Baby love...

As you get older, the things you remember and the things you forget can be quite unsettling.  Never has this been more apparent than last weekend, when we offered to babysit our grandson Little Z, for a couple of nights.

He arrived on Friday afternoon hidden somewhere between four Waitrose hessian carriers, a cooler bag, a swim bag and a rucksack (with his name on, in case we got confused and somehow brought the wrong kid home).  Daughter number one barely stopped the car in the drive, choosing instead to slow right down, pass out Little Z and all the bags, and leave with a backwards wave and a shout of 'Where's the gin?'

Of course, he came with instructions as befitting all new things which come into our house.  As always, I read these and was verbatim on how the next forty eight hours were to go, whereas the husband muttered those immortal words, 'How hard can it be, for heaven's sake?'

The first instructions involved food, playtime, bath and bed (sounds like my life to be honest) and the first two went really well.  The Schnauzer posse soon learned that hovering under the highchair was very beneficial if you needed to supplement the meagre rations your owners palmed you off with.  I can honestly say that Reg has tried out spaghetti bolognese, jammy toast, mac'n'cheese, banana custard, pitta bread and houmous this weekend, and I fear that there will be a day of reckoning next time we have to do the walk of shame towards the vet's scales.

And then it was bath time.

Now, the husband and I know that Little Z hates our bath.  I have no idea why, but perhaps the fact that he can't see over the top of it might explain it.  Knowing this, and wanting to follow the instruction manual fully, I came up with a cracking idea.  'Why don't I put my swimming costume on, and I'll get in there with him?' Well, in theory, it seemed like a plan.  Sitting in a puddle of lukewarm water in my incredibly sensible Fat Lady Splashers one-piece, the husband gently lowered Little Z into the bath.

He mulled it over for approximately an eighth of a second, and then all hell broke loose.  The toys I'd put in were launched in all directions, and Percy nearly lost an eye courtesy of a penguin doing backstroke in mid air.  The husband got a mush full of bubbles as my Pilates ball was launched (I overdid it on the bubble front to be fair) and I tried to wash the little fella while he was flailing all over the place.  The husband came and got him out (wearing a hard hat in case the rubber duck was  the next missile of choice) and left me looking like I'd done several rounds with an angry haddock.

The husband got Little Z dried and was attempting to pop a nappy and pyjamas on him once I'd surfaced from the bath.  'It's like trying to put gloves on an octopus', he said, the sweat running down his forehead.  Standing back, and looking at the now cherublike chap, the husband admired his handiwork.  'Well, that all went ok', he said with a satisfied nod of the head.  'You did put the nappy on, didn't you?' I asked, having decided that Little Z looked rather skinny in the trouser department.  His look told me everything.

But all in all, the first two hours went rather well...