Baby Bootcamp

Whilst Iris was putting me through my paces this morning, as she does every morning, it occurred to me that the only other place where you could expect such harsh training conditions might be on joining the armed forces.

I've never seen myself as a potential Sandhurst cadet, and on the basis of my progress so far, that is probably just as well.

Although I'd like to think I react well to constructive criticism, under the fire of screamed and incoherent orders I seem to be a sorry 'yes' woman, in danger of turning into a quivering wreck as I struggle to keep up.

Pick me up, NO NOT LIKE THAT; put me DOWN, no over THERE, stupid!

FEEEED me; Enough! can't you see I'm full??!

Change me, haha now change me again while I wee on you.

WAKE UP LAZY, time for night manoeuvres - NOOOOH, leave me alone, CANT YOU SEE I'm trying to SLEEP?!

OK, 1 minute to get ready and make the bed; nope too late time for ME again!

Hold it RIGHT there or I'll unleash my weaponry on you.....

And it's no mean arsenal either; projectile vomit (ok it's only milk but pooled in your bra? not good), piercing screams at eardrum level, sleep deprivation, favouritism (bestowed then quickly withdrawn!) toxic bottom bombs; not to mention the more subtle but scary ones like holding her breath, turning puce and impersonating a gargoyle for no apparent reason, and trying to convince the neighbours that we actually run a small torture camp in the back of the house.

I did manage a small rebellion yesterday though - on the premise of filling up her top and tail bowl I snuck off and spent 5 minutes straightening my hair and eating chocolate while shouting soothing words of reassurance across the landing (water's nearly hot, coming sweetheart...).

I can see what she's doing. She's trying to break me so she can rebuild me into the kind of person she'd like to see representing her as a mother. Tough job but I've signed up now and desertion is not an option.