I am a rubbish Mum. Really I am. I get so het up about making Finley’s life as perfect as possible, that sometimes I forget that all he really needs is a cuddle with his Mummy and a custard cream.
Yesterday I nearly lost him. I was all in a dither because the teeny little shepherds pie I had made for him tasted funny, and so while I tipped out a jar of Hipp Organic for his tea instead, to my shame I took my eyes off him.
Now you can always tell when Finley’s up to good because he shouts "What's that?" at the top of his little voice. He had been shouting it for maybe a minute before it registered with me that he might be in danger and just as I swung around I saw him tip off the edge of the armchair and land on his head, his neck twisting at an awkward angle to his body and his right arm jamming underneath him.
Now this is a child who is accident prone. A little boy so confident, he has no fear. A little boy who falls over every five minutes then picks himself up and runs off. I screamed and he lay silent. I thought he was dead. I ran towards him and he looked up at me and suddenly started wailing at the top of his voice. By now I had convinced myself his neck was broken, and I was too scared to pick him up so I ran to the phone to call Mark and just as I got through Finley picked himself up and ran screeching towards me and we both sat on the dining room floor crying for a few minutes until Finley leaned forward and pinching my neck asked "What's that?"
I don’t even know why I am telling you this. There is no moral to the tale.
I am a bad mother and that my friends is that.