The Wrongness of Most Nursery Rhymes

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One of the things that has surprised me most since I became a parent is that nursery rhymes still exist.

Not only exist, but they are EVERYWHERE.  And kids actually LIKE THEM.

When I myself was a wee nipper I had a book of nursery rhymes, which disturbingly included one about a child being whipped for sitting too close to the fire, or something along those lines.  It was illustrated by a sad-looking red-headed girl, and even at the tender age of four, or however old I was when I used to read that book (I was a precocious reader.  I can actually still remember starting school and being really annoyed that there were some other kids who were on higher reading levels than me, just because they were older and had started school before me, and not because they were, like, more intelligent or better at reading or anything.  I WAS THE BEST I WAS THE BEST I WAS THE BEST) I realised that that was no way to treat a child.  It certainly wasn’t the way I was treated, thank goodness for that.

Anyway, times must have moved on a bit as that nursery rhyme appears to have been consigned to the dustbin of history.

Get thee to the Dustbin of History, thee nursery rhyme of horror
Get thee to the Dustbin of History, thee nursery rhyme of horror

However, that does not mean that all nursery rhymes are now sanitised, politically correct, right-on Poems of Virtuousness worthy of a weekly column in the Guardian reporting from the frontline of Austerity Britain.  Oh no.  In fact, there are quite a few that I still have a fair amount of beef with.

Let’s start where it always starts, with that old chestnut Baa Baa Black Sheep.

Now I know, you knew I would start with this one.  You thought I would have a rant about how singling out a black sheep to produce wool for its colonial masters, the “Master” and the “Dame” is racism in the first degree, and just like the Daily Mail you were about to throw your arms up in indignation at the thought that this innocent children’s classic could be brutalised by being renamed Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep in an attempt to mollify all those angry, lentil-weaving Guardian readers and before you know it they’ll be banning Christmas as well!

Well, reader, I will disappoint you.

I have no issue with the sheep being black.  On the contrary, why not have a character in a nursery rhyme who is something other than lily-white.  It would make a nice change.  The ones who really make me uncomfortable are the “Master” and the “Dame.”  It’s just so MEDIEVAL.  Who calls themselves a “master” or a “dame” anyway?  Who is this sheep giving wool to?  Dame Kelly Holmes?  Dame Judi Dench?  Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson?  A pantomime dame?  And more importantly, who is the “master?”  This smacks of patriarchy to me.  Master, indeed!  WHY ARE THE MEN ALWAYS ASSUMED TO BE IN CHARGE?  It’s like when I got a phone call from a call centre in India trying to get me to claim money for the car accident I had that wasn’t my fault (when?  In 1981?  BECAUSE THAT WAS THE LAST TIME I WAS IN A CAR ACCIDENT) and they asked to speak to the “Master of the House.”  Which would be who, exactly?  Piglet?  He pretty much does rule the roost round here, if truth be told.

And while I’m on the subject, who is this “little boy who lives down the lane?”  Why is it always a boy?

I must admit, strides are being made in this area, and by strides, I mean the librarian at Wembley Library who does the Saturday morning sing-a-long sessions changes the words to a monstrous tune known as “Three Little Men in Their Flying Saucer” to “Three Little Girls in Their Flying Saucer,” and gives a subversive grin whilst doing it.  Go her, I say.  That’s progress.

And so that brings me to another potentially racist little ditty.  I must admit that I thought I had heard the last of that one that goes “with a a knick-knack paddy-whack, give a dog a bone.  This old man came rolling home,” but when I heard it at the children’s centre I realised that I was sadly mistaken.  Let’s look at this in a bit more detail.

“Knick-knack paddy-whack.”  What is this about?  Because it sounds a lot to me like a racist term for an Irish person.  Who is being hit.  So this is a song about hitting Irish people.  A children’s song about beating up the Irish.  Great.  And it gets worse.

“This old man came rolling home.”  Why was he rolling home then?  Oh, I see, he was DRUNK.  So what you are saying here is that all Irish people are drunk, and get into fights, amirite?  And this is a song for children, people.  CHILDREN.

Next I come to the other one everyone knows about: Ring O Ring O Roses.  This is about the plague. THE PLAGUE, ladies and gentlemen.  You know that thing that killed, like a THIRD OF EUROPE in the Middle Ages.  JOKES.

Another one I have an issue with (I know!  Another one!  Are there any left that we are allowed to sing?) is Rock-a-Bye Baby.

Rock-a-Bye baby on a tree top (what is a baby doing in a tree?  CHILD ABUSE!)

When the wind blows the cradle will rock

When the bough breaks to cradle will fall(!!!!!!!!)

Down will come baby, cradle and all.

Utterly terrifying.  Need I say more.

My mother also sings one that starts with “Oh dear what can the matter be.”  The matter, according to this little ditty, is that “three old ladies” are “stuck in the lavatory,” where they then remain for A WHOLE WEEK.  This is at best a very unfortunate turn of events, or worse, elder abuse.

So there we have it, all nursery rhymes appear to be invented with the express purpose of either initiating young children into the more unfortunate aspects of the current status quo, or teaching them to be utterly terrified as the world is a very scary place full of violence, pestilence, extreme weather and frankly unpleasant people.  Even London Bridge is falling down.  You can’t even trust architecture.

Or perhaps children need to learn the unfortunate facts of life.  It’s not all one big Night Garden out there after all, and we can’t wrap them in cotton wool forever.  What do you think?

 

My Random Musings
MaternityMondays

Times My Mother Was Right, and I Was Wrong

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Obviously this is going to be a short list (haha, SORRY MUM).

My mother and I do not always see eye to eye on all things parenting.  For example, she once exclaimed to me in a horrified tone, “You’re not planning on breastfeeding him past six months, are you?” as though I had just told her that I fully planned to still be exclusively breastfeeding Piglet when he went off to university, and that even then I might have to visit him at weekends to dispense “Milky Pops” as and when required.

She also seems to be utterly convinced that my siblings and I slept through the night on cue, never needed feeding at night and were toilet trained by the time we turned one, all of which may be the result of a bit of artistic licence over the past thirty-odd years.

However there are, inevitably, times when I have to bow to her greater experience, and one of these was the other day.

The thing is, Piglet seems to have a bit of an obsession with the washing up.  I can only assume that he has inherited this from the sperm donor’s side of the family, as there is no chore that I detest more vehemently than washing up.  When I lived in Japan, I actually had flies living in my sink, such was my neglect of this particular household burden, and the thought of ever not having a dishwasher again fills me with dread.  Needless to say, in my current living arrangement with my mother, we have an unspoken agreement that I do all the cooking, and she does all the washing up.  However, as you can imagine both of these activities are somewhat more challenging with Piglet in attendance, and while cooking often seems to have the effect of making him want to crawl as quickly as possible towards the hot oven in order to inspect its contents, or into all the cupboards to see if there is anything-preferably made of glass or containing things that will make an unholy mess-that he can remove and start throwing about, attempting a bit of washing up makes him take up residence on the floor next to the sink, lifting his arms and screaming until he is picked up and allowed to dangle his little hands in the bubbly water.

IMG_1607
Hmm, is this where you keep the washing up liquid?

 

I might add here that having a dishwasher is no saviour.  We have one in our flat, and Piglet was never more alert than when Mummy was loading and unloading, at which point he would come scurrying across the room like a herd of ants carrying a leaf, and jump inside it at the first opportunity.

IMG_1522
Piglet, with his favourite toy

Anyway, keeping in mind the fact that Piglet is clearly a future homemaker and all-round Domestic God, the other day when he was having an episode of particular crankiness, I decided that I knew exactly what was going to calm him down and cheer him up.  Was it a quick feed?  A distraction toy? In The Night Garden?

No, it was the rare treat that is MUMMY DOING THE WASHING UP.

I cannot actually remember the last time I did the washing up.  Lo!  I thought, I shall be a kind, loving daughter who does the washing up while her mother is out at work.  What a wonderful, thoughtful thing to do!  Especially as it was me who got all the plates dirty anyway, and I haven’t done the washing up since 1992!  My mother will be so pleased, and Piglet will be happy playing with his lovely bubbles.

The effect was exactly as planned.  Piglet was thrilled.  He took up residence on the kitchen floor, lifted his arms and commenced squealing.

He literally would.  Not.  Stop.  Squealing.  I had to lift him up repeatedly and allow him to cover himself in bubbles, and every time I put him down he wanted to be picked up again.  He literally wanted to be in the washing up bowl with the plates and cups.  It was a NIGHTMARE.

Realising that I was not going to get anything done, I decided he would need to have his own little mini washing up bowl, purely for his enjoyment and pleasure.  You know, like babies have their own toy TV remotes, toy mobile phones and toy ride-on cars.  That was what Piglet needed, a plastic toy version of the real thing, preferably in garish colours and singing a song at the touch of a button.  What he needed was an old takeaway container filled with washing up water.  Actual washing up water.  The genuine article.

I filled up the container and set it down in front of him on the floor.  He picked it up, and immediately emptied the water everywhere.  It was of course at that moment that my mother decided to arrive home from work, picked a sodden Piglet up off the floor and berated me for making a mess of her kitchen floor and generally being a terrible mother.  She then harangued me for making Piglet all wet, while he crawled off back into the kitchen and promptly slipped over on the wet floor, landing on his face and howling.  The look of pure self-satisfied glee on my mother’s face as she grabbed a screaming Piglet off me and proceeded to give me a dressing down was indescribable.  She had won, and she knew it.  Mummy was an idiot, and a failure of a mother.  Mummy nil, Granny one.

“PLAY NICELY GIDEON! THAT BABY IS ONLY SMALL!”

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Piglet is now showing some interest in other children and babies.

Not, however, as much interest as other children are showing in him.

Today for example, we were on a train to Bath.  This is the same train, I might add, that Piglet demanded to be walked up and down repeatedly last week, prompting me to say in an attempt at being strict at the beginning of this particular journey, “we’re only going to be on here ten minutes today, you know.  No walking on the train!”  The usual exhortation is of course “NO CRAWLING!” which is now pretty much my catchphrase.  No crawling in the restaurant, no crawling in the train station, no crawling on the bus.  I am completely unreasonable when it comes to the Rules of Crawling.  Luckily, on this occasion, Piglet was content to amuse himself by poking a tiny hand through the gap between the seats behind, and stealing another passenger’s bracelet.

Then another child suddenly popped up next to us, with her mother, having walked from another carriage just to take a look at “the baby.”

This is not an uncommon occurrence in Piglet’s life, and he is usually nonplussed.  I, however, am sometimes not, such as the time a toddler actually clung onto the front of Piglet’s pram in our local library when he was asleep, and I practically had to prise him off and use my best Stern Teacher Voice while his mother sat looking on and ignoring the situation, and even more alarmingly, the time a little boy with chicken pox (THE ACTUAL POX) stroked Piglet’s face-encouraged by his mother, no less-in Kings Cross Station.  Given that Piglet wasn’t even three months old at the time, I wasn’t quite ready for a chicken pox party.

Also today, in the park, Piglet had an interesting introduction to some of the apparatus when pretty much everyone in the park under the age of five came running over to him to all pile onto the same piece of equipment that he was tentatively grasping (holding on for dear life) at the same time, rapidly trailed by various mothers shouting “GIDEON!  PLAY NICELY PLEASE!  THAT BABY’S ONLY LITTLE!” Unfortunately, I was unable to capture a picture of his bewildered face in time, but here he is recuperating on the giant swing.

IMG_1727

At the moment all Piglet is able to do is gaze at other children with a mixture of awe and terror, which means that the most fun he has had all day was playing a game which involved crawling backwards and forwards through Mummy’s legs for ten minutes.  It evidently didn’t tire him out, as he was up until 10.45pm dancing to the tunes that the baby walker plays.

I need to take him to the park more often.

 

 

 

How I Am Now Piglet’s Dadda

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Piglet, as we all know, does not have a dadda.

He does, however, like to say “dadda” a lot, thus proving that the word is nothing more than a meaningless piece of baby babble.  A small victory for all mothers across the nation who are fretting that their children are obsessed with their fathers and do not care a jot for them.  When you think about it, perhaps this is why patriarchy exists; because the role of mothers has been devalued by puffed-up fathers thinking they are the more important parent because, despite the fact that it is the mothers who carry and birth the children, those children still appear to grow up to prefer their fathers, as supposedly proven since time immemorial by the fact that “dadda” is invariably the first word (unless of course the wee ones prefer dogs, which may be the case with Piglet, as I wrote about here).

Despite the lack of male parentage, since I have been living with my mother we seem to have fallen into particular roles in the house, and I am pretty sure that my role is the one that would be traditionally associated with Dadda.  For a start, I am reliably informed by those whose children do have fathers that they like to take on the role of the “fun” (i.e. letting the wee one do whatsoever they please) parent.

And this is definitely me.

It is sadly the case that I, who was previously sole carer and provider, attached to Piglet 24 hours a day without a break, now spend large chunks of time sitting on the sofa browsing the Internets while my mother runs around frantically stopping Piglet from knocking over the television or emptying the entire contents of the DVD cabinet onto his head.

When we lived in my flat, I might add, neither of these things were necessary as he was allowed to bash the television to his little heart’s content, as long as it was with plastic implements rather than metal, and preferably no bigger than the size of a pen (one has to have some standards), and knocking DVDs off the shelf, opening the cases, taking the CDs out and chewing them, was a particular beloved game.  Which he was also allowed to play.

Consequently, my mother thinks Piglet has got to the age of one without grasping the concept of boundaries, and must be re-educated in such matters as not staying up until 11pm crawling around the living room, not picking up bits of wood chip from the garden, and definitely not throwing food on the floor.  I, on the other hand, am largely if not in complete favour of all of these things, then at least prepared to tolerate them until the time comes when Piglet has a vague grasp of language and can be reasoned with.

I think this officially makes me Good Cop.  Does this mean Piglet thinks I am Dadda?

Come On Eileen

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Yes I have a new website.

That is not the most exciting thing to have happened today, however, as today was also the day that I bought my first pair of dungarees.

Well, the first that were for me as opposed to Piglet.  At least since the brief flourishing of a random children’s clothes shop that opened up the road from my parents’ house in 1989 (where I tragically once again live, in 2015, at the age of 35), which stocked nothing but endless pairs of short dungarees for children in attractive floral patterns.

My new pair of dungarees are mercifully not floral patterned.  They are plain denim, Dexy’s Midnight Runners Alexa Chung style.

I hadn’t planned on going out and buying a pair of dungarees but, well, we were out and Piglet was asleep, so I seized the opportunity to pop into a shop.  Not just any old shop, but BS8, a shop I remember from years gone by, when I last lived in Bristol, when it was so achingly cool that I didn’t even dare set foot in there for fear of being drummed out by marauding hipsters.

Now, however, shopping in places that consider themselves hip (hip? Ha!  What is it, like, 1970?) holds no fear for me.  Me, who has walked the hallowed halls of Dover Street Market on no less than two occasions and who once brought Victoria Beckham’s new London store to a standstill by walking in with a pushchair and getting the staff to carry it up the stairs (cheers Vicky).

In I popped.

Piglet, however, constantly vigilant and able to sense entry to shops despite being in the throes of deep sleep, immediately woke up and started howling.  People started leaping out of the way.  Perhaps it was Piglet’s squeals, or perhaps it was the fact that I had the rain cover draped over the pushchair and it was dripping rain over all the vintage clothes as I steered expertly through the store, trying not to barge into anyone.

My attention was immediately drawn to the denim dresses, but I sensibly steered away, remembering that I have already owned two denim dresses in my life.  One which I bought for £1.50 in a charity shop in Birmingham, wore once to a “bad taste” party and then promptly got rid of, and one which I bought in Primark, probably for less than £1.50, which was even more hideous than the first.  I then noticed something even more enticing than the dresses.  Yes, they had actual DUNGAREES.  Loads and loads of them!

This is brilliant, I thought.  I will be like Felicity Kendal in The Good Life, petite and pert in my practical dungarees, doing my gardening and raising my child in self-sufficient suburbia whilst being lusted after by the entire nation.

Or I will be Alexa Chung: low-maintenance, just showing up at New York Fashion Week looking effortlessly amazing, with no-fuss hair and perfect flicky eyeliner.

Or I will be like pregnant friends of my mother’s in the 1980s, with Deirdre Barlow glasses, looking like a humungous painter and decorator in maternity denim.

Or I will be one of Dexy’s Midnight Runners.  Need I say more.

“Hmm.”  I said brightly to the shop assistant, who looked like an ironic hipster version of one of the Thompson Twins,  “I’m not sure if this look is going to be more Alexa Chung or Dexy’s Midnight Runners on me.”

I could tell that Thompson Twin was thinking definitely not Alexa from the fact that I was wearing a pair of Joules wellies and a bright orange hiking jacket from the children’s section of Jack Wolfskin.

“I don’t always dress like this!” I wanted to wail.  “Back in the day-before the baby-I used to wear vintage all the time, you know!  And my shirt is vintage, I promise!  It’s just….well, this rain.  And motherhood makes you so….practical.”

I knew that it was folly indeed to buy something as patently ridiculous as a pair of dungarees without even trying them on, so I rushed into the changing room while Thompson Twin kept an eye on Piglet, who was sobbing by this point.  He hated this shop even more than he hates Wilko in Wembley High Road, and we’ve never been able to leave there without a full on meltdown in the checkout queue.

Or maybe he just hated the sight of Mummy squeezing herself into a too-small version of something he might wear.

“It isn’t meant to be like this.”  He must have been thinking.  “You’re my mother.  You should be dressing the part, not trying to look like mutton dressed as baby.  It’s like when you bought me those skintight houndstooth girls’ trousers in H&M just because they were exactly the same as a pair of yours.  Parents and children were not meant to dress the same!  Look at what you and your parents looked like in 1990 when you all wore those matching counterfeit England ’90 shell suits from Eastville Market!”

Alas, anyway, the dungarees were too small.  I sadly headed towards the exit-and picked up an infinitely superior pair in the next size up which I promptly took to the till without trying on.  “Well, they are practical!” I exclaimed as Thompson Twin swiped my card.

“Yes they are,” she agreed.  “I mean, look at all these pockets for storing your paintbrushes.  And there’s a bit here that would be really useful for a hammer, should you ever want to carry one around.”

I had been thinking practical for breastfeeding, 1980s maternity-wear style, but who knows when you might need a hammer?

Brilliant blog posts on HonestMum.com

I am a moustachioed, hessian-wearing librarian, and proud of it

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My response to this.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-33904758

Let’s consider another example of what he might have said, to see how ridiculous this is.

“I don’t know what it is with all these mothers these days, feeding their children bananas in public.  Don’t they understand that I-and probably some other fellas for that matter-don’t like to look at bananas?  They make me feel uncomfortable.  Don’t they realise that bananas are quite phallic in appearance, and therefore they remind me of sex.  How inappropriate to be feeding your child-yes, a child-a banana in public!  It gives me associations in my head that I really do not want.  It’s practically peodophilia.  And besides, bananas don’t grow in this country so it’s totally unnatural.

“Of course, it was different in the Stone Age, when people didn’t have their own teeth.  Back then they had to eat bananas as they couldn’t eat anything harder, what with the lack of teeth and everything.

“It seems to me that it’s only these right-on, free-thinking librarian women that feed their children bananas anyway.  What’s wrong with a bag of crisps?  They have some really nice flavours these days.

“However, if it’s an attractive woman eating a banana, then of course that’s fine.  I bet all the other fellas would agree too.” 

A Cornish Mum
O Sleep How You Taunt Me

O Sleep How You Taunt Me

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Piglet went to sleep at 7.15pm today.  ***KLAXON***

I am braced for a rough night when he inevitably wakes up in an hour or so, having regarded his current period of sleep as nothing but a later-than-normal nap, and sits bolt upright in bed, before launching himself at me head first and emitting a high pitched scream into my ear, headbutting me and biting my face.

This sort of physical attack is, I believe, what passes for a sign of affection with Piglet.

Either that or he actually detests me.

He is, of course, sleeping in the bed.  I would hardly be so bold as to put him in his cot.  For a start, there is no sheet on the mattress as the combined intellects of myself and my mother couldn’t work out how to fit one on without the ends of the mattress curling up, and secondly, he will not sleep in a cot anyway.

An old photo, but one which I feel sums up roughly how Piglet feels about being in a cot.

I had long suspected this to be the case, but I had spent so many months gathering him up into my arms and taking him into the bed with me at the first sign of a whimper that he had barely spent any time in the cot and so I couldn’t be sure.  Then, last week, when we were on holiday in Cornwall, came the acid test.

The travel cot we had ordered had been placed into what I can only assume was supposed to be the children’s room in the caravan, judging by the size of the single bed in there, which was slightly narrower than the average shelf.  O the folly of these holiday caravan people who have never met Piglet and I, and who must have assumed that he has something known as a “routine,” and sleeps at a time of his parents’ (they must have assumed there were two, sleeping in the double bedroom) choosing, in a room which is designated for the exclusive use of a child or children plural.  O what folly (*shakes fist at the idea of a nuclear family with a routine*)

And so I bravely steeled myself for a night on the shelf (metaphorically, surely the story of my life), and laid Piglet down into the travel cot for his slumbers.

After feeding him to sleep of course (*guffaws heartily at the idea of him doing any of that “settling himself to sleep” that the parenting books are always talking about*).

It lasted about an hour.

I duly fed him to sleep again, and popped him back in the cot.

Another hour.

Now this, I told myself, was normal.  Piglet always wakes up at least every few hours and I then feed him to sleep again.  The only difference was that it would normally involve simply rolling over and proffering a boob rather than lifting him out of the cot, but still.  I even started to think that Piglet was getting the hang of this sleeping in a cot lark.  Who knows, perhaps in a few years time he’ll even progress to settling himself to sleep like the parenting books say all babies should by the age of three months.

Again he went to sleep, and again he woke up an hour or so later.

Only this time, he was sitting bolt upright in the cot and surveying the room with interest.  Not a good sign.

The next two hours included the following:

Breastfeeding repeatedly in a desperate attempt to get him to go back to sleep
Leaving the room to find a fresh nappy only to wake up the entire caravan (damn you thin paper caravan walls!)
Piglet greeting the rest of the caravan’s occupants with squeals and giggles
More breastfeeding

And finally:

Lying down on the very edge of the shelf with Piglet on there next to me, crammed against the thin caravan wall and intermittently banging on it, keeping my brother and his partner (in the “parents” room next door) awake.

I should probably add here that since I started writing this post I have had to put the laptop aside twice to feed Piglet back to sleep.

One day, he will learn to settle himself to sleep.  One day.

Piglet Breaks His Silence; Confirms He Is Dog-Lover

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Piglet said his first word today.

So, was it “Mumma”?
No it was not.  
Let’s forget the possibility of it being “Dadda,” as he has been repeating that sound for months without, clearly, the slightest clue as to what it may refer in some circles, since he has never heard me utter such a sound.  This naturally makes me somewhat smug when I come across parents who swear blind that their seven month old has been calling Daddy by his correct title for several weeks now, as if Piglet can identify and pronounce the “dadda” sound, despite his never having had any sort of a Dadda whatsoever, then that is surely incorrigible proof that babies make random sounds without having the slightest clue what they refer to in the adult world.
This is what I have been telling myself since lunchtime today, anyway.
We popped into our new local haunt the Cafe on the Square, a fabulous place which used to be a public toilet with “Kelly loves Darren 4EVA” scrawled on the walls in marker pen, but which has been turned into a tiny but very friendly cafe staffed by helpful Christians doing God’s Work of serving lattes and paninis to a surprisingly gentrified bunch of locals, and got into a conversation with a blind lady and her guide dog (well, the human lady did most of the talking, but it was the dog who was of interest to Piglet).  The lady kindly allowed Piglet to stroke the dog, which he did enthusiastically, having recently discovered that animals are A Thing.  Yesterday he met a cat, and was similarly enthralled.  The cat, unfortunately, was somewhat less magnanimous than the guide dog, and very nearly attacked him.
Anyway, the guide dog and Piglet (via their respective guardians) were formally introduced and exchanged pleasantries, and upon being informed that the dog’s name was AJ, Piglet yelled “AJ!” to the universal joy of everyone in the cafe.
Yes, Piglet’s first word was the name of a dog.  He loves a random dog, that he has met a grand total of once, more than he loves his Mummy. 
An actual dog.
Later on, we went to the park and Mummy felt even worse after facing her Diane Keaton in Baby Boom moment (not the one where she starts a successful business selling apple-flavoured baby food and gets to return to her old company in triumph and then totally give them the finger.  I am still waiting for that one) after being privy to a parkside conversation about “when you did your circus skills course Hermione dahling” and fretting that not only does Piglet love a dog more than his Mummy, but Mummy has ruined Piglet’s chances of going to a good university forever due to not enrolling him in circus skills, baby sing and sign, or that one where the babies get tickled with giant feathers, which he is probably too old for now anyway and it’s all just TOO LATE.
There may, however, be a future for him at the Dogs Trust.

Dangerous Times

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Piglet is now a year old, and therefore almost a toddler.  I say almost, as he has not yet mastered the art of walking, and needs to be escorted around by a helpful adult, such as me or (more often) Granny, holding his hand at all times.

It’s just as well that he is always accompanied, however, as he has become a walking Accident Waiting to Happen.

Basically, I have discovered that the world is a very dangerous place when you are a year old, and not just for the reasons the Daily Mail likes to dwell on (although the other day, when we were on holiday, I did insist that my mother not leave a sleeping Piglet outside the caravan because “LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO MADELEINE MCCANN!”).

Today, for example, Piglet got his hand trapped underneath a door.  Underneath.  A.  Door.  I didn’t even know that was a thing.  Luckily I was able to retrieve it without breaking the skin, but he did have the imprint of the bottom of the door stuck in his hand for a while.  On the plus side, he was trying to retrieve a copy of Spot Goes to Bed at the time, so at least his injury was the result of an interest in matters of a literary nature.

During a lunchtime visit to the pub (I know!  The pub!  At lunchtime!  For shame!  I am now One of Those Mothers who goes drinking during the day while Little One runs riot amid the drunks) I had to rescue Piglet from all of the following:
A large stick, to be thrown about on a field in the manner of a dog, but which he insisted on bringing into the pub and waving around, much to my mother’s horror;
Wood chippings, which he tried to eat;
A log fire (deceptively not lit, so the danger was not at all obvious until Piglet pulled a metal grill off the front of the fireplace);
Rat poison (tantalisingly placed in a location close to several rotten apples, which had naturally piqued Piglet’s interest, but fortunately in a clearly labelled container, so danger was relatively easily averted);
Several older children who were very keen to befriend him, but in a way that Piglet unfortunately found terrifying, despite the fact that they were far less scary than any of the above.

And this was just one brief lunchtime outing.  We didn’t even stay for dessert.

Even our own dwelling is riven with danger, from the obvious perils of the cooker and stairs to the less clear hazards posed by the toilet roll holder (pulled off and used to attempt to smash up the toilet seat) and bathroom light switch (lovingly mouthed due to nobbly bit at the end which will at some point almost certainly break off and need to be retrieved from the said mouth before it can be swallowed).

Really, it is a wonder anyone has ever survived to adulthood.