Monday, 29 April 2013

The F-Word

My very sweet, intelligent, beautiful (innocent) five year old seems to have turned into a stroppy teenager in the space of a few short days.

Monosyllabic responses to the simplest of requests and questions, a form of amnesia directly related to saying please and thank you, and a pout that makes Angelina Jolie look a bit tight-lipped.

But she came home from school the other day with a question:  "Mummy, what's the F-word?"  When I declined to explain, she complained that people had been talking about how naughty it is and how you shouldn't say it, but she felt silly because she didn't know what it was.

I said that I agreed with the people who said it was naughty and that you shouldn't say it (whilst metaphorically mouthing it to myself as I was undoing her plaits).

Then she asked if she could guess what it was.  I had no idea what was coming next, and took a big gulp.

"Is" she asked.

Perhaps my sweet, innocent, beautiful little girl is still hiding in there, after all.

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Talking Turkey

Now that summer's finally here, Gertie and Gilby went to Fishers Farm at the weekend.  Much fun was had by all until they were waiting in the queue for the pony rides.  A large and unexpectedly free range turkey approached them with a waddle that might be described as 'aggressive'.  When you are just three years old and of a similar height to a fair-sized and threateningly-approaching turkey, they can look pretty fearsome.  With round, wide eyes, Gilby grabbed hold of his sister's hand and asked in a tiny voice if turkeys ate people.

Big sister, with all the experience and authority of her nearly-six-years, considered his question carefully.  "No, Gilby," she said, after a moment.  "People eat turkeys."

Monday, 1 April 2013

Words of Wisdom

Sigh.  The things they say.

I was a little disconcerted earlier yesterday morning, when Naga Munchetty was presenting the news, to hear Gilby turn to his older sister and giggle, 'Look how brown she is!' 

Tempted to view this as a product of Gilby's provinical upbringing, which it undoubtedly is, I also hope that his is a healthy three-year-old curiosity about difference.

Less than an hour later, Gertie was lamenting the loss of limb on a broken doll.  'But it's ok,' she consoled herself, 'she could compete in the Paralympics!' 

So we are ok on disability, if not on race.

But when Gilby rushed to show me the model he had created from old toilet rolls, boxes and a bit of paint with an excited, 'Look Mummy, I've made a space rocket!' I made the mistake of answering with a question: 'That's wonderful; are you going to fly to the moon in it?'

He looked at me with a slightly concerned expression on his face and explained, quite patiently, that flying to the moon wouldn't be possible because, 'it's only made out of cardboard.'

Which taught me not to patronise my children.