Health anxiety strikes again

Just for a change, I am going through a not especially fun time at the moment (this blog isn't just a moan outlet, honestly!). About a week before Christmas, I had a day or two of feeling really nauseous and bloated, with an uncomfortable stomach.  I put it down to a bug, as my Mum, sister and Drake all seemed to get the same thing too. We all recovered quickly and I enjoyed Christmas dinner, but my symptoms mysteriously returned a couple of days later and for a few weeks I felt mildly nauseous on and off and lacking any appetite.  Then the "loose motions" started (sorry if too much info). Just mornings, and sometimes evenings mostly,  with random twinges of pain around my abdomen, until yesterday when I felt properly awful and was on and off the loo most of the day.

The doctor (to whom I shall return tomorrow requesting further investigation) has called it as Irritable Bowel Syndrome, given that my blood tests and stool tests were normal.  I, being a bit of a worrier and obsessive Googler, have variously diagnosed myself with an ulcer, low stomach acid, excess stomach acid, parasites, Crohn's Disease, and cancer (a friend, my age, died of bowel cancer last year, so I am a little paranoid). What I do know for certain is that, not for the first time, I have a bad case of health anxiety.

I think the doctor is right and my problem almost certainly is IBS (it's very common, and there is family history), probably triggered by the mild virus I had and exacerbated by the stress of a new job, months of sleep deprivation and two hospital stays with Duckling in the space of six weeks. I'm pretty sure that giving up breastfeeding may have a lot to do with it too. I have not yet fully stopped,  but we're down to evenings and mornings only now, and it's sent my hormones into a tail spin - hot flushes, minor panic attacks, depression, weird sense of smell and taste, plus my first period in over two and a half years, which has been strangely familiar and alien at the same time.  I am a little sensitive to hormonal changes at the best of times (I will leave the story of my tumultuous time on The Pill for another post) so with everything else going on, I'm not that surprised that I'm suffering.  I just wish I wasn't, and that I could rationalise my way out of feeling so anxious about it all (which I'm sure is just making things ten times worse).

Poor Drake has seen me like this before (most famously on our first holiday together when I became convinced I had lymphoma and was slowly dying.  I didn't and I wasn't.) but still finds it hard to know how to help me. I had a bit of a sob on his shoulder yesterday along the lines of "what if this is actually something really serious and I leave you and Duckling behind???"  and then, "Even if it is just IBS, what if I end up feeling like I did today every day of the week?  How am I going to live a normal life when I can't be more than ten foot from a toilet...?!"  The answer to the latter question was discovered today in the form of Imodium - it got me through work without a hiccup, which is just as well as a minor blocked toilet tsunami had put all the bogs out of action on our floor.  Not my fault, honest guv.

On the bright side though, I've lost half a stone, so am finally back (and actually a bit below) my pre-baby weight.  Every cloud...  Sort of.

I have no idea where this whole experience is going to take me.  I am strongly hoping I'll be able to look back in a few months time, when I've been properly prodded and poked and I'm feeling 100% again, and be able to say "Well that was literally a bit shit wasn't it?!"  For now, I just have to stay calm, keep smiling and try not to get suckered into too many snake oil therapies online.  "Probiotic papaya enzymes you say?  Give me 50!"

The ghost of fingers past

It's been an interesting week. While at his childminder's, Duckling managed to sustain his first serious injury - in this case the loss of the end of a finger. As injuries go, it could have been worse. It could also have been better though, let's be honest.

He was doing what I'd seen him do a few times before while leaving her house - hanging onto the hinge side of the doorframe as he stepped down off the front step. I'd warned him not to, twice in fact, but clearly the message hadn't sunk in (believe me, it has now). She didn't notice his hand as she slammed the door, then took a good 10 seconds to find the keys to open it again once his screaming alerted her to his plight, by which time his middle and ring fingers of his right hand were in a bit of a state. Thankfully the middle finger will be fine, although the nail may be a bit deformed. The end of the ring finger is however lost forever - we're not entirely sure where.

Were this the plot of Holby City (I properly hate that programme) I would have started hurling abuse at my childminder as soon as I arrived at A&E and saw the extent of the damage. However, real life emotions are more complex than that. Plus I was too busy passing out like a massive wuss.

On the one hand, I am a bit peeved, obviously, that someone has caused my child permanent damage. On the other, I like and trust my childminder and know it was a total accident that could have occurred at home just as easily. I am also, secretly, a little relieved it didn't happen on my watch. I don't have to look at his hand and know I did that to him. My poor childminder does of course, so it's going to be hard on her once he goes back, but she's a pragmatic lady and I'm sure will cope.

What I am stressed about is seeing him in pain - although he's been very brave and since the op to sew the finger up he's been largely unbothered by it. I'm also not a fan of all the hospital visits (it was horrible leaving him in the operating room while they put him under) and the inconvenience of forcing down antibiotics and having to miss yet more work ("Dear boss, you're not going to believe this but..."). Most of all though, I am sad that my little boy is now missing a tiny little bit of his once perfectly whole body. It shouldn't matter - we all place far too much emphasis on 'perfection' anyway, it's not a disabling or particularly obvious injury, and I suspect it will make an awesome conversational piece in later years. He's so young, he really won't be able to remember life before 9 3/4 fingers either. I'll remember though, because I worked for nine months to make that little digit. Every time I look at his 1st birthday plaster of paris handprints, I'll see the ghost of a finger tip and feel just a little sad.

Such a lot of mixed up feelings over such a tiny piece of flesh... Though as my sister said, "On the bright side, one less nail to trim eh?"

What makes a good parent?

Being a parent - anyone can do it, right? Well yes, technically, anyone can become a parent if their reproductive bits are in working order and they manage to get together with a fellow reproductively functional type. Reproducing is however different from parenting. You can pop out sprogs like a rabbit, but that doesn't necessarily mean you'll be a good parent to them.

There is a bit of trend on parenting blogs to self-congratulate and essentially say, "Let's not fight! We all have our different approaches, but we're all good parents really, whatever style we adopt." This is of course absolutely true; style doesn't really matter, when by 'style' you're referring to two alternative approaches which are both ultimately fine for your kid (breast or bottle, sling or buggy etc.). However, I think this narrative only really addresses fellow, lovely, caring Mummy types. If you are a parent whose 'style' involves going on holiday and leaving the kids to fend for themselves, deliberately depriving them of basic necessities, resenting them for existing, using them as physical or emotional punch-bags... Well, I don't think anyone would describe you as 'good'.

Though I'm pretty clear about what really isn't 'good', I don't think you can automatically say you're a good parent just because you don't abuse or neglect your child either. When I first embarked on parenthood, I thought I had a pretty clear idea about how to be good. It was just about loving them lots. As Duckling has grown however (and yes, I realise he's only two, so in parenting terms I still know NOTHING), it has become increasingly clear that love is just one small (but nonetheless bloody vital) piece of the puzzle.  There are also a whole bunch of other things that are needed - patience (soooo much patience) being one, and balance being another.  Specifically, you need to find a balance between:

Compassion and control: your child is a little person, and needs, like anyone to feel understood. If you don't empathise with them, then they both learn that their feelings aren't valid, and will struggle to learn to empathise with others. However, there is a difference between understanding your child's feelings, and giving into their emotionally-driven demands. They may desperately want that Kinder Egg in Sainsbury's, and genuinely be of the opinion that the world will end if they don't get it, but you know that they've already eaten the crust of the bread, six strawberries, a bag of Pom Bears and a banana. They do not NEED the Kinder Egg, it isn't good for them, and they won't eat their dinner if they have it, so in order to set appropriate boundaries and expectations, you say "I understand you want it but NO". (Or at least that would be what you'd do if you were a good parent. Duckling got the egg, smeared it all over his face, then didn't eat his dinner. Hmm, pretty sure I wouldn't even make a 'passable' grade with that.)

Consistency and change: We all know consistency is vital for kids - they need to know what to expect to feel secure. Seeing patterns is how they learn cause and effect. Consistency also helps to discourage undesirable behaviours. If you get a different response every time you chuck your bowl of Weetabix on the floor, you're going to keep doing it, just to see what might happen next time. If your Weetabix always gets calmly taken away, you quickly learn it's not worth chucking it. Unless you're Duckling of course, in which case you only throw food on the floor once you're done eating, and don't therefore care whether it's taken away, put back on your plate, eaten by Mummy, or trodden into the carpet: throwing is F-U-N! All this said, if you're repeating the same thing over and over and not having any impact, you need to recognise that a little flexibility in your approach might be required. Saying no to everything they try to do will just result in you being ignored eventually. Furthermore, every child is different, and what works for one, may well not work for another. Being a great parent means you recognise your little one's unique personality and temper your approach accordingly.  Easy, right?!

Intellect and instinct: if books, the internet and paediatric gurus are to be believed, being a good parent involves adopting a particular philosophy - in the modern era, one ideally backed up by all manner of chemical measurements and colour coded brain scans - and then applying the principles of this philosophy to your everyday parenting approach. This is all well and good, but it's very difficult to take a step back and think "what would Bowlby propose I do here?" when you two-year old is trying to ram a stickle brick into his sister's ear. On the other side of the coin, champions of instinctive parenting would tell you to ignore all the books and simply go with the flow - using your innate parenting smarts to guide your children through their early years, setting rules (or not) as you see fit. Great, but this falls down when you're a bit screwed up yourself, or your instinct fails to recognise that your child does not reason and behave like an adult. Your intentions might be good, but positive intentions do not always make for positive outcomes. And what do you do if you have no good examples to help form your parenting instinct? In the West, most of us now live outside of the extended family groupings common in other cultures, so we never really see other people raising their kids on a day-to-day basis. The only real role models we often have are our own parents, and they may well be the worst examples going.

Protection and permissiveness: you love your child and want to keep them safe from everything: scissors, dogs, germs, lakes, peas (they fit very snuggly up small nostrils). However, you also know that they have to explore the world in order to learn how to stay safe in it. This particular balancing act is the one Drake and I argue over most. I am quite laid back about safety (within reason - I don't let Duckling juggle with steak knives or anything). Drake should really work for the Health and Safety Executive. Cue many a discussion along the lines of "Why did you let him have that glass?" "I didn't LET him have it, he picked it up off the side." "Well why didn't you take it away?" "Because he was carrying it very carefully over to me, and I want him to feel confident about carrying things like that about." "But he spilled juice on the floor!" "Yes, but only a little bit and he didn't break the glass." "But he COULD have." "Well yes, and he could have been snatched up by a pterodactyl on the way, but he wasn't was he?" And so on...

Intervention and independence: Duckling, unlike his fiercely independent cousin, likes a lot of help to do things (a.k.a he's a bit lazy). This is fine, but sometimes for my own sanity and his self-confidence, I have to say nope, I'm not going to help you, you can do it yourself. Yes, it is quicker to carry him up the stairs (we have A LOT of stairs) and it is easier to take his shoes off for him, but if I do it all the time, he's not going to learn. The last thing I want is to get to his teenage years and think, "Why do I have this sullen, spoiled, lazy teenager on my hands?" OK, so  I almost certainly will think that at some (many) point whatever happens, but if there are occasions where he's willing and able to do things himself too, that'd be great. My sister on the other hand struggles to get Gosling accept help with anything. Cue a variety of heavy things being lifted and causing injury / damage, teeth not being brushed properly, clothing not being worn, food being shovelled in eyes... We both accept what our children are like, but we also both know that sometimes we have to push them outside of their comfort zone and make them do (or not do) things they don't like in order to foster independence / make them realise it's OK to ask for help.

Essentially, parenthood is all about a delicate calibration of approaches and reactions; recognising their nature and adapting your nurture accordingly. And apparently lots of alliteration. I know Duckling better than anyone, but it still isn't easy, and I'm sure I get it wrong a lot. But I suppose being a good parent doesn't necessarily mean you find the perfect solution, because there rarely is one, whatever the gurus may tell you. It means you TRY to find a way forward by seeking a balance and learning from your mistakes. And of course loving them to bits.

2015: a year of parenting in review

So, 2015 is over and I thought what better way to reflect on my achievements (ahem) over the past 12 months than to draw up a little review of the year using a pretty pie chart. With a breakout box! Check me out with my mad Excel skills.

 

Here is, more or less, how I spent my time last year (I have tried to use honest values, though a few may have been mildly exaggerated for comic effect):

 

 



Well, what a year! On reflection, I am surprised by the amount I apparently slept.  Less so by the amount of time I spent breastfeeding.  To be honest, the "boobs out" wedge actually overlaps with quite a lot of the others (sleeping, daydreaming, moaning to Mum... Not the working one though - apart from the time I failed to button my blouse back up after a pumping session).  My mad Excel skills aren't good enough to represent such overlaps in pictorial form though.  All helpful tips from fellow Excel geeks gratefully received so I can rectify this for next year.  Not that I'll still be breastfeeding by next year.  Probably not anyway.  Or hopefully not.  Christ, someone please tell me how to give up...!

Taking on the Christmas Day challenge

This year, as for the past ten years (give or take), Drake and I divided our Christmas Day between his parents and mine. Before Duckling was born, we used to have Christmas lunch at his folks, then head to my parents late afternoon, usually arriving just in time for dessert following their evening Christmas dinner. Since Duckling and Gosling (his cousin) have been on the scene however, we've gone full Vicar of Dibley and have two full Christmas dinners in one day, arriving an hour or two before dinner at my parents to give the kids time to play together. Gaviscon is definitely our friend come Yuletide.

At 22 months, Duckling is still comparatively portable, and not sufficiently caught up in Crimbo mania to be particularly bothered about where he is or what's going on. By next year however, I suspect he'll rather more switched on, and won't be so keen to pack up his presents mid way through the day for yet more forced brussel sprout eating at his other Grandma's. To be honest, upping sticks at 3pm, ramming a range of oversized toys in an already bulging boot and driving 30 miles across South East England is not my idea of a fun either these days (and that's before we get on to the indigestion issues), so I'm definitely ready for a change.

As such, I have tentatively offered to host Christmas at our house next year, for the first time ever. It's a full twelve months away, but I'm already terrified. Our dual family Christmas has been a tradition for so long, I'm not really sure where to start when it comes to stamping my own, grown up identity on the day. Here follows just a few aspects that will need to be considered:

Opening presents. Drake's parents go for the slowly slowly, one at a time, everybody admires each other's gifts and is suitably complementary approach. His Mum and Dad give each other sensible, practical things, like garden twine and golfing shoes, and we get whatever we put on our Christmas list, and not much more. With my family, it's a bit more of a simultaneous wrapping paper rip fest, not least because my Mum always goes a bit mad on the presents and if we took them one at a time, we'd still be opening them some time in February.

Christmas dinner. Drake's mother cooks a small turkey crown (there are only four and a half of us), Paxo stuffing balls, a few roast potatoes, sprouts from the garden, and just about enough carrots to allow for four (five if you're lucky) batons each. My mother serves up a turkey large enough to feed an army, a navy and an air force combined; homemade sausage meat stuffing; bacon roll ups and pigs in blankets; roast potatoes and parsnips; new potatoes; a ham (usually eaten on Boxing Day); five different types of veg; cranberry sauce; bread sauce; and several pints of gravy. Plus a minimum of three desserts. She cooks everything from scratch (though my sister does help with the desserts), and it's always timed to perfection and absolutely bloody amazing. How in the hell I'm ever going to pull off Christmas day to anywhere near her standard, I do not know.

Helping out. Drake's folks tell us in no uncertain terms that we cannot help with the cooking, as we deserve a rest, and it's our time to put our feet up an relax. My Mum tells us we can't help out because she has it all planned, and it's difficult to delegate anything without spoiling the metaphorical broth (a.k.a we'll balls it up). I'm fairly sure I'll be in the latter camp when it's my turn, though I may try to pass it off as the former...

Post dinner activities. We spend the evening of Christmas Eve with Drake's parents, and the evening of Christmas Day with mine. At Drake's, we are plied with alcohol by Drake's Dad (he takes it as a personal failing if we do not have a full drink in our hands at all times) while everyone engages in polite, and increasingly slurred chit chat about people I mostly haven't heard of, and places I haven't been. Then at some time after midnight (we have to 'see Christmas in', however knackered) we all head to bed, after repeated reassurances that we really don't need hot water bottles as it's 16oC outside, thank you, and we really won't be bothered by the heating 'clicking on' at 5am (I have yet to hear the cacophonous din this apparently involves, but we are warned about it every year). At my parents, we collapse on the sofa, switch on a Christmas Day film on which nobody really concentrates, and vegetate until bedtime. Incidentally, at no point are apologies made for the heating, even though it's a blow-air system that sounds like a B52 bomber starting up every time it comes on.

Family relations. Drake's family are all about harmony, peace and avoiding any form of conflict or awkwardness. As such, discussions about religion, politics and psychology are off limits. Drake's mother once famously snapped at his father for fussing over some placemats, but that is honestly the only time I recall any tension whatsoever. My family, well, not quite so calm and collected. Christmas is usually a noisy affair (particularly with two nearly-twos together) with spirited debate welcomed, and at least one falling out over something pretty much guaranteed (most famously when my Dad bought my Mum a bread bin rather than an ice cream maker. Not well received). I don't want to exaggerate - the arguments are never on an Eastenders scale, and mostly we all have decent enough senses of humour to laugh things off and avoid real issues. But passions definitely run higher in my family abode than they do in Drake's.

In summary, it's a choice between moderation and tranquillity, and (moderate) excess and (mild) drama. Given that Drake and I both bring elements from each family, it's probably inevitable that next year's dinner - if I stick to my promise - will be an odd mixture of all of the above. Plus plenty of stress on my part. I can't cook for people without stressing (usually about gravy. It is my nemesis). Whatever we do, the most important thing will be making it memorable (in a good way) for Duckling. I'm pretty sure that doesn't require a million presents, or two dozen perfectly roasted chipolatas. It just needs happyish, probably slightly tipsy parents, the wonder of Santa, lots of fairy lights and a decent cardboard box to play in. If we stick to that I'm sure we can't go wrong.

Guns in America: a short rant

This is not going to be a long post, as what I'm going to say has been said many times before by people far more eloquent and informed than me. As a Brit, it's probably not even a subject I should hold a strong opinion on, but having a husband who has lived in the US for long stretches, and having spent a lot of time out there myself, I do.

The shooting last week in San Bernardino, California, was the 353rd mass shooting in the USA this year. Fourteen people killed, seventeen injured and the legislative response to such a shocking, appalling waste of life?  For the 353rd time this year, nothing, zip, zero. 

The Republican party's blocking of any form of gun control or even more disturbingly, any form of publically funded research into gun crime, highlights not only a casual disregard for human life, but also an apparently intractable issue in the US system of politics. While the two-house congress structure ensures checks and balances, in certain circumstances (e.g. when the opposition party controls one or both houses), it also prevents the US president, allegedly one of the most powerful people on the planet, from acting to protect his citizens.  A majority of Americans back greater gun control, but unfortunately, in the House of Representatives, gun advocates are in the majority, which means that any attempts to introduce legislation to better vet gun owners is voted down, every time.

Many argue that stricter gun control laws will not necessarily change gun death rates in the US much (although a total ban on hand guns almost certainly would), but even a small decrease would be important, as would the symbolic value to both US citizens and those internationally who look on with horror at the total lack of political action towards such routine slaughter.

I am aware of the mythical history around gun possession in the USA, of the constitutional right to bear arms, of the arguments put forward about guns being necessary to stop a dictatorial government rising up and oppressing the people, of the suggestion that the only thing that's going to stop someone with a gun is another person with a gun... Unfortunately, it's all utter bullshit without any foundation in empirical research, or even reasoned argument.  Look at any country in Europe (and many beyond), and you'll see that mass gun ownership is totally unnecessary to maintain peaceful, democratic nations.  The reality is that these beliefs stem not from fact, but from right-wing media generated fear, the glamorisation of guns and the macho culture surrounding them, and the lobbying power of the NRA and major arms manufacturers.

The problem is that mass shootings, which are on the up in the US despite a drop in other forms of violent crime, have become so commonplace now that they have seeped into the common consciousness.  If you are an individual on the edge of sanity, or belong to a culture where violence necessarily begets violence, shooting a bunch of people has become a legitimised response to whatever grievance you may have, and you have numerous past examples to inspire you.  With few restrictions to prevent you obtaining your weapon of choice, it's simply a matter of point and shoot until the bullets run out.

I am all for freedom - freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of belief. Freedom to purchase an assault rifle with, realistically, no other purpose than to shoot a lot of people in a very short space of time seems like a very perverse freedom to me though, given that it robs other people of their freedom to live unafraid, and could very well rob them of their lives.

Drake and I had the option to start a new life in the USA a few years back.  There are many things I love about America (mac 'n' cheese!) and most Americans, like people anywhere, are decent, honest and kind.  Were it not for my family ties, we would have gone.  Now we have a child though, I'm not sure I would consider it, not because I'd worry Duckling would get shot - the risk of that is actually still very small (though given you're thirty times more likely to be murdered with a gun in the USA than the UK, I would worry a little bit more), but because I don't want him to grow up in a country where lethal weapons are so revered by so many, and where guns - which, let's face it, are designed with the sole purpose of injuring/killing - are seen as an unfortunate but necessary tool for living in a civilised society.  Because no society where essentially one mass shooting takes place every day of the year can really be considered civilised; I don't care how good the mac 'n' cheese is.

The comedy stylings of Master Duckling

The last few weeks have been a bit of a roller coaster in the Duck household, with Duckling's various illnesses and the hospital admission. Now he's better though, he's making up for all the stress and worry in the best possible way: by making us laugh as only a toddler of one-and-three-quarters can.

Honestly, sometimes my child is pure comedy gold. I know every parent delights in the sweet hilarity of their kids (it's their primary saving grace) but Duckling seems to be on particularly fine form at present. At the risk of sounding rather indulgent, here are a few of my current favourite Ducklingisms:

• He's taken to seeking out my bras and thrusting them in my direction shouting "bye bye boobies!". Because, you know, logically that IS what happens when you don a brassiere...
• He's totally in love with sitting in items he's much too big for and spinning around. Like saucepans. And colanders. And the salad spinner. 
• His wonderful "make do" approach to talking. If he can't say the word, he uses something which roughly fits the bill. Hence the bath is a "puddle", an aeroplane is a "neeow", my brush is a "hair", coins and other small objects are "peas/bees" (hard to tell which) and Peppa Pig is a loud grunting noise. When he can say the word, he often likes to emphasise it by saying it twice too ("go go", "door door", "num num"). He can actually speak in rough sentences, but unless you have your Duckling to English dictionary handy, you're never going to understand what "Marmar go go neenor Mummy" means ("Grandma is going home in her car Mummy" for reference). And, my favourite part, if all else fails, he will just call an object a "deedah": his version of a doodah I believe. 
• The tongue of concentration. Not even two and already displaying one of the traits (sticking my tongue out while concentrating) I get teased about the most by Drake. I'm very proud.
• His obsession with the fridge. It's floor level and we have no way of properly locking it, so he's in there every time my back is turned. This mostly causes intense irritation and blueberries all over the floor, but it can be quite amusing too. Like the time he made a train out of all of the condiments. Or stuffed 5 cocktail sausages in his mouth at once just as Grandma arrived, then tried to yell "Heyo Marmar".... Or tried to eat a red onion thinking it was an apple...
• The moments of sheer surrealism. Yesterday he took his plastic farmyard pig into the bath with him. "Wo dat?" he asked, pointing to the line of nipples on the pig's belly. "They're her nipples" I said. "Like her boobies." "Ooooh, num num!" said Duckling, then pretended to pick off each nipple like a grape and pop it in his mouth, smacking his lips and declaring it to be "mmmmm, nummy". After I'd been handed a few invisible nipples and declared them 'nummy' too, it occurred to me I should possibly be disturbed by all this detachable nipple munching. Thankfully he hasn't tried it on me yet though.
• His odd clothing-related quirks. For example, he absolutely cannot possibly go to bed without socks on, and will wake up to protest if one falls off in the night. Or his love/hate relationship with hats - wears them when he doesn't need to, rejects them when he does. Or his pathological hatred of his snazzy red and grey hoody top (it's lovely - I honestly have no idea what he has against it).
• His insistence on shouting "Oh no!" at every instance of mild disaster, even when he has quite obviously been the cause of the disaster concerned. "Oh no!" he cried yesterday, with an expression of mock horror on his face as he rammed his block trolley repeatedly into his Duplo farm, scattering various plastic animals across the living room. "Oh no!" he yelled this morning, as he shoved his poor toy meerkat down the back of the bed for the seventeenth time in a row. "Oh no, oh no!" he screeched in the bath this evening as he emptied his watering can onto my lap...
• The fact that everything in life must be categorised into "Mummy", "Daddy" and "Me". Three different sized teddy bears? "Mummy bear, Daddy bear, Me bear!" Shoes under the stairs? "Mummy's doos, Daddy's doos, Me doos!", Random cars parked along the street? "Mummy's neenor, Daddy's neenor, Mummy's neenor, Mummy's neenor, Daddy's neenor, ME NEENOR!" Apparently he owns a 2005 Ford Mondeo. Who knew?

Yep, sometimes owning a toddler is utterly brilliant. Surreal, baffling and quite often messy, but brilliant nonetheless.