Today has been one of the toughest and most emotionally-demanding days I’ve had as Dexter’s mummy. I love my little rascal to death but boy did he step up the pressure this afternoon! I’ve already dragged his Moses basket from the loft, cut up a newspaper and got handy with the Pritt Stick, and am seconds away from leaving Dexter on a neighbours doorstep.
A bit of context…
We live in a rented house and spent the weekend decluttering in lieu of a house inspection by our letting agents. We don’t live in a hovel by any stretch of the imagination, but used the upcoming inspection to get rid of some of some baby bits we no longer need. Walking downstairs this morning our home looked lovely. All Dexie’s toys were stowed away, our real oak floors were buffed, the lounge smelt of Mr Pledge, and the books in the bookshelf were arranged in size order. With a smug smile, I set about feeding my monkey before the agent arrived.
Breakfast out of the way, I popped Dexter on the sofa, fired up an episode of Sooty and Friends, and left him snuggled up thumb-in-mouth to watch it quietly. My single goal was to protect my lounge from Dexter until the inspection was through. With all going to plan, I grabbed the laptop and made myself comfortable on an adjacent sofa to go through my emails.
As parents, we all know that silence isn’t golden. Rather silence is utterly terrifying. Most of us at some point will have nipped to the loo only to return and find our little one’s have whipped the Crayola’s out and practiced their handwriting on the wall. Even though my Dexter is just 13 months old, he’s already had his fair share of disasters. Major accomplishments to date include deleting blog posts by bashing the laptop with a toy fire engine, smearing vaseline on our TV screen, and eating an orchid. As if it couldn’t get any worse, today, of all days, Dexter decided to give mummy a heart attack.
Looking up from my laptop, I found this…
Yep, he’d found his paints and was busy unscrewing the lids and tucking into the contents. With a face like the Ultimate Warrior, Dexter had managed to apply orange, green and yellow all over his eyelids, mouth and cheeks with all the precision of a pre school make-up artist. In just a few seconds he’d turned our cream sofa into a rainbow-coloured mess.
Stripping Dexter naked in a hurry with one hand, and furiously scrubbing at our sofa with another, he then decided (of all times!) to make a bid for naked freedom. Pulling himself upright to sofa no 2 with sticky multi-coloured hands, he then proceeded to poo on our cream rug. Rushing across to pick him up to prevent him grounding said poo further into the pile of our fluffy rug, I grabbed under his arms and rushed him into the kitchen at arm’s length much as though I were carrying a live bomb. Not quite finished, Dexter left a trail of his breakfast and last night’s dinner in neat little clumps like Hansel and Gretal’s bread crumbs. The lounge smelt like a nursery Grundon.
At that precise moment, the doorbell rings. Conscious of the fact that the letter they had sent to announce their visit stated that they have their own keys, I left my bare-bummed whiffy child in the kitchen to answer the door. Asking the agent to start upstairs whilst I changed my child, he made his way up to the bedrooms.
I then had a few precious moments to retrieve the lumps of poo from the floor, shove some cushions over the stain on the sofa, and get a nappy on an increasingly writhing Dexter. With tasks 1 and 2 complete, I grabbed the changebag and set to work on Dex. As he has a mortal fear of baby wipes he begins to scream with the ferocity of a wounded goat.
(What’s that you say? … Goats don’t scream? Yes they do!)
Perhaps concerned that he might have to call child protective services, the agent rushed downstairs just as I was snapping Dexter’s Pampers into place. Red-faced I explained that Dexter was just tired and offered coffee in a desperate attempt to look natural. As I busied myself in the kitchen, the agent scribbled into his notebook in the lounge and my breathing returned to normal. Mugs in hand I casually walked into the lounge (with my best “Everything is okay” smile) only to discover his well-heeled feet were perilously close to a mound of poo and puddle of wee I had overlooked in my haste.
Inviting him into the kitchen I left a giggling Dexter to play with his toys on the carpet and made small talk with the agent. Five minutes later, I showed him to the door and we strolled past a (still) multi-coloured looking Dexter bashing a plastic ball onto the floor. Stopping to comment on how cute my son was (Oh, the lies we tell…), the agent waved Dexter goodbye and left for his smart 2013 plated Audi parked on our driveway.
Pausing for just a second to calm down behind the now closed front door, I walked back into the lounge to let Dex know we’d gotten away with it. It was then I discovered the ball he’d been attempting to destroy was covered in the poo I had neglected to clear up when I’d ushered the agent into the kitchen. Cue more baby wipes, screams, and a much-needed bath.
Dexter Mills. I love you more-than-words-can-say but I’m dreading the results of this inspection. If we’ve failed and have to move into a tent in nanny’s garden, I’ll get out that Moses basket and send you on a biblical trip down the River Thames. That is all.
