Biggest little man has pretty much got this talking thing down now.
Yes, I am THAT proud mama shamelessly bigging up his verbal skills to just about everyone I know (and randomly pass in the street, at the checkout in Tesco, through the cubicle in the ladies as I’m dangling him over the toilet seat).
I mean this boy has a vocabulary even Rachel Riley would be jealous of.
So just to emphasize how amazing and grown up he is becoming, this week he decided to show me he’d learnt a brand new three word phrase. And use it in context.
This happy event occurred yesterday after he accidently dropped his bowl of yoghurt coated raisins on the floor in the kitchen, where he then declared at the top of his voice
“For F*ck’s Sake!”
You see whilst I’ve been busy praising his verbal accolades to the world I’ve forgotten that these mini humans we have all made are also bloody good listeners. They NEVER. MISS. ANYTHING.
I’ve been harping on at hubby to watch his language since way before H seemingly declared his parental allegiance by uttering Dada as his first word (I’m planning to start the bribes MUCH earlier with baby number two in order to even up things up…).
So following this interesting turn of events naturally I jumped straight in to blame Mr. S for this ‘unacceptable’ behavior. I mean, he’s basically only around for an hour either side of bed time each day and apparently still has a disproportionate level of Bad Santa influence on our kids!
How could this have possibly happened?! I am tirelessly striving to set THE BEST example. I am just like Mary Poppins -practically perfect in every way and I am pretty sure I NEVER swear. I just don’t.
Except, maybe I do.
The b*****d realization dawned on me that actually I do swear. Actually I swear quite a lot.
I’ve always been one for telling people “Oh I only swear when something really, really shocks me” and I think somewhere in the past that absolutely used to be true. But having kids has clearly had a monumental impact on my mental state (not to mention my body, as I sit here balancing my phone on my protruding mum tum which just doesn’t want to shift no matter how much 5:2 crap I put it through).
Sometimes I NEED to swear, to get it out, to let it go. Even the sanest seeming mama who appears to have it all together can competely lose her sh*t after relentless disrupted nights from yet another baby sleep regression (ffs there seems to be one every bloody month!). Or when the wholesome home-cooked-meal-with-hidden-veg you slaved over all morning is ceremoniously thrown on the floor before it’s even been tried. Or when the 15 minute meltdown in the middle of Costa shows absolutely no sign of abating any time soon. You know it can all be calmed instantly by purchasing that sodding giant jammy dodger which the kid sitting next to us has but you’re absolutely positively not going to. No way. You are making a point. To him, to yourself and to everyone else who you’re convinced are looking disapprovingly at you for the high pitched wailing you’ve inflicted on their 10 mins of quiet ‘me’ time (when really they’re just reminded of all the times they’ve been there themselves and think you’re doing an awesome job).
For me I guess this is a chance to let off some much needed steam, probably keeping me from ‘up-cycling’ my son’s hideous green turtle sandpit into a giant gin and tonic recepticle and taking up permanent residence at the end of the garden with a straw. Everyone seems to be serving up their cocktails in some kind of weird sh*t these days. I think I’m onto a winner. I just re-invented the fishbowl. Mummy friends you are all invited round.
But I digress.
I’m honestly really, really, REALLY trying to tone down the bad words and find some more appropriate replacements. So, sorry hubby, we’ll be talking a lot more about ‘fudge nuggets’, ‘fizzlesticks’ and ‘shiznits’ from now on.
And apparently buying a LOT more gin…
[Note to self – swear count : 8 must try harder]