In the past few weeks, the Boy has
changed into your stereotypical disgusting little boy. As well as the – uuuuuuuugh – musky smell, there’s the constant hand-down-the-pants,
the joy in farting, and the non-stop poo / bum references. “HAHAHAHA, I can see your BUM! You are a bum! You are a poo-poo! Your dinner is POO from a BUM!” he shrieks,
ecstatically.
And yet he remains a toddler in many respects, in particular his penchant for talking to ANYONE about ANYTHING.
Last week, to an
older lady in the street:
What’s
that on your finger?
It’s a bandage.
Why?
I
split my finger.
My
sister split her bum.
Oh...
Yes, she split it and there was blood everywhere
and she was screaming and my mum was screaming, and I was shouting BLOOD BOTTOM!
Oh.
But
we couldn’t put a bandage on it.
No...
(By now I am hiding behind a privet
hedge so I can’t be sure how this panned out;
I think the lady just backed away, bewildered.)
The same day, at the park,
to a woman holding a very young baby, sitting at a table with a very old lady:
Who
owns that baby – you (pointing at the mother), or you? (pointing at the old lady)
(Proud
mother, smiling) Me!
Oh. Is it a boy or a girl?
He’s
a boy.
He’s
not very cute.
Oh.
My
sister is much cuter. Look, she’s over
there.
(I am sitting just behind her with the Baby
on my lap. The woman looks around and
sees a 4 stone 7-month-old with lentil puree all over her face, her hair, in her ears,
and down her shirt, being held up by a haggard middle-aged woman with scarlet
cheeks. Because I have to hold the enormous girth up with one hand and am spooning lard into her mouth with
the other, I have nowhere to hide my shame. Instead I look at the woman and
smile in a manner which I hopes convey my deep mortification and apologies. She,
meanwhile, looks at me with deep pity.)
To the security man at
Tesco’s:
Hello!
Hello
young man!
What
planet are you from?
Sorry??
(Country! I hiss)
What
country are you from?
I’m
from Ghana
Is
it very hot there?
Yes,
why?
Is
that why your skin is so brown?
(OhGodOhGodOhGod)
Sorry?
Why
is your skin so brown? Is it brown from the sun?
Are
you asking why I’m black?
(OhGodOhGodOhGod)
You’re
not black, you’re brown. What’s that? [pointing at walkie talkie] Can I play
with it? Are you God? I like your hair.
(By the time I have emerged from the pile of
newspapers I have crawled under, he is sitting on the man’s knee, arm around
his neck, talking into his walkie talkie to the other security guard.)
And to ANYONE who will
listen:
You're a silly bumbum. A BUM! And a POOPOO! My sister is a POOPOOBUM! I’m doing a fart, it’s from
my BUM! BUMFACE! Ha! YOU ARE A BUMFACE! My bum has a face HAHAHAHAHA!
My very own Jeckyll and Hyde. Wonderful.
Thanks for this! I'm now quite thankful my almost 2 year old son isn't talking yet. Maybe get him a t-shirt reading 'I have Tourettes!'.
ReplyDeleteWow, I just had one of those wonderful 'Thank God it's not just my kid' moments. Last week we were in a shop and the nice girl behind the counter asked the five year old whether she liked school. She replied with 'Yep. Someone at school did a poo on the floor in the toilets and then drew on the walls with it!'
ReplyDeleteAlso, a few weeks ago at the supermarket one of the checkout girls asked her what she had learned at school that day - she said, very loudly, 'we learned obout cocks! I love cocks! Cocks, cocks, cocks!'. After dragging her away I learned she meant peacocks, but apparently that crucial 'pea' part is too hard to remember :-/
Whenever things like this happen I comfort myself by thinking of all the ways I'm going to embarrass her when she's a teenager :)
My girls were also obsessed with poo and bum bums for a while. But "The constant hand down the pants thing" I can really relate to. My 2 1/2 year old constantly has his hand in his nappy. Then he complains that it (his penis) is big (I think it must be uncomfortable). So I say, well stop playing with it and it'll stay small. Oh, he says. Conversations I never thought I would EVER have.
ReplyDeleteAnd when he doesn't have his hand down his pants, he wants to lie in my lap and stick his hand down my shirt. Yesterday he felt my bra and crossly asked me why I was wearing it and could I please take it off. I am getting increasingly uncomfortable with where this is headed. His daddy just laughs. Sigh.
OMG that is absolutely hilarious!!!!!!!!!! Say what you see!!!!!
ReplyDeleteSpent an illustrating weekend with my sister and her six-year-old son. There were many, many giggle-smothered mentions of butts, poop, farts, and so on. One of my cats is bob-tailed (due to an unfortunate encounter with the screen door) and he was absolutely delighted that you can aaaaaaalways see her butt.
ReplyDelete*shakes head*
In the middle of the grocery store...
ReplyDelete"Mom, look! That man is made out of chocolate!"
Mother, mortified, tries to sputter an apology.
Nice man says "That's ok. I can live with that."
- Me, age 4 (surprisingly still alive)
Ahhhh, wonderful. Lil L just keeps repeating 'we don't say wee wee poo poo fart.' Every day. About ten times.
ReplyDeletePS: Thank you o much for introducing me to Jennifer! Still trying to figure out a date to get together with her. Small children are so bloody time consuming...
ReplyDeleteOk, so I've already commented and this has nothing at all to do with this current post, but what happened to us today immediately reminded me of this blog: the five year old got - blood bottom! Yes, I too got to have the spectacular parental freak out of finding blood all over my 'God she's surely much too young for this?!' daughter's underpants. She had told me she fell off a bench at school and hurt her bottom but, being a bad parent I didn't take any notice until the awful blood.
ReplyDeleteNo torn unspeakable bits involved in ours though thank goodness - just apparently some pretty sharp bench edges :-/