Expulsion at three?

I'm in big trouble. My 'angelic' three year old, aka The Beast is proving to be somewhat of a hazard in the tweeny social circles of South London. His weekly events calender puts Tara Palmer-Tompkinson to shame.
Creative Movement with Spanish lessons on a monday, Wriggle & Rhyme with Tina followed by Dance class on a wednesday, Whippersnappers on a friday followed by toddler gym.

But this has all changed now, since turning from a cheek-grabbingly gorgeous and mostly compliant two-year old, he has turned into a two-foot teen. In two consecutive weeks we have been asked to leave one class due to his disruptive behaviour (if you can call running around with your hand down your pants, disruptive - him not me!) and kicked out of toddler gym for not listening to the teacher and showing some attitude! He is three years old, mind! I now know how my mother felt when I was kicked out of girl guides (for wearing my skirt too short and showing my woggle). I too carry the shame of a rebellious child.

Still, it means I'll now have time for an afternoon gin and tonic and an hour with Countdown.

At what age does it become damaging to watch your mother have a bikini wax?

Ever since the beast was a few weeks old, he has been accompanying me to my local beautician for my bi-monthly de-furring. It was only last week, whilst the brave, I want to call her a nurse, beautician attended the troubled area, when I observed the beast, a tender three-year old boy, watching intently with drop-jawed interest. I cannot bear to think what was going though his mind at the time. There was Mummy, bare-legged in just a pair of pink socks, lying on a bed, bright red, panting and gurning as if she was having spiked buttons sewn on to her bare cheeks. Whilst this nurse-type lady, bends over her, spreading, what looks like fluorescent green honey on her inner thighs and then using a panty pad to rip it all off again!

Mummy then, gets up, red-legged and perspiring, puts her trousers back on and pays the lady a tenner for the privilege!

Poor fella, he was very quiet on the drive home. But, at least we can now resume swimming lessons.

My semi-weekly 'Christmas Day' has arrived!

Breakfast in bed is a welcome treat for any working mum, unless it is served fresh from the nostril of a three year old. But, not even a salty Wrigleys can prevent me from jumping out of bed with glee this morning, why it's Christmas morning. Well, it's just a exciting as Christmas, it's the beasts day at nursery, so from 8am to 6pm today, I will not be subjected to Sid Vicious' version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, demands for 'poo poo pie' and all the other interminable face-licking, cat-stealing, bogey-eating antics I encounter the other five days of the week.

We skip the 100 yards to the nursery, embarrassingly close, as I often (meaning always) turn up in a pyjama/puffa jacket/beanie/flip-flop ensemble (delete as seasonally applicable) with Rod Stewart inspired 'crazy hair', necessitating the aforementioned beanie. The nursery welcomes the first of the beast's two mothers. The wild eyed, dribbling Mrs Hyde drops him off on the way to terrorising the neighbourhood, and the casually dressed, mild-mannered Mrs Jekyll picks him up, serene and sated after productive days work, ready to take the reins of motherhood once more, obviously (and only) with the aid of a large G&T.