Big News From Chatty's House!

Word on the street is that Mummy and Daddy are getting another baby!  I don’t know for sure because they haven’t told me, but it seems I’m the last to know.  Why would they tell me?  I’m only their beloved daughter!

But everyone else seems to be talking about it.  We met friends over the weekend and they were asking Mummy things like “Have you told Chatty yet?” as if I weren’t in the room, or my ears don’t work.  And then yesterday, we had lunch with my rellies and my cousin asked me about being a big sister to the new baby.  Now, I don’t know what a “sister” is, but it was pretty clear about a new baby.

We don’t need one, surely?  Am I not challenge enough for Mummy and Daddy?!  Note to self: Must up my game a bit, quickly!  We have a dog, we have chickens, we have my baby dollies for goodness sake.  No need, if you ask me.  Which they haven’t.

I think the New Baby must be coming from a long way away because we’re not getting it for a while.  I guess it’s one of these fancy mail order things that Mummy likes.  Apparently we’ll have it before I get to dress up as a witch for Halloween, and that’s ages away.  On the plus side, that’s plenty of time for me to persuade Mummy to cancel the order.  In the meantime, I'm practicing my best 'surprised' face for when they think to mention it.

CB x

Remember Sacramento!

A few weeks ago, I promised you a story within a couple of days.  It didn’t happen, sorry.  I guess you could still call a fortnight “a few days” . . . maybe?

Anyway, here’s the story.  I’m going through a bit of a rebellious stage at the moment.  I won’t do a thing I’m told, and I am constantly testing the boundaries.  Daddy’s refusing to take me out on his own at the moment since a trip to the supermarket yesterday.  I ran away and hid and I think I scared him a bit. 

Mummy took me today and told me that I had to sit in the trolley, or wear my reins.  Yeah, right.  I refused, so she manhandled me into a trolley.  I hate the fact my size is such a disadvantage to me!  What I do have in my armoury is a great set of lungs, so I was still screeching by the time we got to the pay-the-cashier bit.

The Story goes back a couple of weeks, when this phase was already alive and well.  I’ll admit that I was trying very hard.  No, wait: I was very trying.  According to Mummy at any rate.  I whinged all day, I cried and screamed.  In the end, Daddy was in charge by bath time.  I’d been wailing for my bath all afternoon.  I didn’t want to eat, I wanted a bath.  I didn’t want to play outside, I wanted a bath.  I didn’t want to draw, I wanted a bath. 

Bath time came, Daddy ran me a lovely, bubbly, warm bath.  I wouldn’t take my clothes off, and I most certainly would not get in the bath.  More screaming, more kicking of feet and banging of fists. Then the unthinkable happened!  Not that Daddy lost it but that he put me in the bath, WITH MY CLOTHES ON!  Incredible. 

It has echoes of an incident with Mummy and Grandma many years ago.  Mummy was only small, and they were driving on the west coast of the US.  Grandma doesn’t like driving on the wrong side of the road at the best of times, and certainly not when she doesn’t know where she’s going, but Mummy cut her no slack at all.  She wailed for juice for hours when there was no way for Grandma to get her any.  Eventually, they arrived in a town called Sacramento, checked into the hotel, and the first thing Grandma did was give Mummy juice.  Mummy said she didn’t want it any more, so Grandma picked her up, stood her in the shower, and tipped it over her head!  “Remember Sacramento” is still a very real threat in the family lexicon.   Love that story!

CB x