Jingle Balls.

This post is a few days late as I have been juggling a lot of balls this week. Literally.

I have had balls flying at me from every angle and I have been knocking some out of the way with my metaphorical bat but sadly, I have tripped on others

Here's my list of Ball aches:

JINGLE BALLS.

We put the Christmas tree up on Sunday morning, just one day shy of December so not too shameful.

We had tinsel, fairy lights, angels, stars and a multitude of coloured glittery balls that draw in a toddler like a dog towards a slab of meat.

Within an hour, half the balls were missing off the tree and I caught Bob in his room gnawing on a silver glittered bauble. I wrenched it out of his hand, frantically wiped the glitter from the corner of his chops and dashed to Google whether eating a Christmas bauble was poisonous or not. I couldn't find the answer so I gave him a blast of Piriton, said a little prayer and hoped that he would pull through. The kid had eaten half a tub of purple Play Doh in the past and he survived that, so I was confident that a glittery poo was in his future and not a trip to A&E.

The poo was a pretty one for sure but now I have to spend the 24 days keeping his tiny mitts off the tree just in case he tries to consume the entire thing. Excessive ball consumption is likely to be dangerous.

Next year, I'm going to opt for edible decorations and will embrace the likelihood that the tree will be bald by the eve of the 1st of December.

His passion for baubles started some time ago. It's only now that he grown teeth that he has been able to take his passion to the next level.

His passion for baubles started some time ago. It's only now that he grown teeth that he has been able to take his passion to the next level.

 

HUMAN BALLS.

This week, just to add a bit more colour to my otherwise beige life, I decided to try and tempt Bob into sitting on the potty. It didn't going well.

The moment I took off his nappy, his tiny hands immediately clasped hold of his balls and he started to pull on them with the force of a hysterical shopper wrestling for a giant Samsung telly on Black Friday. He was so aggressive that I feared he would pull the things clean off and ruin my chances of ever becoming a Grandmother.

The stress was just too much and so the nappy went back on. I'll try again when my nerves have settled and when I have a chance to restock the first aid kit.

Preparation is key.

*No picture is required for this paragraph. Let your imagination do it's thing.
 

BINGO BALLS.

Bingo is wonderful: Old ladies LOVE it, so do holiday makers and the majority of the Welsh population in fact, but my five year old son is it's BIGGEST fan. Why? ...because he loves numbers. He can't get enough of them. When offered his pick of any toy in Smyth's Toy Store a few weeks ago, he chose a Bingo set. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It's cheaper than LEGO. It's educational, great for motor skills. Blah. Blah.

However, Stan doesn't play the game in the fun, traditional way. Instead, he likes to turn the handle on the mixing machine, lift each tiny yellow ball out one at a time, tell me the number with the diction of a Shakespearian actor, wait for praise and then place it on the blue plastic grid.

There are 99 balls in total.

It takes time. It takes patience. It takes steady hands and a strong spirit. 

What is more time consuming is that if anyone knocks the completed grid over by accident (or on purpose) Stan has a Oscar-worthy meltdown and DEMANDS that I immediately place all 99 balls back in their original position on the grid.

Two year old Bob knows of Stan's unreasonable ways. Despite putting the grid far out of his reach, he knocked it over SIX times this week. SIX!!!  He belly laughed as he did so.

So I spent HOURS repositioning 594 plastic balls into perfect numerical order before Stan came home from school.  Monumental meltdowns were avoided but my hands weren't so steady at the end of this ball-ache of a road. Wine helped.

The balls, the grid. the wine isn't in the shot.

The balls, the grid. the wine isn't in the shot.

 

BALLS OF STEEL.

Later in the week, after having virtually NO sleep thanks to a nocturnal rapping toddler , I travelled to Birmingham with my cello to hit the stage with the ever-so-luscious Michael Bublé. Despite being hugely excited, performing in an arena requires balls of steel considering that possibly 12,700 pairs of eyes would be looking at me and my pot belly whilst listening to my F#'s and B flats. However, after taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I was able to locate my balls of steel and use them, knowing deep down that the 12,700 pairs of eyes were more than likely looking at Michael and his baublés and NOT at me and my size 8 feet.

We did the gig and we had a BALL!!

The next day, all members of the glorious string section sat and ate a Chicken BALLti curry ( I can't stop) with the man himself before doing the show all over again.

It was truly awesome.

I limped home the next day with burning balls thanks to wearing stilettos for three straight days. I hobbled into the house, desperate to hug my kids after being away from them, and slipped on a number 74 Bingo ball that was left by the front door for my return.

I skidded across the hallway and crashed down to the floor. Size 8's in the air.

 I landed on the Bingo grid. Balls everywhere. Stan went ballistic.

 BALL-OCKS!!!!!

Baubles and bublés hanging in a tree.

Baubles and bublés hanging in a tree.

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