The Baby is a curious and questioning little thing. She asks about everything – “Whassit say?”, “Press?”, “On?” – and likes to do everything for herself, “No, Baby do it” (except she doesn’t say Baby as, you may not have realised, but that’s not really her name). She particularly likes anything with buttons on it – remote controls (“trolls”), phones, TVs, The Boyfriend’s iPad and PC, cash machines, lifts…you get the picture.
She likes to throw things, most things in fact, despite being told a thousand times a day that throwing anything isn’t really acceptable, particularly beautiful hand-made wooden jigsaws and figures onto the wooden floor in the pay-room, as they break and can, apparently, only stand being glued back together a handful of times. The Baby likes to throw food, too, and her cutlery, and her bowl/plate. Oh and her beaker of water too, especially after emptying the contents of it inot her food and being told not to do that,; throwing the entire thing on the floor is the next logical step, obviously.
She likes to move things from one place to another, to put toys and objects into boxes and bags, to take things out of visitors’ handbags and pockets like a tiny curly-haired Artful Dodger, to put crayons and Mummy’s lipstick underneath the huge wooden cupboard, never to be seen again. Toys and clothes that disappeared weeks ago will turn up in a different room, or hidden underneath some item of furniture, or hidden in a bag.
The Baby likes to help with everything. She makes sure anyone who is busy doing something (chopping food with sharp knives, ironing, going to the toilet) knows she is available to help out by saying “Baby help!” or sometimes it’s the slightly more sinister “Help me!”. This is fine until we are in public and I feel I need to let people know she is definitely my daughter, I’m really not abducting her, and it really isn’t a plea for someone to rescue her.
But despite The Baby’s love of telecommunication media, her love of moving and hiding stuff, and her need to help with everything, my phone ending up at the bottom of the loo was nothing to do with her at all. That was all my own doing. And now I am lost and feel as if I am missing a body part. My little phone has been sat on a radiator and in a bowl of rice and back on a radiator since it’s little trip down the s-bend, and I am hoping that a full recovery is imminent so I can once again feel connected to the big wide world.
Silly Mummy! If only I’d left it in my handbag instead of keeping it out of The Baby’s pick-pocketing reach in the back pocket of my jeans, then maybe I would only be attempting to glue parts back together or tie wire coat-hangers together to try to fish it out from underneath the huge wooden cupboard, or maybe it would have gone missing only to turn up in the garden a few days later.
Come on little phone, please pull through.
Images by Harry Rayner (follow him on Twitter @harryrayner)
Mysilly little blog is just over a year old. Thank you to everyone who keeps reading it, I really appreciate it, and I love reading your comments and feedback. If you have enjoyed reading Dummy Mummy over the last twelve months, maybe you would consider voting for me in this year’s MAD Blog Awards? Anyone can vote (Hi Mum!) and you can choose whichever category you want to vote in, you don’t have to complete them all. Blagging over, as you were.