas present we could ever wish for…………… a Dyson handheld vacuum

Nah, only kidding………J

Two Happy Parents….

A wee while ago LP was delivered into our lives by the Stork. YM and I both remember the day the time the moment when we first saw her and fell totally and utterly in love as she blew a snot bubble from her right nostril. We realised that from that moment forward, life would never be the same for any of us ever again and we would have to face facts that our lives were over and “snuggle time” would be a thing of the past.
Talking of love, YM and I had met and fallen in love on or about the day that YM organised a motorbike escort to take us to my mother’s funeral (Loooong story)  Life before this, for me at least, could best be summed up by the words of Grace Potter, who sang “life ain’t good, but it ain’t boring”. I felt like I had lived a life less ordinary (Wee tip of the Hat to Graham Greene) before YM and I ever met and that, for the decade before LP came along, we enjoyed ourselves for the most part, filling our lives with work, friends, a rather crazy hound and a love of papier-mache modelling to 1:24 scale. Despite all this, YM and I always knew there was something missing. Trying to fill this void caused both of us a world of heartache and pain. The years passed by until one January we thought “What if”. This “what if” started as a hope and then, in time, grew into a reality.  The route of the Paris to Dakar Rally (I’ll avoid using the term “journey”) is most probably smoother than the one we travelled. Despite the twists and turns neither of us gave up, in my case, probably due to the fact YM would have maimed me. Step by step, every obstacle which was placed in our path was overcome and took us closer until…

One warm summer afternoon we were greeted by LP.

Three Boogie Babies……

Ah Boogie Babies, The Real Housewives of Broughty Ferry, the exquisite Pecan encrusted Tray Bakes, the singing, the interpretative dance and the wonderfully enthusiastic, and matronly in a good way, if you know what I’m sayin,  Boogie Lady. Need I say more? Goodness yes. LP loves her Friday morning visits to the BB Chapter House and I try to make the most of “creative flexi” in order to attend with her. I’m not convinced that the Boogie Lady is as enthusiastic about me accompanying LP, at least not after the “unpleasantness” which I have been instructed by the Courts not to speak of, however if you were of a mind you would be able to read about in my previous ramblings.

Unfortunately I was unable to escape from doing good work in the community last week  in order to attend the Boogie Baby Christmas party, however, I was press-ganged by YM into baking two dozen cupcakes for LP to take along to the party as her gift to the ruddy faced Children of Broughty Ferry, one of whom had previously stolen Daddy’s traybake and was then forced to hand the masticated sweetmeat back to me by his mother who was oblivious to the fact that I am not too keen on sharing my own daughters snot, never mind a complete strangers. So thanks to a hefty dusting of edible glitter there will be a lot of sparkly poo happening for the next few days which will no doubt disturb both parent and child. Apologies for the ‘scatter gun approach’ but in every conflict friendly fire seems, sadly,  to be expected….

Nice one LP. Revenge is sweet.

Four Baby Gates........

Dear Santa, I have been an OK Daddy for the past 5 months.  Can I have another Baby Gate and a bag of tennis balls, please?

I was considering using the Tennis umpire cry of “New Balls Please” but I figure it may be too obvious. Alas I am not attempting to follow in the footsteps of our very own Sports Personality of the Year (sorry Andy and readership, but I find the title ironic as my fellow Scot is not known for his Jeux De Vie) but I do require said tennis balls to cover the gonad height metal bolt which sticks out and becomes Preditor movie style invisible as I walk towards it. In life most pointy things appear to be covered with a burst Tennis ball, especially in church halls,perhaps reflecting in a biblical way the protection of faith and acting as a green beacon of hope to those unfortunates who would impale themselves. Furthermore I would envisage that said tennis balls would give the hound hours of fun as she attempts to, but fails abysmally to extricate them from the gate. It’s a win win situation really. That said, YM, forever the voice of reason (!!!!) thinks I should simply get used to shutting the baby gates all the time as this means that we will never leave the gates open and prevent the problem of LP climbing up stairs and playing with the pneumatic Nail Gun..... Again.
Good call Mrs Health and Safety. One Day LP will be old enough to dispense with injury inducing stair gates and  go to B&Q, so that I may vicariously learn how to hammer a nail in straight, or, as recent weeks would, sadly prove, lay vinyl floor tiles.

 Five Code Brown’s (sing it, it works!)....

“Beware the smiling assassin” This was the advice an old Manager, well, not so old, but you know what I mean,  gave me a few years back. Advice which  I have probably declined to fully appreciate until now.  Gentle reader, I am sure you are aware that, over the past months I have talked a lot on the subject of LP’s Code Brown’s.  Many of you would think that I talk a load of…. Shhhh your mouth at the best of times, but every word is true, well, OK, most of it is true, em well some of it anyways. Knowing LP as I do though, I believe  it is fair to say that she enjoy’s a good code brown as much as the next person and it’s clear to see that she isn’t put off by  YM and I shouting “She’s coding” in a dramatic ER kinda way as we rugby tackle her to the changing mat whilst one of us goes to fetch the Maragolds and coal tongs.

For the sake of this Yuletide ditty I shall attempt never to speak of such things again....... Save to say...

There are times when our normal chatterbox  LP will suddenly go a little quiet, perhaps a little too quiet if you know what I mean. Observe the pursed lips the frown and then the demonic smile. Gentle Reader, LP has just completed an, apparently, quite satisfying code brown before your very eyes.

One, two, three AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!

Six Emergency Dummies........

I have a feeling that YM will pop out to the shops to buy a pound of Lorne Sausage.. or “Sassaj” as they say round here, and the next time I will see her will be on GMTV with Lorraine Kelly (Yum) live from a run down Court House surrounded by  mastachioed Police Officers (YM not, dear sweet Lorraine).

Where is this going? Yes, I can hear you ask... or is it the voices again... Hmmm. Anyways YM has the ability to secret Dummies about her person and then whip em out (so to speak) on que. The que in question being an LP meltdown which can’t be addressed by singing I’m a little teapot (with moves), raspberries to the tummy or indeed  Calpol. In these circumstances it’s good to know that YM will be able to, no matter where she is, reach down, in or indeed up and grab a dummy with which to pop into LP’s mouth.

I never cease to be  amazed by YM and the valuable lessons she learned whilst on a Gap Year in Thialand.

Seven Clothing  Malfunctions....

One winter, many years ago I worked as a Chef in a French ski resort.  T’was in that sleepy mountainside  village that I wore White Stuff for the first time. Over the years, prior to LP, it would be fair to say that I amassed a rather large collection of White Stuff clothing and accessories all before it became the Uniform of Harry and Kate at St Andrews.  Sadly those days are gone now and in the past they must remain....as the song goes, for both YM and I now realise that with a homemade Strawberry Jam and Brioche encrusted LP any thought of dressing with even a smidgen of sartorial elegance  goes out of the window. A fellow survivor who, it should be said, was never really known for his dress sense advised me that cargo pants are the way forward as they can be filled with a cornucopia of handy items which allow LP to go outside in relative safety. Nappies, Sudocrem, bonnie wee hat, gloves, stun gun, those wee scissors for cutting bairn’s nails as LP seems to be able to grow super sharp ones and then attempt to carve her name in, thankfully, inanimate objects, maragolds and in place of coal tongs, which would cause all sorts of questions to be asked by passers by in ASDA, doggie poo bags, which in may respects are so so wrong yet soooooo right.

Talking of dogs... in a round about way. I like to think I am a man who can carry off a pink shirt of an evening. My metrosexual bent is however in jeopardy for the same reasons as we had a beige flat (including carpets). Beige, Gentle Reader, covers a multitude of sins. A fact I was unaware of in my youth, but one which might have prevented a lot of awkward questions. It was clear that having the Hound for one week required us to spend the next eight years painting the flat Forth Road Bridge style in Beige paint to cover up the many doggie related incidents. In the same way I have taken to wearing beige in an attempt to make it less obvious when I have been secreted on by LP.

Beige is definitely the new black.

Eight missing screws.....

Gentle reader, let me explain. Many of you will think I am talking of myself and my seven imaginary friends. This is not the case.  I am actually talking about missing screws. Here’s the thing, I have many tools, more tools than I know what to do with and operate with any degree of safety. I’m not sure of the difference between a wood and a metal drill bit, I tried to use a coving (mmmmmm, coving) mitre box as a regular mitre box to cut skirting board. Nuff said about that, save to say YM had to buy an occasional table to hide my shame. You get the picture though. Screwdrivers. I have many. Some Flatheaded some Philips, some which light up when I attempt to play with electricity prior to isolating at the mains... note to self: Don’t make the same mistake twice). Anyway what I don’t have is a wee teeny screwdriver. In reality I have many but I don’t put things away properly, or so I am constantly reminded. LP has many toy’s. I have a feeling Santa will bring her many more. The wee screw that secures the clip on the battery compartment of various toy’s and automatons did not mean a whole lot to me prior to LP. I would simply hack into it with a pointy knife and loose it in the shag pile. No longer. Gentle reader, Since LP came along I now understand the true meaning and indeed value of this screw. Never again will it be abandoned as it is the front line in preventing LP accessing the battery compartment and attempting to stick them up her nose.

Little Person/Duracell Bunny.... Just say No!

Nine broken phones....

OK so slight exaggeration. It’s not nine broken mobiles. Two well chewed mobiles and two malfunctioning TV related remote controls. From the get go LP has had a fascination with mobiles and remotes. I find it hard to remember a day going by when YM and I don’t find ourselves frantically looking under furniture and checking bins for these objects. At this time of year it’s probably worse. I blame myself, I really do. In an attempt to moderate LP’s wild ways post white chocolate consumption I have taken to making idle threats that Santa won’t be visiting unless she behaves. Of course all these idol threats are indeed idle and hardly real threats as LP, for some reason, know’s that as soon as I mention Santa’s name she can pick up anything which resembles a phone and communicate directly, in her own special language with the big man himself. I should imagine that every Little Person has a hotline to Santa. Our LP just does it sooo much better.

Ten quality breakfasts.....

It would be fair to say that the Hound is not a vegetarian. Not that our doggie has anything against vegetarians and would probably eat a whole one at a push. Thus, breakfast time see’s a rather happy LP and a less than happy hound. The hound has taken to circling round LP’s highchair Jaw’s fashion in order to wait for any foodstuffs which LP decides that she can’t really be bothered with. Sadly, for the Hound at breakfast time there are slim pickings. LP’s breakfast would be applauded in the finest restaurants in Europe for its colour, nutritional value and all round loveliness.....Much like Lorraine Kelly.  Even in the depths of winter and thanks to a scant regard for Carbon Footprints LP can enjoy fruit from around the world, some of which I have failed dismally to remember the names of and have to rely on Monica my anally retentive Manager and our, in many respect, collectively unnatural ability, to play Charades in order to differentiate between Physalis and a Mangosteen.

Eleven   swimming lessons....

LP smiles that sweet Chucky smile as she sits happily in her safety flotation device which looks like it could be used to save many a poor soul lost at sea. Swimming with LP is fun if fraught with danger. Oddly enough the danger is not necessarily water related. Like most things these days, going swimming with LP necessities leaving the house two hours early and employing Sherpa’s to assist taking all the necessary accoutrements  with us. Swimming is worse! Gentle Reader, quite simply this is due to a rather lazy YM who apparently has the lung capacity of a sparrow with emphysema. I am sorry to name and shame YM , I really am.  LP enjoys a bob on the water in her life preserver which as mentioned previously should have supplies stashed about its hull and the means to erect a mast...O’h and a flair gun too. Considering the size of this vessel may I suggest to YM that she deflates it before shoehorning it into the car.

For shame YM for shame.

Twelve .... well Twelve Hundred, Twelve Thousand, who knows, Friends....

Actually it’s more than twelve but (thankfully) this song only goes up to twelve so twelve it is. I know YM and I am totally biased but LP seems to bring a lot of people a lot of joy, not least YM and I. For those of you who don’t know who Oor Willie is, he’s a character from a long running cartoon strip from around this neck of the woods. You may feel inclined to Google.  His tag line of "Oor Wullie! Your Wullie! A'body's Wullie!" rings true in the life of LP too. No matter where you are in the world, there is a little bit of all who care for her with her.

Hopefully you have enjoyed these vignettes. Happy Christmas and a Good New Year to you all.

Party Night

On the FIRST day of Christmas our daughter gave to us…… Our first night out in 4 months

Yes Dear Readers it’s Christmas time and that means that it’s almost time for a DD and the Little Person Christmas Special. There will not be an “Xmas” in sight either….. Well OK, except for that one, this is going to be a Santa baby grow, mince pie and Turkey of an unfeasible proportion kinda blog featuring none other than our little Christmas Pudding, the one and only LP.

But first a little story………….

T’was many nights before Christmas…..and the frivolities started with a Jolly good night out and, as YM and I have not had the opportunity to spend an evening without being surrounded by baby monitors, washing and obscure stains, we thought it was high time that we press ganged or niece who, last time we spoke was between jobs, but is now the CEO of a global distribution company. CEO or not, when dereliction of duty called, young Kirkton Niece was ready and able to take the call on her rhinestone embossed Samsung. Kirkton Niece jumped at the chance as she loves our wee LP and manages, without the aid of E numbers to keep up with her. So, after Kirkton Niece had been across to ASDA in her Onsie and bought herself 2 bars of Galaxy and a party pack of Red Bull to fortify herself for the task, she headed over, en route, via B and Q, to purchase a pair of gauntlet gloves and some coal tongs to assist her in changing LP’s nappies as she was none too keen on toxic code brown’s. 

Anyway… with major thanks to Kirkton Niece, YM and I set about, alas not in the best John Smeeton style, getting ready to go on our night out. It had been a while and to say that YM and I were excited about going out was an understatement. We were looking forward to seeing our friends from Bootcamp all dressed up in their bonny frocks and novelty Santa kipper ties. The last time I had spent any time with them, I was soaking wet, covered in sand and absolutely dripping in Lycra. I thanked my lucky stars that, by the time the Camp Commandant had forced my fellow survivors and I to run up and down the sand dunes of Broughty Ferry a gazillion times we were all in the latter stages of hypothermia, as this saved many of us from getting a minter at the state we were in (embarrassed, to my non Scots readership).

The old adage “time is a healer” reverberates around my head as I sadly remember just what preparation for going on a night out entails. Luckily, as LP was tucking into Tyrannosaurus Rex shaped chicken breast and spelling out profanities in Alphabetti Spaghetti supervised by Kirkton Niece, who, by this time, was already multitasking by reading Take a Break and  chatting on our home phone  to her boyfriend Daryl (24) about his recent appearance on Jerry Kyle where he openly discussing his fetish for 1980’s power ballads, was, thankfully oblivious to YM and I attempting to prepare ourselves appropriately for the wonders of a “Party Night” which constitutes Christmas dinner followed by an evening of interpretive dance moves performed by intoxicated firemen, generated by a free half bottle of house white per person and the musical styling’s of a local radio DJ.

Of course preparation for any night out, or indeed anything at all really, stopped when the Stork brought LP. YM and I used to prepare lunches and iron clothes of an evening. Dinner dishes would be washed, hound's would be released and baths would be had. All of this is a distant memory as YM and I fight over who will be lucky enough to get a shower (YM) and who will be lucky enough to do the last minute ironing (you guessed it: ME). Also, due to a house move we still don’t know were once important things were, for example Cuff Link’s, which thankfully YM found before I was forced to use a stapler to fasten the cuff’s on my only “dress shirt” which still remained white as it had not been worn over the past 4 months and within 20 ft of LP who seems to be able to project bodily fluids on clothes by way of some ability born not of this world. I feel that I should not tempt fate by dressing LP in Superman baby grow or travel anywhere in the vicinity of 1970’s phone booths.

It has to be said, YM is altogether more elegant than me, This was clearly demonstrated as I stumbled across the landing trying to avoid, but failing dismally, an upturned socket guard which caused me to unceremoniously fall on to our bedroom door which caused it to open in a rather theatrical manner just as YM was slipping on a pair of marigolds.

Ging’s Crivin’s help ma boab (as they say around these parts).

I did indeed question just what I had stumbled upon. Gentle reader, no not be alarmed. Once YM had picked me up off the ground and removed the brown paper bag from my mouth which I was frantically breathing into,  she advised that this was simply wearing rubber gloves as it was, apparently, the best way to put on tights. On reflection I found myself to have rather juxtaposed emotions. That of relief yet an equal measure of disappointed.

YM and I finally made it downstairs to be greeted by a tomato sauce covered YM and a Niece who had clearly aged by 10 years and, it would be fair to say, had not had her looks enhanced by the strands of spaghetti which were clinging to her, once lustrous, hair. If this were ancient Greece Kirkton Niece would have been revered as Medusa. Alas it was not.

Before we headed to the car YM and I air kissed LP Goodnight, for fear that we too would suffer the fate of Kirkton Niece.  As YM and I walked, hand in hand, to the car we both felt a little uneasy.  Something was missing. We knew that LP was safely inside being cared for by Kirkton Niece but, in the four or so month’s since LP arrived, one or both of us has always been in the company of LP.

This was the first time one or both of us had left home without pushing, lifting, carrying, soothing, cajoling, singing or attempting to wipe strange stains off of our clothes.

Strange day’s indeed.

 

We both had a great time with our friends and despite a rather neurotic daddy calling home a couple of times to for a “Sit Rep” YM and I managed to relax just about long enough to enjoy the Christmas night out. YM was sleeping soundly on our return home and Kirkton Niece had even left us some Chocolate.

Boogie Babies revisited

Gentle reader, do not be overcome by an attack of the vapours and take to your bed in Victorian fashion… much like YM did today. You will be relieved to hear everyone is OK and has survived yet another day just about intact. Alas some of us are more intact than others, with LP doing rather better than her mummy and daddy over the course of the day… and what a long day it was.

The day started at about 2.30 am when LP awoke with coughs, sniffles and unholy guff’s. As YM has selective hearing it was initially up to Daddy to make an attempt to negotiate his way out of bed and through to LP’s room without  kneecapping himself. The winter months are indeed cruel and as the Hood is well above sea level the temperature is a few degree’s lower than our posh coastal neighbours, so the central heating is now cranked up to 11. I ordinarily find diving out of bed in the middle of the night Starsky and Hutch style to tend to my daughter to be less arduous when I find myself to be enveloped in the warmth of a warm room, however it is not so pleasant when the radiator is set to 11 and it’s glowing white hot as my left buttock connected to it.

By the time I made it through to LP’s room she had gone past the melt down point of no return. Like counting the seconds between thunder and a subsequent bolt of lightning, she reached the stage when crying is preceded by silence as, I assume, she inhaled in order to let rip again. So reaching in to LP’s cot, the room only illuminated by the 2^nd degree burn on my bum cheek, I scooped up a rather soggy faced LP and attempted to soothe her as best I could. The look on LP’s face was akin to YM’s when she was informed that the parenting urban myth that Calpol has a sedating effect is indeed fictitious. I do however hold an advantage over YM as I am considering telling LP that Calpol does not make her snoozie thus destroying any placebo effect. LP attempted to snuggle into me and calm down, sadly, we both realised that the game was a bogey and we would have to seek support from the big guns, AKA YM, in order to turn that frown upside down. Not wishing to lose face I cuddled LP and, for some reason, managed to calm her enough to pop her back in her cot and for me to make my way back to bed without causing myself further damage.

Lying in bed, listening to the silence, interspaced by the hound frantically licking her anal gland, I could do nothing but wait for sleep. 2.45 am is not the time to wait for sweet Morpheus to take me in her arms, it is a time when every right minded person should be asleep. Clearly this is not the domain of the parent, well for this one anyway as YM slumbers beside me oblivious to the burns I have sustained and to her daughter’s recent meltdown. As I lay in bed pondering whether to get up to make a cup of tea and again risking further injury, LP stirs once more and raises the decibel bar to a new and lofty level.

As a Daddy I know the level of my abilities. As was pointed out to me by a fellow survivor a week or so ago, LP only spends about 3 hours awake in my company a day, YM has her for considerably more and therefore has a deeper understanding of LP’s needs and a bond which, sadly, I will never have. Foolishly I have, in the past attempted to challenge this bond by questioning the chocolate rich diet of LP during the day or by making the occasional fashion suggestion. These offerings of advice have for the most part been treated with contempt and, on occasion, outright hostility, however at silly o’clock I am in no way keen to argue over the finer points of parenting and require YM to awaken and assist LP.

My normal modus Operandi (yes I confess I have done this before) is to gently nudge a sleeping YM until she awakens . Usually I push her a few times with my bum until she’s teetering on the edge of the bed and wakes up just before she falls into oblivion. This usually effectively does the job and YM awakens with a startle and promptly leaps to the aid of LP. Alas on this occasion I could not adopt this method due to the burns to my behind. Feeling somewhat guilty I have to advise that I took a rather Machiavellian approach and gently called to the hound to come over. Ever the obedient doggie, she jumped up and laid between YM and I. Without further ado I quickly rolled over causing the hound to let out a bark, YM woke with a startle, I chastised the hound, YM went to the aid of LP, and order was restored to the universe.

After mega mummy cuddles, warm milk and a nappy change, the latter being a joint effort, YM eventually returned to the cot and slept peacefully until we were again awoken at about 7 pm by the hound pacing up and down.

YM had been making plans the night before to meet up with one of the Real  Housewives of Broughty Ferry and attend the  Boogie Babies chapter house for tray bakes and bean bag songs. Sadly for YM her plans were to be thwarted, not once but twice. I had taken a flexi day and was keen to attend Boogie’s for posh coffee and tray bakes, oh and to spend some quality time with LP. In truth, YM struggles to attend Boogie Babies with me after some unpleasantness which we shall not speak of again save to say that that I will never question the portion control of an Aero Bar tray bake ever again. Alas, if this were not enough for YM it became clear, by the number of trips to the smallest and after this week, the most eclectically decorated due to me not realising that patterned floor tiles follow some kind of pattern (the clue may have been in the name), room in the house that YM may have succumbed to a LP acquired infection. YM made an executive decision and, through the chemical and biological suit I insisted she donned attempted to mime her intentions not to go out in public for the rest of the day.

With YM temporarily incapacitated it was time for a quick breakfast of fruit and Pain aux Chocolate for LP and 2 cups of coffee and a Losec for me. So after whipping what I would assume was chocolate from various orifices, LP was assisted to dress in her best John Rocha frock.

Soon we were on our way down to Boogie Babies, our expectations as high as Freddie’s Falsetto as we drove across town listening to Bohemian Rhapsody. The journey was really quite uneventful. LP had taken her shoes off, thrown her John Rocha hat to the floor and was happily blowing snot bubbles. All fairly normal really.

 

On our arrival Boogie Babies was starting to fill up with the usual collection of ruddy faced babies and toddlers. Various mums and dads sat about anxiously waiting for the chapter leader to enter the hall and whip the assembled masses into a frenzy before, again, abruptly stopping for coffee and tray bakes. As poorly YM had planned to meet with her friend Betty and her little person to show her the ropes, I dutifully waited for her to arrive and then sat with Betty in a misguided attempt to prevent any incidents.

Sadly, and somewhat predictable, today did not go without incident. First of all I do have to look to myslf and see what part I have to play in things. I really should not have positioned LP and I directly next tho the chapter leader as she commenced the sing song section. I felt compelled to attempt to keep up with the Leader as she twisted and gyrated, It was clear that, by the time we got through sleeping bunnies and the bean bag song that the chapter leader and I were locked in a 1970’s style dance off and one of us was going to lose. As the introduction to Heads, Shoulders Knee’s and Toe’s kick in I poised myself, ready to commence the first moves. LP had, by now, lost complete interest in me and was now trawling the room looking for stray sippy cups and bean bags. As the music kicked in the chapter leader cranked up her radio mic in an attempt to sing me into submission. Faster and faster the relentless movements of head and toes, knees and arms were made, beads of perspiration formed on our foreheads as the leader and I became oblivious to the others in the room and became lost in the song. Suddenly the chapter leader lost momentum as she faltered her moves and fell to the ground, a quivering wreck. The audience cheered, small children poo’d themselves with excitement and the chapter leader admitted defeat and threw her radio mic to the floor in defeat.

Victory was indeed sweet……as was the tray bake I was about to eat if it were not for Betty and her complete inability to multi task. Betty (whose name has been changed to protect the guilty) said she would keep an eye on my cake whilst I retrieved LP from underneath a table and encouraged her to eat her own weight in raisins.

A simple task you might think however Sarah, I mean Betty was clearly distracted as she failed to see a small child saunter towards my cake, pick it up in his kleptomaniac hands and take a bite or three from it. Unluckily for me recidivist child’s mother saw her son and swiftly intervened by taking the cake of her child and replacing it with a custard cream which clearly was not seen as a good replacement to tray bake judging by the child’s meltdown. The half-eaten cake, with the icing still sticky with saliva was then handed back to me with the words

“It’s OK, he doesn’t have cooties”.

 

 

 

 

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Babble dab a flubble bla dooo boo da da baa poob poob………

Nah, me neither. Just because Mummy and Daddy can’t understand me properly yet it doesn’t mean that you can’t Santa.

Anyhoo, LP here. First time writer, long term fan. When I say “long term” I really mean only a few months but you come highly recommended to me from Daddy who tells me all about you every time I pick up a TV remote control or a mobile phone and hold it to my ear, as, apparently, am prone to do.  I really do need to trust daddy as in my short life I have learned from bitter experience that  I really shouldn’t annoy the Chef. Also Santa, you have to remember too that it’s not been too long since the Stork brought me to Mummy and Daddy so you could really say I am actually a long term fan cos I’m only little.

Daddy tells me that you are the chap who checks up on me and makes sure I have been a good girl and if I haven’t then I won’t get any prezzie’s. That’s a wee bit harsh don’t you think?, but it doesn’t matter to me too much at all really. Don’t tell Daddy, but the threats of no prezzie’s don’t really do it for me. If we had a chimney, you would be able to  take a wee fly by, as opposed to a drive by which is more common in the Hood, as Daddy likes to refer to our present location and check up on how well I pick things up and pass them to other people. Mind you, when I pass objects like, runner beans, breadsticks with one soggy end and on occasion Stealth Poo to other people they have to say “Ta” or I have a wee melt down and have also been known to ‘code’. 

I find this to be the best way to enforce my will on others but I am aware that this would be   frowned upon in later life and I  will have to find other ways to wind my folks, especially daddy, round my little finger, in years to come.

So when it comes to prezzie’s I’m of the view that I don’t  need stuff really although there are a few things that I wouldn’t really mind. Of course the occasion of my first birthday some months ago did yield a veritable gold mine of gifts, many of which I am still trying to eat, dribble on or hide down the back of the Settee, although, sadly, due to some “unpleasantness” over the lack of Party Bags I have been instructed by mummy and daddy never speak of this again. I do have one question though Santa. Did all the other children have glittery poo’s, or as we like to call it “code bling's” after eating my, somewhat ironic for my tea total parents, pink elephant Birthday cake?

So Santa, how’s about some wrapping paper please. I’m partial to paper though mummy and daddy say that I really shouldn’t be eating it. If you possibly can, how’s about bringing me some flavoured paper though you might just have to invent this too. Hmm, what flavors? Strawberry is my favourite at the moment though I realise that they are now well out of season so I won’t hold out much hope. I’m second favourite flavour at the moment is my doggies ear as I quite like to chew on it much to the horror of Mummy and Daddy and most probably the hound too i shoild imsgine. I’m not really sure what flavor that is though but I'm sure you will do your best for me.

On the subject of food, Santa, did I tell you that I am eating what mummy and daddy are eating now, well almost. I’m not really sure about steak pie, well that and Haggis. Despite the fact that I am Scots I can’t really understand why anyone is completely happy with the notion of eating sheep’s lungs, but I will try and usually succeed ineat pretty much anything so much so that Mummy and Daddy are in a high state of alert whenever i go near a house plant. And as for the tabloid press, yes, yes I know that paper isn’t one of my 5 a day but, for the moment, that’s the way I roll.

Daddy does get a wee bit OCD when it comes to my diet though. I don’t really mind but I draw the line at molecular gastronomy. Who does he think he is, Heston blooming Blumenthal? Daddy should know by now that I am not really a snail porridge kinda girl and I have actually moved on from nicking normal porridge from Daddy as it is not and never should be considered to be finger food.

With this in mind Santa, please may I have a pair of scissors, safety ones of course. Clearly daddy is amused at the sight of me attempting to eat spaghetti but to be honest I draw the line when it comes to re-enacting the spaghetti and meatball scene from The Lady and the Tramp with a 7 year old Springer Spaniel with soggy ears. I suspect you might want to pop the scissors in mummy’s prezzie pile as I am sure that she would like to assist me to cut my spaghetti up rather than watch me sook so hard that I poo myself.

So far so good Santa. That’s wrapping paper and scissors. All I need now is some rock and we could have a wee game going on Tee hee.

Sorry Santa, you don’t get off that lightly. Pweese Pweese Pweese can you get Daddy an audition on the X –Factor. Believe me, he sings all the time in fact I don’t think I have actually heard him say a full sentence to me unless he’s singing. I try to tell him that “let Daddy change your code browned nappy" sung in Baritone is any less humiliating if he were to actually say the words. Sadly he is as  Sister Sledge once sang “Lost in Music”.

Santa, you have not heard the half of it. Daddy’s singing was tolerable but since he got in with that bad lot at Boogie Babies he’s started to do hand movements too. Mummy told me that daddy wasn’t great shakes at doing YMCA but I am here to tell you he is hopeless at the bean bag song. What kind of role model do you call that?

 So, If you could see that Daddy get’s through to the X Factor live rounds in a Jedward or Wagner kinda way that people will ridicule him in public and if he’s lucky he’ll get a job in a holiday camp, I would be most grateful.

Santa, I’m almost done now, you will be very glad to hear. As you can see my list isn’t that long compared to some other little people I guess. I pretty much have all that I need for the moment and mummy and daddy tell me that since I got delivered by the Stork that they have everything that they could possibly wish for too.

Daddy tell’s me that on Christmas Eve we are going to make some mince pies, or Peh's as he calls them, for yourself and some carrot sticks for Rudolf so be sure to look out for them when swinging by the Hood. Before I go to bed Daddy's going to take me outside and look for the Christmas star just like he used to do with his mummy when he was little, if I see you I shall give you a wee wave.

Mummy and Daddy tell me that they can’t wait to spend their first Christmas with me, after all they have had to wait a long time for me to come along.

Yours in Anitici..................pation

Little Person xxx

 

Mummy and Daddy got to help their LP to write her first of many letters to Santa.

 

Watch out for a 12 day’s of Christmas special