Last week Mr Firstooth told me he had a job Sunday morning, seems like he’s always working doesn’t it, but someone has to earn the Dollar. Or Pound really, we’re not American. After that hilarious phonecall (note he called, giving me time to process before he gets home) I called Granny Firstooth to see what they were up to on Sunday. Turns out they were going to IKEA. I love Ikea, Ikea to me is like Legoland to my kids, we get to the checkouts and I’m all ‘just once more, let me see the shop once more’.
So, what would have been an ambient trip around Ikea for my parents turned into a day out with their daughter and grandchildren. The lucky devils.
They were visiting with a purpose to get new furniture and I came up with a purpose (because you just have to buy something in Ikea, it’s practically the Swedish law) to buy our big toddler a bed.
I was told you could buy a bed for £30, that was a lie. The cheapest was £40.
Anyway, we’ve never taken our toddler terrorists to Ikea before because Mr Firstooth always thinks they’ll ‘kick off’, as he puts it. He’s right, if we were there to have a real browse and to furnish our home with new bric-a-brac, the kids would sort of, get in the way. How boring would that be for them. But this trip didn’t really have that rushed feeling of finding what we need and browsing, to find a vase the right shade of grey or to search for all the gadgets you see on these Ikea Hacks posts.
Instead, we knew what we were looking for and all in there were only 4 things between us to purchase. So taking the littles babes actually seemed like a good idea. ‘Don’t do it’, my friend said but I convinced her that they’d enjoy it.
And, they did enjoy it.
We spent time with them testing the sofas, looking around all the displays, opening drawers, spinning on chairs and collecting random bits around the store. They found many odd things throughout our visit and we let them throw it in the trolley to keep them occupied, ‘ah, we’ll deal with it at the checkouts’ I thought, saves a heavy debate as to why we’re not keeping these bits of stuff, with a non-negotiable toddler.
We were in the bedroom furniture section when my boy started his Wee Wee Dance. I could write forever about the amount of times we went back and forth to the toilets so he could empty his dancing bladder, but he’s snobby, like his mummy and doesn’t like to use public toilets. He actually has a fear of them, it’s the hand-dryer, it frightens him when it’s used and he relates all public toilets to that.
He was adamant he wasn’t going to wee, so we carried on where we left, in the bedroom furniture department.
Rearranging/trashing the place
My girl baby beast asked for some ‘doose’ (juice), so I whipped her bottle out and she immediately turned into a water fountain. Filling her mouth with Doose and dribbling it down herself, until she looked like I’d dipped her in a filled sink fully-clothed. It was hysterical. (Until she realized later, that she was wet.)
Mr Firstooth arrived after his job, to meet us in the kids section. We browsed the beds and after his early start, he really wasn’t interested. So I discussed with Granny Firstooth to decide on a bed. Just as I put pencil to paper I see dripping coming from my sons legs as his dad holds him.
“Well, I can see that”
I had no idea what to do. I had nothing to clean the puddle of piss on the floor, no spare clothes whatsoever and we were only half way through the Ikea labyrinth. We placed his drippy bum in the trolley with a handful of ‘deal with it later’ toys and carried on.
There was accident 1.
The following accidents happened in Pizza Hut. We originally opted for TGI Fridays for dinner but there was a half hour wait for a table. Arrive at Pizza Hut, another half hour wait for a table. FML.
The wait was because there weren’t any highchairs available, odd seeing as there weren’t many people in the restaurant, but whatever we went with it. We saw a booth available and agreed the kids would be fine to sit with us on the seat in the booth. Our eldest no longer uses a highchair but our small one does, she’s literally everywhere and if she’s not strapped in, awful things will happen.
And awful things did happen. She slipped on the seat and bashed her head against the table edge. I took her outside to help calm her down and inside I was forcing myself to not cry. This was completely our fault as parents, we should have waited for a highchair instead of trusting that she’d sit still. Of course she wouldn’t sit still, she’s less likely to do this in a restaurant than she is at home.
After an extremely tight cuddle I lifted her head out from my shoulder to see if there was any damage and a huge lump with a small cut was staring at me. I dashed inside to ask a member of staff for an ice-pack, which she hated. Suddenly a highchair appeared, funny that.
When she sat in the highchair he demeanor changed and she calmed down, she knew food was on it’s way. Of course once the food arrived it was like nothing had happened, she laughed, danced and ate hers and everyone elses food. I couldn’t stop staring at her poor forehead, for me the meal was over as soon as that happened and I shut down, I didn’t feel much like table talk. My focus was her.
There’s accident 2, and soon follows accident 3.
It was time for the Ice Cream Factory in the Hut. We loaded his bowl with the smooth cream stuff and let him dig in. Granny Firstooth started to feed him and he choked, maybe on the coldness? I’m not sure. He was seriously choking, we smacked him on the back and up came his entire ice-cream. With myself and his dad absolutely covered in sick, we called for the bill.
I really don’t know what made him choke but the relief when I heard him take a breath was overwhelming. I couldn’t take another moment of the day and just needed to get my little babes in the car so I can closely monitor them in the rear-view. Knowing they’re safe and strapped in. No tables, no ice-cream. And I expelled a huge cry which built up throughout the meal.
I might have cried a little because I had an odour of Parmesan cheese thanks to my sick-drenched couture. Which I couldn’t escape because I couldn’t open the windows. But luckily they slept through it all.
We at least got the small mans’ bed up that evening and he absolutely loves it!
So does his sister. He hates that she even looks at it. “Dats my bed”.