Gremlin

Recently someone replaced my sweet little angel with a gremlin. Possibly a gremlin from another planet.

I first noticed something was wrong when the creature I thought was my child scaled a dining room table in a nanosecond and pelted me in the eyeball with an unripe avocado. Followed by a grapefruit. Having never previously been the victim of unripe fruit, I was unsure of the appropriate response. So I stood there like a lemon while the gremlin casually dismounted the table and proceeded to convert all household items into weaponry.

I think this gremlin may be in league with an evil government spy agency. It must be a poorly-funded evil government spy agency from a crap country as the gremlin only appears to have a primitive notion of local custom and language - for instance it seems to think 'NO!' is a polite form of greeting and an adequate response to instructions.

The gremlin has a horrible fascination with crisps - known as 'LULAS' in its native tongue - which led me to initially presume a Brazillian connection. It has repeatedly held the entire family to ransom for these. It can scale any surface, split eardrums with its screams of rage if interfered with, and assume a thrashing, gnashing protest at a moment's notice.

Short of a never-ending avalanche of LULAS, there appears to be no way to negotiate with it. I cannot suss the creature's motive, except perhaps world domination. I have no idea what the crap evil spy agency hopes to find in this house - perhaps lost piles of washing to fund a fledgling space program.

So should you happen to be a representative of the aforementioned crap evil government spy agency, would you please return my darling little cherub at your nearest convenience and remove your chaos agent. Call now and I will even throw in a pack of LULAS.

Under warranty

Dear reputable manufacturer of quality babies,

I am a loyal customer - I purchased two model CHAOS babies from you in under two years. I am writing to request that you collect my most recent purchase for repair, as I think it may have a defective fuse.

I was alerted to a problem this morning when eating breakfast became impossible due to a sudden lack of bowls. Perhaps foolishly, I then attempted to exit the house with both my models, and was thwarted by an absence of raincoats and shoes.

This afternoon, after a rather soggy morning, I located a stash of bowls, shoes and raincoats in the rubbish bin. Under precisely one ton of soggy coffee grounds. Your model appears to think that I am a total turnip, and claims to have nothing to do with it (and might I just point out at this juncture, that my coffee consumption habits are not the issue here).

As per section C, sub-clause RAP of your warranty, please do collect my model CHAOS baby at your nearest convenience for repair. I understand that sorting out a faulty bin-restraint mechanism may take time, so please don't feel compelled to return my model for say, eighteen years or so.

Regards,

Mama

PS: Please don't try to tell me that by taking my model CHAOS baby out of the box and actually engaging it with the outside world, I have somehow managed to void the warranty.

Even pack rats get the blues

I live in a homing beacon for crap toys. For the past three years an entire galaxy of 'cheap and nasties' (term courtesy of A&E Mum) has found the magnetic draw of my house irresistible. My research indicates that this is due to my home's geographical location on the conversion point of two ancient polymer ley lines—it is essentially a semi-detached plastic henge.

For the first three years I didn't mind. I became a bit of a toy-pagan myself. My Mama Stockholm Syndrome reasserted itself and I began identifying with the junk, even giving the most hateful bits names: Creepy Dog, Molly Dolly, etc. But the clutter that alighted innocently at first began to flock in an increasingly Hitchcock-esque manner. Before long there was something menacing and undeniably stickerman about.

The Clutterati. 

Things went bump in the night—against the arch of my foot any time I was so foolish as to set foot out of bed. By day I was mad-dogged by their fearsome leader. Sometimes I could have sworn that he changed location without any human moving him.

One morning I had a premonition of a mighty judgement coming: a vision of myself turned into a plastic cat lady, buried under shape sorters and poorly-drawn fake plastic kitchen food. Clearly something had to be done. But for the life of me, I couldn't think of what.

Then, while stumbling over toys one day, I landed upon an insightful documentary on this very subject called 'Toy Story 3'. Inspired, I commenced operation 'Crap Toy Desertion'. Now the teeming plastic masses are in bin bags in the garage, bound for the charity shop (which is where most of them came from in the first place).

Riding off into the fake sunset. 

I can once again walk across my own sitting room without risking foot injury. All that remains is to hang garlic above the doors to prevent a recurring infestation.

I feel unburdened, weightless, peaceful, as I sit here. The first toy was the hardest to toss. But each one became easier, more rewarding, until I was chucking them into bin bags more rapidly than Sylvester McMonkey McBean throws Sneeches into his Star-On machine.

Hang up your plastic saddles. 

I had a joyous epiphany: having children doesn't have to mean a houseful of crap. Funniest thing about possessions: they grow to possess you, if you don't show them the door first.

Toilet humour by way of apology

Potty training is the hellish process by which toddlers exact revenge on their parents for future ills. Somehow the Geneva Convention fails to mention potties. Perhaps as with childbirth, the frequency of this right of passage makes it seem somehow normal and okay. As a potty training survivor, I can confirm that it is not. That period in my life is a blur. I still don't like to talk about it...much. 

During my dark days in the potty training trenches, the trusty Auntie D lent me a lovely pull-the-tabs potty training book. The kind of delicate book that survives in a household with nice orderly children, not monsterdogs who use mauling to show affection. It didn't take long for some alterations to occur (see below). 

'And as a reward you can keep your other arm.' 

'Mum, I think I pushed too hard.'

Cat flees wreckage; limbs continue to drop at an alarming rate. 

I'm not even sure WHAT Ana ripped out in that last picture—whatever it was, it has long since dissappeared, likely eaten by its attacker. 

Auntie D: we officially apologise for maiming your book. However, since we had a floating head and arm handy, coupled with a sleep-deprived sense of depravity, we humbly submit the following potty story re-imaginings in compensation. 

Cat watches in abject horror. The storyline has taken a grim turn. 

Grotesque genetic experimentation gone potty.  

No. It is a human head. Cat pukes hairball in terror. 

Though I don't have a picture of it, one image sticks in my mind from the potty training days. On a dark stormy night when Ana was supposed to be tucked safely in bed upstairs, Papa and I suddenly heard her shrieking for help through the floorboards. We dashed to the rescue, ready to defend our precious girl from night pirates, monsters, ogres, demons, or whatever, armed with nothing but our bare hands and ritious anger. We smashed open her bedroom door, and there was Ana: crashing about her room with her potty stuck fast on her head, like an irate Pooh Bear caught in a honey pot. She'd snuck out of bed to try it on like a hat—just like all the good potty books all suggest.  Papa eased the hat off and calmed her down. We both tried not to laugh too much. 

Mutant flees mutilated book. Oh the humanity.  

Things have really improved since then. But we are due another dose of potty training in a bit over a year. So as they say to St Jude: pray for us.