In between the rain showers today I managed to get out in the garden and crack on with re-planting my Dahlia and Lupin to grown-up beds (and more importantly liberating my kitchen windowsill from a mountain of unsightly plastic pots). As always, I had a very curious little helper!

In fact, so desperate was Dexter to copy mummy that I had to give him his own flower-pot to play with to distract him from plucking my other babies from their beds.

I’m sure gardening with kids is great fun; showing them how to care for seedlings, giving them the responsibility of watering them, letting them sink their fingers into the soil… but gardening with babies is an altogether different story. All Dexter wanted to do was eat my flowers and fling around my trowel. He even found perhaps the only spiderweb in my garden to stick his face into, prompting me to face the ultimate parenting dilemma of whether to shake down my baby.

Despite taking out a huge rug and dozens of toys, he only had eyes for the garden tools - and the most dangerous ones at that. He seemed to enjoy commando crawling over to me and having me continually plop him back down on the rug. It turned into a huge game for him.

The last straw was when he found the garden tap, turned it on, and watched the water meander its way toward my bum. As I was focusing on my plants with all the concentration of a neurosurgeon, I only realised when my jeans were saturated. The things that go through your mind in the split second you see water emanating from your undercarriage… Have I wee’ed myself? Am I bleeding? Am I one of those women you read about in Take a Break that don’t realise they’re pregnant until their waters break? Then you realise your child is giggling, equally wet and on his hands and knees face down drinking from an ever-increasing puddle on the decking.

Needless to say I aborted my replanting pretty swiftly and reminded myself I’m a mother. You simply can’t turn your back on a baby for one second! I scooped him up, stripped him down and popped him in his Jumperoo.

On my way up the stairs to change out of my sopping wet jeans, my incredibly hot postman picked that exact moment to knock on the door with a parcel. Craning my neck around the door in a bid to hang on to my dignity, I practically snatched the little machine thing they make you scribble on out of his hands. Unfortunately any hope I had of keeping the dark patch surrounding my crotch secret, was crushed when he glanced over my shoulder and informed me that my child had managed to extricate most of himself from Jumpy, and was only saved from thumping his head on the floor by one foot caught in the caught in the seat.

With the theme tune from Chariots of Fire stuck in my head, I ran to rescue Dexie (in what felt like extreme slow motion) and turned my back on the postman. Thinking I had disgraced myself he pushed the parcel through my doorway with his toe and practically ran down my drive.

I wasn’t embarrassed. I was mortified.

And there concludes my #CountryKids post for this week. You guys must wonder who on earth I am! One week I’m flashing at kids in a park, the next I’m freaking out the postman. Oh well, at least I get to use the tag Wardrobe Malfunctions again - if this carries on I should beat Judy Finnigan to the top of Google’s search ranking. Hopefully next week will be an altogether more serene affair.