Creatures with Tiny Tiny Brains

I am probably going to hell.

Any mother that has a 100% guilty record for consuming the birthday cake out of every single party bag her child has ever received must surely be going straight downstairs, sans appeal? I can’t even pretend to myself that I’m doing him a favour: the kid loves cake with a passion. Put a slice of sponge cake within range and he out-snatches a striking snake.

I am thinking vaguely rationalising thoughts about my emotional need for sugar being greater than his today, and that I bought myself an In The Night Garden birthday cake, just so he could chew on an icing-sugar Iggle Piggle. I have now delved further into the party bag and started on the chocolate bar. I can feel the flames licking around my legs, and still I munch on

If he had seen me quietly abstract his very own party bag, then I’m not so sure I could get away with it. Harry is a classic case of compensating for small stature with fiery determination: I swear he levitates through sheer force of will some days. But I wasn’t brave enough to go toe to toe with him about the bag-ownership issue, and I am scoffing my illicit (immoral, Ann, immoral) treat after his bedtime… and out of his sight, just for good measure. 

Having established my character credentials, let me assure you I am also available for babysitting and Godmothering.

Those of you who have had a particularly featureless evening and consequently delved into my archives, may remember I experienced some ickiness regarding the incestous nature of my tiny gaggle last year. Spring is perceptibly just around the corner and I am having the same problem again, although with slightly different protagonists. Alpha male now rules supreme (we were obliged to despatch his male progeny, to save him being slowly pecked to death. Family assassination. Nice.) over his (unrelated) mate… and daughter. Yeeeeees. That’s right. Daughter.

I am told by those who are in the know of all things geesey, that Father-Daughter pairings are Not A Problem, and that It Happens. Well, yes, I can see it happening, right enough. I have windows. I have eyes. My son has eyes, Godammit. We can see the whole Greek thing unfolding in front of us. 

Given the hassle that these last two caused, added to the fact that the offspring would be The Things That Should Not Be, I am fairly reluctant to countenance any more goslings this year despite the fact that Harry (and his mother) would doubtless find the fluffy uber-cute stage highly appealing.  Therefore, Harry will soon be enjoying some extra-large portions of scrambled egg for breakfast.

The goose situation is imbued with some mirth, however. The Gander has his dander up… and is currently going reasonably beserk, attacking cars and people indiscriminately. Hubby and I have both been reminded of that fabulous snippet of Father Ted in which Bishop Brennan, belatedly cottoning on to having been indubitably kicked up the arse, returns to Craggy Island in a monumental paddy. 

Those of you who are already converted to the Father Ted doctrine will not need the link, but will enjoy it anyway. Wait a tick for it to load, and then move the slider to 19.45 minutes.

Actually, no, in fact: watch the whole thing, and then go and buy the box set. Enjoy!

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