We’re back in the Previa on the way to my sisters to pick up the chest of drawers. One man’s shite is another man who lives in a house with lots of girls who have lots of clothes’ gold.
Look at my Mr Potato Head, daughter 3 says. I have no idea what she’s talking about, until I look round to see her pointing at the plastic on the inside of the car door. Do you remember when I drew my Mr Potato Heads in crayon over everything? And this gets me thinking about all the awful things my kids did as toddlers, that I have resigned to my distant memory. The top 5:
Daughter 1 cutting daughter 2’s hair with the kitchen scissors and we’re not just talking a trim here. It was a good 6 inches, without any formal training.
Daughter 3 cutting her seat belt completely on a journey to Heathrow, using only plastic craft scissors. That cost £180 to get fixed.
Daughter 4 getting her head stuck in railings, causing a sports event to come to a halt while she was freed.
Daughter 2 getting her finger stuck in wooden chairs on at least two occasions and having to be sawn out (must have been attention seeking).
And the drawing of Mr Potato Heads (who was Mr Potato Head anyway?)
Obviously, this list is far from exhaustive and doesn’t even touch upon incidents that caused or had the potential to cause major physical injury, of which there have been a few, including daughter 4 drinking white spirit, then 2 weeks later dislocating her elbow. Same A&E, seen by the same doctor who said: shall I give you a different colour teddy bear this week? Four kids under 5, we accumulated a good collection of hospital teddy bears.
Of course, now that they are nearly all teenagers, these incidents, that caused huge stress at the time, can be laughed about at their expense. That faded Mr Potato Head serves as a reminder, that even on the most disastrous of days, we all pulled through.
Arriving at my sister’s, my niece is home alone. I’ve taken the drawers out for you, she says with a smile. The chest of drawers is huge. Definitely bigger than average and partner and I man handle it down the stairs. In a manoeuvre that, in my defence, is to save the kitten’s life, the chest of drawers makes a slight swerve left into the newly painted banisters. My niece looks horrified, my brother in law is a house proud perfectionist. Don’t worry, I say to her, as we all look at the scratch through the barely dry Dulux White. That will fade, I continue knowledgeably, just like all those Mr Potato Heads and one day, he will even laugh about it.
Postscript
Social Services were never involved.