Kids are like dogs. In many ways. Firstly you cannot show them any fear, or they will capitalise on it like Donald Trump at a Miss Universe contest. They will pounce on a whiff of vulnerability and make you their bitch. Secondly, like dogs kids are rank. Beautiful, wonderful things, but happy to eat from a bin and lie on a toilet floor. Harsh, but true. Allow me to elaborate…
When I was a kid, I was scared of EVERYTHING. Including but not limited to…
- Eggs (?)
- ET. The brown wrinkly thing from the film. How can he not be terrifying?
- The dark
- Shouty people
- John Craven. Yep, the bloke from Newsround. Apparently when he graced our screen I would make my parents turn the channel over immediately and would cower in fear, covering my eyes and shouting “I don’t like him!” I’ve no idea why, but to this day, he still makes me uneasy. As does the fact that one of my irrational fears is an ex Newsround presenter from the 80’s.
I don’t want my kids to pick up my irrational fears as I recognise I am a jumpy, sensitive, irrational douchebag and this is bloody annoying. If they figure me out, I’m screwed. Someone once told me that in order to command respect as a parent you have to be like a CEO. Embody the 4 C’s – calm, clear, consistent and confident. The opposite to Donald Trump. He’s another ‘C’ word. And so I try – try being the operative word, to have faith in my conviction and model the behaviour I expect from my children. This could be why they both ask me to pull their finger before they fart. But you know what I’m getting at…
Also, I don’t want my children to take my fears and “make them their own” – like every X Factor contestant Louis Walsh has ever appraised. We recently created a den for LG and LB in the cupboards in the eaves of our loft. It’s pretty awesome, it has lights and duvets and fairy doors, and so when LB and LG invited me in the other day I bounded in like Donald Trump at a pee pee party. And then instantly regretted it (much like Trump when the tapes got leaked – tee hee…). It is a freaking small space. I can’t sit up straight in it. And when they insisted we close the doors to stop the crocodiles and monsters getting in I had to remember to breathe and be all Dalai Lama about it (any excuse for a mention, I LOVE him). My instinct screamed GET OUT THIS IS TOO HARD but my face had to say ‘I’m having a great time!’ Like Donald Trump at any event that supports diversity or women.
I had the same experience recently on holiday in Dubai. I am petrified of fish swimming around my feet and so I’m not very comfortable in the sea. But being on holiday with kids I have to suck it up and get amongst those darting, erratic little buggers. The fish I mean, the fish. But despite my cool exterior I’m not sure LG and LB are buying it. Especially LB. I think he spotted a chink in my armour and now likes to point out fish for fun. “Look Mummy, there’s a Dory!” He exclaims with a curious look at my expressionless, non blinking face. Little does he know he’s providing me with an amazing workout, as my arse cheeks are so firmly clenched I can barely walk. “Just keep swimming Dory” I think, “Just. Keep. Swimming.”
So back to my second point, kids being rank. LG loves nothing more than to sit and chomp down on some bogeys (boogers to our American friends). I tell her not to, point out its disgusting and explain it’s basically dirt her nose has stopped from reaching her brain (technically accurate) but she just loves a juicy mucus morsel. She also thinks it’s hilarious that I recoil in disgust every time she picks and licks. My facial expression is like Melania’s every time Donald removes his tighty whities. OK… OK I’ll stop with the Trump stuff… 😉
LB puts everything in his mouth and has since birth. Everything but actual food (see earlier post on terrible eating habits). His fingers are constantly in his gob, along with toys, remote controls, phones, paper, his sisters hairbands, railings, ear plugs, grass and sand. Going to a farm is a nightmare; every visit is a game of E. coli roulette. The minute he learns to read I’m going to get 25 t- shirts with the slogan ‘NOT IN YOUR MOUTH’ printed on them and just wear them as my Mumiform, until he gets the bloody message.
As if to prove my point as I sat writing this post LB decided to go for a poo. I go in after initial splashdown as he’s still mastering the art of smearing shit all over his hands / lower back / the seat / anywhere but the paper, and LG is in there. I ask her to please leave the room but LB says no, he wants her to see his poo. He points out it’s her choice (playing on my feminist ideals there) and so I say fine, only for LG to exclaim with delight “I can see the poo coming out of your bottom hole!” Sigh. And when I finally get her out of there and wipe his bum – I notice he’s taken a small espresso cup in with him so he can enjoy some warm milk as he craps. I’m going to have to start leaving copies of Superheroes Monthly in there soon.
I know I’m not alone. A friend messaged me the other day to tell me THE BEST and worst story about her son. He’s the sweetest 3 year old boy who just wants to love on everyone he knows, squashing them with hugs and cuteness – so I’ll call him SP (Sweetie Pie). Anyway the other night whilst at a neighbours house, SP told his Mum that he had “left a golden package” in the garden of said neighbours house. Which turned out to be a massive turd. Bold as brass he had marched into that garden, felt his bowels a knocking and decided to crimp one out on the lawn. And then tell his Mum. And dress it up as a ‘present’. What a fucking legend. As a follow up to this story, his Mum then told me that SP also asked her the other day to “guess which finger he had just had up his bottom?” LEGEND. I had mad love for him before, but these stories make me love him even more.
I reckon 99% of stories about kids being foul include faeces. LG once ate her own poo during a nappy free moment when she was about 14 months old. I literally gagged. I have a pretty sensitive gag reflex but I reckon it would make even those with an iron constitution retch.
Another friend has a little girl and is keen for her to learn her native Swedish, and one night overheard her little cherub counting to ten in Swedish over the baby monitor. She was overcome with pride and happiness that her bilingual efforts were being rewarded. It was only when she went into her little ones room that she discovered she was counting nuggets of crap she had pulled out of her nappy. Kära nån.
On reflection I’m making this post far too brown, and so I’ll come full circle and go back to fears. My current (surely) irrational fear that I’m writing waffle and parents are wasting their precious time locked in toilets/ wardrobes reading it, eating a Wispa by the light of their smart phone (I haven’t done this, honest). I’m finding that blogs like this are a welcome distraction from the noise of CBeebies and the piss poor British summer weather. When I first started writing, I mentioned that I hadn’t read many other blogs as wanted to find my own style. Since then, I’ve read a lot and encountered a shit-ton of talent out there. So many amazing blogs in the Mummy and Daddy blogging arena. I am currently a mere extra in the Gladiatorial space currently occupied by lots of Russell Crowes.
So Dear Reader – help me climb that slippery ladder from bit player to centre stage. I’m really enjoying writing. I really grateful for every follower and ‘like’ (you clearly all have EXCELLENT taste). But if you haven’t liked my social media shiz yet, check it…..
Give my page a like on Facebook
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Thank you, from a sensitive, jumpy blogger with an overactive gag reflex. 😉
Until next time, peace out. N ♥