Fluent in Dubby Dubby

Whilst Eddie's linguistic skills come on apace, Gilby's seem to be regressing.

Since starting school, he has acquired the ability to communicate in 'Dubby dubby': a nonsense language that contains a number of incomprehensible (to me, anyway) words; many of which sound remarkably like 'dubby'.

It is also important that he insult any (male) friend with a compound image involving the word, 'poo'. A conversation at the school gates might go something like this:

Gilby: Bye bye poo-poo-head.

Friend: Bye bye nicompoop-poo.

Gilby: See you tomorrow silly-poo-face.

Friend: You too, poo-poo-pop.

And they giggle and wave at each other as they depart, no sign of any animostity between them.

I always smile, uncertainly, at the inevitably middle-class looking mum whose son is the recipient of these terms of endearment, and comment on how well they seem to be getting along. They usually tend to hurry in the opposite direction.

If I suggest quietly to Gilby that it might be a good idea not to shout so loudly or indeed add the word 'poo' to everything he says, the response is very likely to be something along the lines of "Dubby, dubby, Mummy nicompoo-poo."

Eddie, in the corner quietly scribbling on my freshly-painted dresser with his fat felt-tips, might comment, "Gilby's talking nonsense again, Mummy," and my two-year-old and I will shrug together and share a moment of collective eyes raised to heaven before I throttle him for graffiti-ing the kitchen again.

First Graffiti

"Mummy, look what I've done..." There was pride tinged with anxiety in the voice.  It's a tone I know well.   It translates roughly as, 'I'm ever so excited about the thing that's just happened, but I have the teensiest tiniest suspicion that you may not share my enthusiasm for it.'

I had asked Gertie to wait by the car for a moment as we were getting ready to leave the house this morning.  In those few seconds, what she had produced, technically, was her first piece of graffiti.  In case you can't quite make it out, it reads, 'I *heart* charlie xx *heart*.

Charlie is, like Gertie, five years old. He is one of four boyfriends, she tells me with a blush.  Graffiti and polygamy.  Can't wait for the teenage years.

No comments about the state of the car, please.  It's been very, very wet here.

I Blame Mister Maker

Now that the big day has passed once more, I find that not only is my house bulging with even more than our fair share of brightly coloured plastic but there are also more dangerous weapons lurking everywhere...

The pen is indeed mightier that the sword, since it can ruin new furniture in a matter of seconds in the hands of an enthusiastic two-year-old; and this Christmas seemed to have 'crafts' as a major theme. Mister Maker has an awful lot to answer for as paint pots, felt-tip pens, gloopy glue, sand art, crayons, glitter, felt shapes and items generally associated with 'messy play' now lurk in every corner, despite my protestations that works of art may only be created in the kitchen.

So I really do need to have eyes in the back of my head if my house is not to resemble a New York subway in terms of graffiti levels. And with three children all activities must be undertaken with military precision. Mealtimes provide an excellent opportunity to get the baby into the bath first, since I can be fairly confident that the lure of food will be enough to keep the big ones in their seats and away from potentially lethal crafts.

So it was that yesterday, Eddie had already had his bath and lay kicking on his changing mat in the bathroom. I prised Gilby away from the remains of his cupcake and got him into the water, whilst Gertie carried on at the table. She is eminently sensible and can be trusted not to autograph the walls, so I wasn't too worried. But I took the opportunity of hanging out some washing in the hallway whilst listening to Gilby's monologue in the bath.

"Right, come on then, Eddie; time to get you into your pyjamas!" I said, folding the last of the laundry in the hallway.

"Mummy, why are you talking to Eddie? He can't talk back to you," observed his big brother whilst blowing bubbles with his bath-water and covering the bath sides in wild red and green circles. Who knew that you could get soap-pens?

"Well I know that he's only a baby, but it is important that he learns how to communicate, and he will understand lots of things we say even though he can't talk yet," I explained as simply as I could.

"No Mummy. Why are you talking to him when he is asleep?"

Poor old Eddie had obviously got bored with waiting for his mother to return and get him dressed and had, well, nodded off. So much for my multi-tasking. Still, at least no permanent scribbles on priceless objects occurred in the interim. Though the bath took a bit of scrubbing...

Pencil Power

Gertie found a great new game today.

At first I thought it was really sweet.

She found all the pens and pencils from my pen pot in the kitchen, then lined them up on one of the kitchen chairs, and with a tea towel, tucked them all in to bed. She spoke tenderly to every one individually, commenting on how tired they were and how much sleep they needed.

"Ah, my darling little girl," I sighed to myself, as I got on with my household chores, going past every now and then with a basket of washing or a pile of clean clothes to put away.

It was only later I discovered why the pens and pencils were all so tired, poor things. And I got very, very cross indeed. They were tired because they had been 'climbing up the walls'. The long, arduous climb for the poor pens and pencils involved lots and lots of scribble. And that, therefore, added to the days chores as I spent most of the afternoon scrubbing off as much as I could.

I am guessing that this won't be the last time it happens.