Beware of the Baby

 WANTED

Height: about 1ft 9in

Eyes: blue (and menacing)

Age: 1

WARNING: 

Do not approach this child. 

He will attack for no apparent reason. 

Ok, so maybe the 'Wanted' poster is a bit much. But there is no denying that I am definitely getting bullied by a 1 year-old. 

Little O may well come across all sweet and innocent, but do not judge a book by its cover; this child throws a mighty punch. So much so that I am now an injured victim of his tirade of violence (I have a minor – but no less visible – scratch to the head). 

What makes his outbursts worse is the manner in which they unfold. Usually they are proceeded by a cuddle or a very dribbly kiss – a regular occurrence that I once loved and now dread. At other times, I may be enjoying a relaxing moment on the sofa when *BANG!* I'm hit in the head with a shoe/toy car/any other weapon he can get his podgy little hands on.

I am told this is yet another 'phase'. But I think this may well be my least favourite phase yet – even worse than the screaming like a girl in public phase (when he was according to the health visitor "finding his voice") and I disliked that phase immensely.  


I've tried telling off (he smiles and hits me again). I've tried sitting him by himself and walking away from him (he couldn't care less). I've even searched on the internet for solutions and tried the suggested technique of holding his hands to his chest for 45 seconds à la Supernanny's 'time out' method. Nothing seems to be working with this menace!


Mums of the blogging world – what are your suggestions to curb my son's mummy-beating ways?!

Spoilt little brat.

We all love our own child but hate everyone else's, right?

Ok, well maybe there's some exceptions. My friends' children obviously don't count. And I definitely have a sweet spot for all the random little girls that always seem to want to kiss Little O even though they don't know him (what tarts!). I can even put up with the snotty nosed little tykes that are clearly old enough to read but seem to disregard the age limit at Adventure Kingdom and would rather spend their time throwing plastic balls at me in the ball pond than play in their own designated area.

But there is one child that I cannot stand, and that is the spoilt kind.

Sure, Little O may have received more toys than he could shake a stick at last Christmas, but I'm talking about the MEGA spoilt kind. A child of which description I had the unfortunate opportunity of running into yesterday.

Walking from Knightsbridge to Victoria, I had to walk via Motcomb Street in Belgravia, and as I had time to spare, I decided to stop off at possibly the poshest Starbucks ever. Settling down at a window seat with my latte I saw him approach from a way off. I went through the mental checklist...

• Private school beret – check.
• Nanny in tow – check.
• Immediately apparent air of arrogance – check.

The first words I heard him utter were (I kid you not): "I'll have a cappuccino."

That told me everything I needed to know; I had here a prime example of a Class A little (cover your ears kids) sh*t. I would guess he was around the age of 7.

He went on to get out his iPhone and broadcast to the rest of the coffee shop how "simply dreadful" his maths lesson had been that day and how Rory had told a joke that was "absolutely marvelous".

To be fair, I was much more on his turf than mine. But the whole episode made me extremely grateful at how modest our little life is and how grounded my lovely little boy is.

At least there's not too much chance Little O will end up looking like this (unlike the Starbucks kid)...

Toff

Stepping out with my baby

As Little O has now progressed to the toddling phase (albeit with hands), it was time to take that fateful step (excuse the pun) to the experts in children's feet – Clarks.

Now, I am a lover of the stacked heel. So not since 1987 have I stepped foot (there I go again....) in Clarks. It's really not that I dislike the shop or anything...it's just that I don't have any orthopedic problems that require me to wear rubber soles. (I really am joking – my mum will murder me for saying that. And if you work for Clarks, please do read on, it is going to get nice I promise...)

Giving my preconceptions of the brand, I was a lot more keen to go to Russell & Bromley's children's store but against my better judgment (and because it was Granddad's treat) we headed to Clarks.

Let's just say they did not fail to turn me around.

Little O was firstly diagnosed by the wonderfully helpful sales assistant as a 'cruiser' and then had his feet professionally measured to be a 4G. One slight let down was that for his cruiser status, there were only four shoe options available in the store but this was all made up for by the extra services they offered with his first set of shoebies. Firstly, Little O had his picture proudly taken wearing his new kicks, which was then mounted onto a memento card and given to me along with a lovely height chart.

All in all, bravo to Clarks for turning my previously negative preconceptions into positives – they did a smashing job in making a landmark moment truly memorable today and Little O has been determined not to take off his new footwear all day. He's especially taken with the velcro fastenings...

Our souvenir snapshot

Got a tale to tell about yours or your little one's first shoe fitting? Leave a comment below!

No work and no play makes mummy a very cranky girl

People who give your child a toy that makes a noise for Christmas/birthday/"just because" should be immediately shot.


'Harsh', you say?


Well - in my defense - there are several reasons for my less than upbeat tone...

1. I am currently workless and, as a result, frantically looking for a job. 
2. We have a house full of illness.
3. T got me a coffee machine for Christmas and as a result I'm either buzzing on caffeine or I've got a headache.

But enough of my sympathy rant - back to those wretched talking and singing toys.

As I sit here daily, trying to put into words to potential employers why I am so absolutely amazing and downright perfect for their job, I am continuously interrupted mid-flow by an annoyingly perky American woman singing 'Hickory Dickory Dock', or YoJoJo letting us know how much he loves playing his pipling pipes, or a frog in a train calling us all to climb aboard and get counting.


Sure, these toys are fine the first time, especially when I see how much joy Little O gets from dancing to a jauntily tuned drum. And even the second, third – hell, even the tenth time I can still be dancing along with him. But after five days of sitting and listening to the incessant tunes of Fisher Price's finest orchestras, I am close to absolutely losing the plot.


I learned the hard way that switching them off will not help, it only aids to the volume as Little O dramatically sobs and flails about because he clearly can't play with these toys unless they can sing back at him.


My one and only hope is the glorious moment when the batteries finally cease to work.


Is it bad that I was genuinely happy about this?

 

Before.... 

 

...and after.