Friday, 9 December 2011

Baby Fight Club

The first rule of Baby Fight Club is: you do not talk about Baby Fight Club.

The second rule is: you never laugh at Baby Fight Club.

The third rule is: keep it clean: no hair pulling, no dummy spitting, no pooping.

I attended my first Baby Fight Club yesterday.  It was held at an unassuming Church Hall nearby. I had got to know about it through word of mouth.

The lady on the door (who I only knew as 'Mrs Wendy') didn't say much, just gave me a nod and asked if I wanted to buy a raffle ticket. £1 a strip, I thought, why not? 

Nervous, as I had never been part of a gathering like this before, I went inside and waited with the others. 

In front of me were babies of all different sizes, some wearing tabards, some wearing tea cloths, others, particularly the smaller ones, wore wings.

Next, there was shouty singing, followed by awkward dancing. But no one could quite prepare me for what would happen next.

While two babies tended a smaller baby at the front, one of the smaller winged babies at the back - apparently frustrated with the lack of action - lunged at the small winged baby next to it. 

Startled, the smaller baby flailed a bit before standing up and trying to move away.

Unperturbed, the aggressor continued, this time making a clumsy grab for the smaller baby's halo in an attempt to bring her to the ground.  

Knowing things were getting dirty, 'Mrs Wendy' stepped in telling the one who started the fight to 'keep her hands to herself'. 

After the ugliness, they tried to continue as before with more shouty singing and flappy dancing. But the soiled elephant in the room was still there.          

Once it was over, I knew what I had just witnessed would change me. How could it not? 

On the drive home, there was one question that kept coming back again and again in my mind: 

"How do I tell my husband, the father of my child, that our only sweet first born daughter, tried to punch out another baby at her first nativity?"   

Look at me again, Mary, and I'll cut you

Thursday, 1 December 2011

Blamey's Twelve Days of Christmas

Here's my special Christmas Countdown for fellow bah humbuggers out there who couldn't give a figgy pudding about Christmas yet either:

1. The number of annoying, smug-fest adverts excreted by John Lewis (whose wet warbley soundtrack is bound to be the Christmas number one) which features a boy counting the minutes to give his present to his mum and dad.  

As Charlie Brooker put it, what you're actually watching is the awakening of psychopath-in-training and that the box actually contains the head of the family dog. 

2. The number of times your children will alert you to the fact that they have located, played with and got bored of, their presents.

3. The number of times you will go to M&S to try to buy a Christmas pudding, only to find they've been snaffled by pigeon faced pensioners and men wearing mustard cords.  

4. The number of glasses of pinot noir you will need to inhale before you stumble over to your neighbour's 'turkey and tinsel' evening.

5. The number of heavy sighs you will make before reminding your other half again when the kiddleywinks nativity is.

6. The number of pairs of scissors you did have but can't find, leaving you to cut selotape with your teeth or gardening secateurs.

7. The number of times you will utter "I knew we should have had Christmas to ourselves this year" whilst fidgeting at your in-laws because Elf is on and everyone else wants to watch Downton Abbey.

8. The number of times you will need to replenish the bottles of Cava you have stashed in the garage for Christmas Day, before Christmas Day.

9. The number of extra pounds you will acquire from hoovering up  Cadbury's Roses like a chocolate scoffing magpie. Step away from the tin Cakey Price.

10. The number of times you will regret insisting on a real tree ('because it smells Christmassy'), when you find a special present from the cat in its pot and are still tweezering pine needles from your feet at Easter.  

11. The number of times you wake up in the night doubting whether you actually turned the Christmas tree light off.  Wait, I'm that burning I can smell...?

12. The number of laughs you will have by asking anyone under the age of five to slap their cheeks and pull the face of Macualey Culkin in the Home Alone poster.

So, did I miss any?  Please feel free to add your christmas crackers below.