MY SWEET LITTLE LAMBIKINS
from Agnes J.
Dear Miss Macdonald,
I must tell you about my marvellous neighbour Madame Peine who, having
spent many years living and working in France, only returned to these shores
after being widowed. It is her that I have to thank for recommending PDQ,
and the excellent methods described therein, that have been so efficient
in disciplining my wayward son. Because she lived next door, and her own three
daughters were the victims of some stupid jokes and cat-calls from Andrew
over the back garden fence, she immediately recognised the problems I was
experiencing with him, and suggested that she would be willing to help implement
the cure herself.
Since I worked each day, I eagerly accepted her offer and was amazed
at how quickly her methods took effect, as I witnessed one afternoon.
Even though it was not quite 3.30 I could see Andrew being dressed for
bed by Madame Peine. His pink gingham romper suit already lay discarded on
the floor. I watched as she unfolded his winceyette, baby girl pyjamas. The
cream one's with the sweet little frolicking lambs on and the darling little
Peter Pan collar. Madame was having great success in fashioning a whole
new baby girl wardrobe for Lambikins, his new sissy name.
Andrew had thrown a little tantrum at being dressed for bed so early
in such babyish girls' pyjamas and I was amused at how quickly his demeanour
had become that of a small child rather than his true age. Madame quickly
stopped his nonsense by the award of one spanking ticket, her simple but
effective way of maintaining discipline. Soon he was sitting cross-legged
on the floor watching a 'Bananas in Pyjamas' video sucking obediently on
"Hello Lambikins, Mummy's home." Startled at my sudden appearance he
jumped to his feet, the loose-fitting pyjamas hanging baggily upon him.
His dummy fell from his mouth and swung loosely from the ribbon pinned to
his pyjama jacket.
"G-Good afternoon Mummy," he stuttered. I bent down toward him proffering
my cheek as he reluctantly kissed me, unwilling to forgo the attraction
of the Bananas video.
You may wonder why an older boy like Andrew was avidly watching a toddlers'
TV programme, well it is all down to the admirable Madame Peine. She has
painstakingly compiled five question on each episode of Bananas in
Pyjamas, and each incorrect answer earns Andrew a spanking ticket, five tickets
earns an over the knee spanking, usually administered for maximum humiliation
in front of Madame's 'crème de la crème' from her lady friends,
who have been especially selected to witness and enhance Andrew's humiliation
at being subject to babying and pyjama punishment.
"One spanking ticket for not
waving goodbye, that makes four today, Lambikins," Madame informed him with
some relish. "Was Lambikins watching close enough I wonder?" Andrew sat on
the floor; hands clasped together and back ramrod straight as Madame consulted
her list of questions.
I sat Andrew on my lap, and admired the
needlecraft of Madame Peine.
"Madame, Lambikins looks so sweet in these baby girl pyjamas I want
him to wear them at his special tea party. Is everything ready?" I asked.
I had an extremely nervous Andrew on my lap. "Tea party, what tea party?"
he asked, squirming in my arms anxiously.
I held him tightly as I told him about the invitations I had delivered
to his friends; I showed him an invite; on it was a picture of a sweet
little girl dressed in a swishy pink party dress holding a balloon, and
she was saying:
Master Andrew Fairchild requests the presence of ...... at four thirty
for jelly and ice cream, followed by a concert of Baby Bunting, and other
nursery songs. Little Master Fairchild will then be escorted to beddy-byes
at six o'clock prompt.
His face turned pale. "What's the matter?" I teased in baby talk, "Doesn't
my lickle Lambikins want to see his fwends, and sing Baby, Baby Bunting
for them? There are some nice girls coming, Lambikins."
Actual tears filled his eyes at the thought
of singing his little song dressed in his baby girl jim-jams. "If you don't
want them to come I suppose you could ring and tell them that you will
be too busy being my little Lambikins to see them."
Andrew seized the opportunity and I listened with satisfaction as he
effectively excommunicated his friends.
"It was just a joke by my Mother there is no party. No, I go to bed when
I like. Sorry I won't have time to see you for a while. No don't ring or
This was the gist of his frantic calls. Such was his relief at avoiding
such a humiliating experience he almost welcomed the attentions of Madame
Peine. Fortunately, he was unaware of what was to follow.
"Now then my poppet," said Madame as she
hoisted him into her arms, "who is going to eat all this food now that
your friends aren't coming?" The table was full of childish food, jelly,
cakes, and of course ice cream. "Will the little lambs want some do you
think?" She pointed to the lambs on his pyjamas as she slipped him
into his high chair and lowered the food tray.
"Answer Madame Peine, Lambikins." I prompted.
"Maybe," he replied hesitantly, uncertain of how to reply.
"Don't be a silly Lambikins; the lambs on
your baby jammies can't eat ice cream can they? Never mind sweet one," she
laughed as she tied a pink towelling bib around his neck, "I know just
the people to help you eat up all your lovely party food." She opened the
window and called out, and across came her three little girls from next
door, none of whom liked Andrew very much.
"Oh I like your pyjamas Lambikins, what sweet
little lambs, my baby cousin has a pair just like them but she's only three,"
teased Melanie, "are you going to beddy-byes shortly? I do hope you are
going to sing a song for us."
Andrew blushed furiously, and was helpless as I enhanced his embarrassment
by pouring juice into a big sippy cup for him to use. The girls giggled
at Andrew, and fed him ice cream that became smeared over his face. They
messily wiped his chin with his pink bib, while he sat still in helpless embarrassment.
Quickly though they became absorbed in devouring the party food, and
left poor Andrew to sit unhappily in his high chair, until Madame Peine
wiped his face properly clean and lifted him down from the chair. "Come
along girls, time for our baby Lambikins to prepare for beddy-byes."
A mad scramble ensued as the girls rushed to find seats. Meanwhile Andrew
had begun to whimper, "Please Mummy, I don't want to go to bed yet. Please
send the girls away."
"Now Lambikins, you know very well why
you are being punished, so just do as you are told and concentrate on remembering
your darling little song. The girls and I are looking forward to it immensely.
Now off you go with Madame."
As we waited, the girls excitedly showed me the projects that Madame had
set them to enhance Andrew's new wardrobe. I was overwhelmed as I examined
the gorgeous bonnet that was nearly finished, save for the frill to be added.
Made from the same pink gingham as his romper suit, I commented how it would
protect Andrew from the sun when he began to take his naps in the garden.
The mittens and matching bootees that had been knitted in soft white wool
would complement perfectly his long, white flannelette nightie. Once Madame
had supplied the lace for the bodice, we could enjoy a truly babified and
petticoated Lambikins, snugly dressed for beddy-byes.
Face washed, and teeth cleaned, Andrew appeared in front of us clutching
his teddy bear. Madame Peine now asked him to recite his little nursey rhyme
for the girls:
"Baby, baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a-hunting,
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap our baby bunting in..."
Just as Madame had taught him, the
last line was his cue to give a little curtsey. The girls broke into spontaneous
applause and laughter, urging us to order an encore. Andrew's face was
beetroot red with embarrassment, and I was sorely tempted to comply, but
Madame was already beckoning Andrew toward her.
"Well done Sugarplum," she praised, "but
next time I want to see more enthusiasm at the final flourish."
Madame lowered his pyjama bottoms once again and settled him on her
lap. Displaying her years of experience, she expertly powdered his bottom
and pinned him snugly into his fluffy, white nighttime nappies.
"There, all ready for night-night aren't we, tuppence." She gave him
a babyish wet kiss on his cheek, then lay him face down across her knees.
"Did Lambikins think Madame Peine had forgotten baby's punishment?" she
asked the hapless Andrew, as she gave him a few smacks on his heavily nappied
The girls were spellbound at witnessing Andrews's spanking. He cried
out for Madame to stop; not because she had hurt him, but because of his
utter humiliation. He felt faint, and at last he was beginning to learn
Madame Peine effortlessly lifted Andrew into her arms. Her large frame
easily allowed her to balance my diminutive son in the classic, carried-to-bed
position. One arm supported his weight while the other, firmly clasped around
his torso, kept him securely snuggled to her as his arm curled instinctively
around her shoulders, the other hugging his beloved teddy bear.
His dummy was inserted, and the girls oohed
and ahhed at baby's predicament. "Say goodnight to Sleepyhead girls, it's
after six o'clock now, far to late for tired babies to be up."
They each bade poor Andrew goodnight as if he was a sweet little baby
girl being put to bed, instead of a much older male.
"Come back tomorrow afternoon girls, and I will show you how I bath our
little Lambikins." Andrew's eyes widened in horror as he heard Madame's
words but the only reaction he could muster was to suck his dummy louder
Madame smiled as she carried the hapless pyjama-clad Andrew off to beddy
byes, and I could only reflect on how lucky he and I both were to have such
an expert practitioner of petticoat and bedtime discipline.
Please continue to demonstrate to other desperate mothers, wives, and
aunts, how your petticoating and babying methods can result in such a brilliant
success as Madame has achieved with Andrew.
Thank you very much,
I didn't realise that the French were so well acquainted with the benefits
of baby discipline. Madame Peine is obviously an expert, and I would
say that you were very lucky to live next door to her.
I am sure that St Agnes, the martyred virgin, is traditionally portrayed
holding a lamb in the ikonography of the Catholic and Byzantine churches.
I looked up the online Catholic Encyclopaedia, and found this interesting
Since the Middle Ages St. Agnes has been represented with a
lamb, the symbol of her virginal innocence. On her feast day (January 21)
two lambs are solemnly blessed, and from their wool are made the palliums
sent by the Pope to archbishops.
So it seems very appropriate that your dear Lambikins
should be in your arms.
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