Wednesday, 30 May 2012

Squeaker and the Giant Milk Mess

Squeaker (14 months) has developed a really annoying toddler behaviour.  She's deliberately gagging herself with her fingers, and laughing hysterically about it.

I first noticed it while she was playing on the rug last week.  A few fingers down her throat, gag-splutter-gag and then a great giggle. She tried it again and I pulled her fingers out.

A few days later, from the back seat of the car, I heard the nefarious gag-splutter-gag. And then the giggle.  The Little Dude thought it was funny too.

Then I clued in: she's doing this to get attention.  And we just fed the beast with laughter.

A few nights ago I was putting the evil darling kids to bed (in the same room) and Squeaker was a bit reticent.  She didn't really want to go to bed but I put her in and shut the lights.

She complained for a few minutes and I checked on her.  I left the room again.

She complained some more, and then I hear the gag-splutter-gag sequence. Once again the cutest little giggle followed.  This time I resolved not to pay it any attention.

Gag-splutter-gag, giggle.
Milk Mess?  Not nearly descriptive enough!

Gag-splutter-gag.  Gag-splutter-gag.  Gag-splutter-gag . . . baaaaaaarf.

The Little Dude met me at their door, "Squeaker's made a milk mess!" he said excitedly.

The stench was awful.  Pasta, parmesan, curdling milk.  My nose punched my face, trying to kill itself.

I fished her out, stripped her off and cleaned her up.  The little devil romped around the house naked, giggling, cackling, and trying to play in puke as I quickly tried to clean it up.

Athena was on night shift so Sleepy Dad was steering the RMS Titanic directly into the iceberg, solo.  Once again, between muted swears and toilsome scrubs, I thought, Should I just burn the house down, will that solve this problem?

We all survived the night and following day.  Then, last night shortly after bed time: gag-splutter-gag.

Yes, a repeat performance.  A damn messy, stinking, wrist-slashing pile of puke cascading from the cot down to the carpet, falling, falling ever so malignantly to the recesses of my soul, to those sullen depths where repressed rage goes to die. That's right, I didn't feel like giggling.

Tonight I think I'll baste her hands with vinegar or rubbing alcohol.  Something to make them taste so disgusting that if she jams them in her mouth she'd feel like gagging.

Okay, okay, maybe I haven't quite thought it through properly yet.

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1 comment:

  1. I like the juxtaposition of cheerful, cuddly toddler furnishings with the stark, primal splash of vomitus. Instead of burning the house down, have you considered selling it as an installation piece to Charles Saatchi? Tracey Emin has done quite well for herself in this area; you may have a child prodigy on your hands (and on your carpet, and on the cot, and on the pyjamas ...)

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