Like get herself a trade, give us a bit of keep and generally learn to pay her bloody way.
All her formula and porridge and jars of mush don't come cheap. And she knows it. It's not like she was born yesterday. Well, she'll soon learn the value of money when she starts putting something in the pot.
Alright, alright, so she can't stand up yet, but that doesn't rule out a desk job. And yeah, I know she wouldn't be able to use the phone. And I am fully aware that she cannot type. She can't read or write either, but Christ, if we keep going at that rate, she'll never find a steady income. While Kerry Katona's working, there's always hope.
Until she hits a nine to five, we'll tackle another equally important life hurdle which I feel Boo is ready to fell.
Trolleys.
Until she hits a nine to five, we'll tackle another equally important life hurdle which I feel Boo is ready to fell.
Trolleys.
Pushing The Poop round supermarkets in a pram while I grapple with masses of shopping that won't fit in the buggy basket stops today. I am sick of clenching whole lettuces in my teeth, wedging packets of teabags in my ears, balancing cereal boxes in the crooks of my elbows and pinning jars of coffee under my armpits like some sort of dancing hamper. I am especially sick of reaching out to a shelf for an item and forgetting I have a jar of coffee under each armpit. (Though we are now excellent at shuffling away from the spillage tutting, shaking our heads and muttering about "making a claim" without a jot of guilt or embarrassment).
No, at nine months old, the kid can handle a trolley.
I placed my most prized possession, complete with that vulnerable little soft spot on top of her head, on board the treacherously angular wire mesh. This thing sits four perilous feet from the floor, balances upon precarious wheels, and moves in a dodgy, teasingly hazardous sideways manner - the sort that creeps away silently but suddenly takes down a display of glass Coke bottles, then spins on its casters to point at you as if it's all your fault for picking it.
I edged The Poop into it and secured the safety belt. But I wasn't happy. Look how spacious the seat area is. She could slide out. Or easily nut her head on that handle. Do they do crash test dummy tests on trolleys? I can get quite a lick up when approaching the 'whoops!' table. Where are the impact bars? What? No ABS? Not even an airbag? What if she was to reach back into the trolley, find a pack of matches, light one and then ignite the trolley? Nah. They're an accident waiting to happen those things. A liability. Dangerous.
No sod it. As I began to fish Boo out of the seat, I could sense that all my concerns, worries and nerves were rubbing off on her.
Oh. Maybe not. She likes it. Great. White knuckle trolley rides it is then.
NB: The white knuckles were Boo's obviously. That vicious rumour going round that they were mine is to be ignored. Honest.
Although they are a death trap those things.
But I'm okay about it.
No, at nine months old, the kid can handle a trolley.
I placed my most prized possession, complete with that vulnerable little soft spot on top of her head, on board the treacherously angular wire mesh. This thing sits four perilous feet from the floor, balances upon precarious wheels, and moves in a dodgy, teasingly hazardous sideways manner - the sort that creeps away silently but suddenly takes down a display of glass Coke bottles, then spins on its casters to point at you as if it's all your fault for picking it.
I edged The Poop into it and secured the safety belt. But I wasn't happy. Look how spacious the seat area is. She could slide out. Or easily nut her head on that handle. Do they do crash test dummy tests on trolleys? I can get quite a lick up when approaching the 'whoops!' table. Where are the impact bars? What? No ABS? Not even an airbag? What if she was to reach back into the trolley, find a pack of matches, light one and then ignite the trolley? Nah. They're an accident waiting to happen those things. A liability. Dangerous.
No sod it. As I began to fish Boo out of the seat, I could sense that all my concerns, worries and nerves were rubbing off on her.
NB: The white knuckles were Boo's obviously. That vicious rumour going round that they were mine is to be ignored. Honest.
Although they are a death trap those things.
But I'm okay about it.
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