Squidge is now independently mobile as demonstrated by the grubby knees on his dungarees, the trails of dribble liberally spread around the living room floor and the number of things he’s attempted to play with/eat/destroy this morning alone.

All things that I thought were out of his reach.

So far today I’ve caught him trying to pull the clothes airer (minus clothes) down on top of himself and use the laptop cable and the PlayStation controllers as a teether. Apparently he’s not content with just having one tooth and has immediately started cutting another.

He’s also attempted to climb the sofa, the TV table and me.

Fortunately the guinea pigs are out of his reach otherwise I’d worry for their sanity. It’s probably just as well mine has been beyond help for a while now.

He’s only been up for an hour and a half.

I think I’m going to be getting an crash course in baby proofing

Lord knows what he and my parent’s dog are going to get up to when we go up for Christmas.

When I was two me and my Auntie’s dog (who was also two) had a very good attempt at destroying her rather large Christmas tree. We’d been chasing each other up and down her laminate floored hallway, a novelty for me coming from a completely carpeted house.

Yes, even the bathroom.

Me and the dog both crashed into each other, slid along the length of the hall and smack into the tree, which promptly fell over on top of us. The dog emerged festooned with a string of fairy lights and legged it sharpish. All that could be seen of me was a pair of chubby legs, wildly kicking while a disembodied little voice shouted “Help me, help me!!” from inside the tree.

I was not massively popular that day.

Neither was the dog.

Apparently the Northern One was far too angelic to even think about participating in such wanton destruction. He preferred to induce migraines in his poor mum by using pots, pans and a wooden spoon as percussion instruments and by setting fire to the chimney breast with the help of his sister.

This incident gave rise to the immortal phrase “Don’t shout mum, I don’t respond to mum. Shout FIRE!!”

I have all of this to ‘look forward to’ with Squidge. We haven’t put our tree up yet because I’m being a bit of a Scrooge and also don’t fancy spending the next two weeks dragging Squidge out from underneath it, dissuading him from chewing the electric cables and dealing with the reported sparkly poo produced after your darling offspring has attempted to consume yet another tree decoration.

Bah, humbug.

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