Mr T gets his first set of wheels

DIARY OF A DRAMA QUEEN
Mairead Wilmot
APPARENTLY you are not supposed to put babies in walkers because it turns their legs bandy.

Yes, I know, I’m just like mother earth what with my breathtaking descriptions and all. Moving on, my sister does not subscribe to this madness. She put Mr T into her friend’s walker and he loved it. Tearing about the place he was like a small person hell bent on carnage. He was like a miniature Speedy Gonzales, ripping anything which was not securely tied down to shreds, opening as many cabinet doors as possible, obviously preferring those which contained chemicals poisonous to an eight month old. Sticking his little tiny fingers into every pot of Vaseline he laid his eyes on and generally just wrecking the gaff.

Sister was very proud of him. So when she and he visited another friend’s house, and Mr T again caused a trail of utter destruction after taking a turn in their walker, sister decided he should have his own.

“He loves them,” she announces, practically beaming with pride. “He gets into them and he’s off. He’s so amazing.”

“He is amazing,” I agree. “Yes, he is amazing,” echoes mother. We were visiting sister in that place she lives in which is not in Cork and as per usual, Mr T was the hot topic of conversation. I can imagine for others we three would be horrifically tedious company because if we are not speaking about Mr T himself, we are speaking about issues relating to Mr T, and if we are not speaking about issues relating to Mr T, we are speaking about baby brother in New Zealand.

He’s coming home for Christmas by the way. I know you were all wondering about what the Wilmot’s are doing for Crimbo – and so now you know. In the days prior to 24 December, which is his return date, mother will no doubt be busy constructing some sort of shrine to him and once he arrives, I presume she will make us all sit around and stare at him. Yes, I’m really looking forward to it, it is going to be excellent fun.

Moving on, we were all staring adoringly at Mr T when sister gets a brainwave.

“I’m going to buy him a walker,” she shouts. “Right now! Wait there with him, I’ll be back.”

And with that, she was gone returning mere minutes later clutching a large brown box in her hand.

We quickly realised we need to assemble said walker and handily, Papa Wilmot was also in our party so he put his engineering degree to good use and with the aid of a screwdriver, the walker was assembled.

The excitement was palpable. We were all very much looking forward to Mr T ruining the house. And so, before we put him into the device we surveyed the room, positioning boxes of toys and whatnot within easy access so he could tear them down.

I’m aware most families would actually remove items from harm’s way but that is just not how we roll.

We figured he should be allowed wreck the place because he is a boy and that’s what little boys do, we even went so far as to take up the rug which dominated the floor space so he could have ease of access to all corners of the room. We were excited, we were very excited.

And so, as sister lowered Mr T into the walker, we all held our breaths.

The four of us stared at him. And stared at him. And stared at him.

“He’s going to take off any minute now, stand back,” says mother.

We kept staring. “He’s definitely going to go soon,” she says again.

So we kept staring. Mr T just stood there. “I don’t understand,” says sister, “He moved straight away in the other walkers.”

I wasn’t sure if she was going to start crying or not, so I decided to put a positive spin on things.

“I know! Let’s call him,” I suggest. “Okay,” everyone shouts. So we all stand in one corner of the room and start calling his name.

“Tadhg, come here Tadhg, come on, come here! Over here! Tadhg, Tadhg, Tadhg”

Mr T just keeps standing there, looking at us with what I think is disdain.

“Am... let’s get stuff he likes and call him then!” I suggest.

“Okay!” everyone says. So we all stand there, I’m holding Sophie the giraffe, sister is holding a furry book and mother is holding a piece of chocolate.

We all shout and shake our chosen items in Mr T’s face. He just keeps standing there.

We eventually leave. Four days pass, four days with no word until one morning at 8.30am a text arrives: “He’s moving!”