December 22, 2013 by benmblackman
You really should read A Calpol Christmas before this one but, in case you can’t be bothered, a quick LA Law style recap:
Nativity Play | Chocolate | Sugar | Naughty Behaviour | Peace and Love, Peace and Love.
So, the next day, at the 6.05am team debrief with Mrs B it was concluded that, perhaps we had not fed her enough yesterday. (The Calpol Kid I mean, not Mrs B.) Yes, maybe THAT was why she had been such a naughty little Calpol Kid.
Or maybe I just really wanted a café breakfast because I cleverly managed to trick everyone into going to the café for breakfast! Now, if they were giving out House Points for food levels consumed by a 4 year old, let’s just say Eagles would have scored high. She polished off an adult size breakfast. Granted the smallest they do but this is Lancashire so it still contained: 2 sausages; 2 rashers of bacon; baked beans; scrambled egg; grilled tomato; and a slice of toast.
It only took her 15 minutes to put that little lot away, which was lucky because Mrs B seemed in a particular rush to leave. It was only in the car I found out why. For legal reasons I need to be careful what I say here so:
- Trip to toilet;
- Mrs B and Calpol Kid;
- Calpol Kid on own in cubicle;
- Calpol Kid unable to unlock door from cubicle on own;
- Calpol Kid stuck in cubicle;
- Mrs B encourages Calpol Kid to crawl under door in scenes reminiscent of Indiana Jones;
- Calpol Kid and Mrs B return to table;
- Door in toilet remains locked;
- Calpol Kid and Mrs B act very shifty for remaining café time.
Somewhere in Lancashire a waitress will still be trying to figure out how on earth an empty toilet cubicle has been locked from the inside. (Like in one of those lateral puzzles where it was always a block of ice.)
Having fled the scene we let the Calpol Kid off her leash. A game of hide and seek in the 1 mile woodland walk would tire her out, we hoped. ¾ of a mile in and fatigue was our partner. Mrs B, 7.5 months pregnant, was flagging, the Calpol Kid could hardly walk and I was in a bad way, having been the main hider throughout the walk thus far.
I’m not sure if the police had many calls about a strange man in the woods that morning. One particular gentleman looked more than a little startled when, having sent his dog cavorting into the woodland to chase a stick heard, “owwwww” as the stick hit me and then looked up to see me give the (finger on lips) ‘shhhhh’ sign, with a wink. The fact I was lying underneath a bush and had fashioned a camouflage style balaclava of twigs and leaves over my face, I’m sure added to his wonder. The wink, in hindsight, was an error of judgement.
Back home, the activity of the day was clearing out the spare room (to make it into a nursery for Calpol Kid #2 – what is WRONG with us)? An hour into proceedings and I was ready for a trip to the Charity Shop and rubbish dump. Mrs B was trying to rest so I bribed the Calpol Kid with a packet of Wine Gums to come with me.
“A big packet though Daddy, not just a tube. Deal? Deal!” Cheeky scamp.
1 (big) packet of Wine Gums; 2 Charity Shops; and a rubbish dump later and we were home. Mrs B was busy making roast chicken. The beast* would need feeding soon enough.
*Again- I do mean the Calpol Kid by the way, not Mrs B.
As we began to eat together, in a family scene fit for the closing frames of a celebrity chef’s tv series, she piped up, “Mummy, can I have a chicken leg please?”
“Of course you can darling, here you go.”
Well, if there was any celebrity chef scene in the first place, and let’s be honest there wasn’t, it disappeared during the 45 seconds it took for her to rip apart that chicken leg with her bare hands and (gappy) teeth.
“Again.” She said.
“Pardon?” We replied.
“More.” She demanded.
“Um, excuse me. More, what?”
“More chicken legs.”
“No…’please’…can you have more chicken legs, please?”
“Yes, thank you, Daddy. Get me a leg.”
Before leaving the table I asked her, “What do you say?”
“Please can I get down?”
“Yes, and what else?”
“Can I have a yoghurt?”
“No, I mean, what do you say to Mummy?”
“Please can I have a yoghurt, Mummy?”
As she waltzed past, grabbed a yoghurt from the fridge and turned back past us, the lightbulb moment occurred. She had remembered her manners after all. Of course she wouldn’t forget to thank her Mummy for the meal she had made for us all.
“Spot on Mummy…spot on!” she said, delivering a firm thumbs up.
4 years old people.
No sooner had she finished the yoghurt she was back for a banana. I do tend to worry when my naughty child chooses the energy snack of international tennis players, just one hour before bedtime.
She saluted us both with her left hand, winked at me, and left. I wish I was joking.
From 6pm-6.25pm she committed far too many misdemeanors for me to recount here. At 6.30pm Mrs B could take it no longer. “Right, that’s it. ‘Cool out’ on the stairs. You sit on the stairs and ‘cool out’ for 3 minutes. Do NOT move before I come back.”
“Isn’t it meant to be 4 Mummy?”
“Shhush. No talking on ‘cool out’.”
“Mummy, what’s cool out?”
Whatever ‘cool out’ is it didn’t work and, by 6.45pm, the ultimate sentence was decreed from the high court of parenthood. “Bed time, no Strictly Results Show for YOU this week.”
Mrs B put her to bed and had a full and frank discussion about the disappointments of the day. She then came downstairs to find the cat on the table, eating the chicken that remained.
Say you blame the parents. Go on, I dare you.