- Swollen ankles? Tick.
- Sausage fingers? Tick.
- Double chinny chin chin? Tick.
- Pincheable chubber cheeks? Tick.
- Backside so expanded it could qualify as a dwarf planet? Tick.
- Boobs large enough to make Dolly Parton retch? Tick.
- Stomach like a helium balloon? Tick.
- Mood so foul it could sour the milk of every cow on the planet? Tick tock.
Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...
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