Even though I lacked the faith to trust my maternal instincts implicitly, I found them impossible to silence. With their own personal wisdom they deemed themselves authorities on parenting and laughed in the face of scientific research and experience. I was as powerless as blancmange when faced with their might so I allowed them to rule my roost fully with only the occasional attempt at mutiny. This was one such attempt.
With the fear of cot death looming nightly I knew Chicken should have been laid on her back in her cot, however, I found my instincts were completely at odds with this instruction. Perhaps this was due to the permanent rivers of mucus seeping gently from her nostrils. It seemed to defy logic to lay her on her back giving the snot nowhere to go but down her throat. I needed to find a way of keeping her on her back but at an angle which would allow the snot to run freely without forcing her to ingest it. A battle ensued between my instincts and the advice of the experts.
After a fair amount of head scratching, I began building a ramp using rolled sheets to provide a gentle incline. This raised her back, neck and head marginally above the flat to a 10 degree angle. I lay Chicken on my contrivance and stood back to assess the results. She was barely floating above the mattress. I was a long way from satisfied the incline would keep the snot from choking her (or so I believed). I stuffed a cushion under the sheet - still not enough. I rammed a pillow - not quite there. I folded a blanket into a neat square and added that to the mountain - "That should do it," I said to Chicken finally satisfied. I placed her carefully on my contraption and retreated downstairs for my dinner wondering whether I might be able to patent the design.
Half an hour later I ascended the stairs for my first check of the night. I found her curled up on her front at the foot of my invention. I hadn't factored in that she might move! Nothing short of handcuffing her wrists to the bars of the cot would have kept her in the position I had contrived for her! I gave up. That was when I blatantly ignored the next bit of advice given to all new mothers - don't sleep with the baby. But how could I not? All attempts at dispelling my fears that she would drown in her own mucus had amounted to nothing; so I made myself the mountainous incline on which she could sleep, giving me the perfect vantage point from which to monitor her snots and ensure they were leaving her freely (all over my t-shirt!). Genius! My instincts were well and truly appeased, however, the same couldn't be said of Heather.
Heather had been sleeping in our bed for nine years. When I say in our bed, I mean literally, in our bed - under the covers, head on pillow - the lot. She had everything short of a pair of pyjamas (I'm not from Beverley Hills!). I called Bob who had been taking an eternity to brush his teeth. "Get Heather off the bed will you?" I can still recall the panic in his eyes as he said, "But surely the bed's big enough for the four of us." The big wuss!
I pointed out that the bed was a modest standard double, not a queen size, and let's not forget - "SHE'S A DOG!"
"But she doesn't know that!"
"Oh shut up and get on with it!"
It was a small wonder that I ever managed to become pregnant with such a potent contraception between us! Anyway, we tried to relegate Heather to the floor. Ha! How utterly ridiculous (came the response in her eyes); of course it should have been us who were relegated to the floor - were we insane?
With the demeanour of apprehension he pulled back the duvet and began to gently coax Heather into her own luxuriously padded bed which had been redundant for most of her life. He started by patting the cushions enticingly while giving her an expectant grin. She barely opened a sleepy eye. He then began a sales pitch worthy of the QVC channel, "Ooh Heather, come and look at this, it's so cosy and soft - come on, come and see." She didn't even raise her head. Recognising the tactic as fruitless he rushed from the room and returned squeaking a plastic pig. This got her attention. She sat up with her ears on full alert, ever ready to kill an offending squeak; but she was suspicious. She knew bedtime didn't usually involve her squeaky toys and she remained steadfastly glued to the bed; but - she was sitting up. I seized my chance and gave her a shove with my foot. She landed unceremoniously with a thump on the floor and immediately turned to leap back up. Before she could motivate the muscles needed to propel her, Bob grabbed her collar, pushed her into her bed and held her there as though she might fuse with the cushions if he kept her pinned down long enough. She lay under his hand with a troubled and guarded expression.
"My arm's getting pins and needles, d'you think I can let go now?" Bob asked after 45 minutes. I was engrossed in a repeat of Dallas on the telly and had almost forgotten he was there.
"Does she seem settled?" I asked.
"As settled as she'll ever be. I'm going to release the pressure and see what she does."
Heather felt the release of pressure and acted upon it as a caged bird reacts to an open door. She sprung from Bob's grip and landed on the bed in one swift movement where she slumped down with a huff glaring at Bob.
Bob gave a defeated shrug and ventured to join Chicken and me under the duvet. "Oi! You're not giving up!" I said. He let out a long sigh, grabbed his pillow and a blanket from the cupboard and headed downstairs to the couch. Heather lazily lifted her head and gazed with mild interest at the new turn of events. She then looked at me as though to say, "You should have stuck to dogs."
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