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.