Wednesday, 30 July 2014


blogging in peace :)
Ok so I've got a slight problem with my littlest guy.  He's now not only a genuine certified kleptomaniac (yesterday we had a very public wrestling match in a crowded Starbucks over an overpriced Mango Smoothie he had grabbed from the open air fridge and was trying to pull into the pushchair whilst I was trying to yank it up onto the counter.

"No Mama you NO MINE!  I take!"

But taking precedence over the current kleptomania problemo is the (granted fabulously fun to utter) 'Shut Up!" as an expletive.  (Only in 'Toddler-ese' it comes out as 'Shuddup!")

I want to blame this on his brothers (and by rights I probably could) but I know for a fact that my own personal record for uttering those words lately runs at about 4 times per hour soooooo it could be down, yet again, to my much-to-be-desired parenting techniques.  You would have thought I'd be an old hand at toddler manipulation third time round, but it appears not so.

Whatever the case, like all toddlers, the shock and horror (and let's be honest, surpressed laughter, at witnessing such a cherubic chubby faced grub come out with such an emphatic expletive - especially in crowded, inappropriate situations) has only propelled this new word skywards to his Top Five favourite things to say.

Case study A:

Busy SW11 park...mid-afternoon...chock-a-bloc full of (if not yummy - definitely not scummy) Mummies, coaxing their precious charges down slides, up climbing frames, etc.  My little Squit decides that despite being the youngest by a long shot, HE and only HE is equipped with the experience and know how needed to steer the imaginary (and very popular) wooden bus through perilous make believe traffic.  As self-appointed Conductor (and certainly not a passenger type), for a time this open air play with strange children appears to be going along swimmingly until...

I look over to find him reprimanding an older boy for trying to oust him from the drivers seat.  The boys' mother makes tracks tout suite and I reluctantly put down my iphone, slip on my black Ray Bans and hesitantly make my way over to where a full on ruckus is starting up.  I'm weighing up my chances of pulling off the 'I'm just the Nanny' vibe, but that's blown when Squit looks up, clocks that I'm about to yank him out of the seat and out of the park and yells louder than any human child should be physically able to yell, "SHUDDUP MAMA!  SHUDDUP I SAID!"  Cue mass playground parental horror.

Case Study 2:

Crowded Victoria line.  Rush Hour.  I am trying to wrangle an overloaded pushchair and three boys across London from N10 to SW11 at 10pm at night.  Their faces are smeared with chocolate (thanks Grandpa), they are hyped up on sugar, and scrabbling over their one shared copy of the Evening Standard.  We are getting off at the next stop and the baby is trying to climb his way over strangers laps and is now four seats away.  Passengers with nothing better to look at, appear amused at my predicament and I can see them idly wondering how I'm going to catch him in time to exit the train.

"Squitty...come to Mama!  We get off now okay?"  I lamely beg.

"SHUDDUP!"  I gasp in horror.  The woman beside me turns pale and rolls her eyes at the husband standing in front of her.  A cool looking dude in a pinstripe suit wearing wicked headphones (clearly turned down), looks over at me with a wry, sympathetic grin, clearly amused.

I try one more time.  It ends in a flurry of "SHUUUUUUDDDDDUUUUUUUPPPPP MAMA!!!"

I die.  That is all.
all (temporarily) quiet on the Western Front...(pre kick-off)

I guess on the positive side, to the best of my knowledge he has not told his paternal grandparents (whom we are visiting and whom he has not seen since infancy) to shut up yet.  At least I don't think so.

(Although a rather flustered early a.m. phone call from a rather grumpy husband in the suburbs this morning communicated the fact that whilst I have been traipsing about downtown with my gorgeous Sis and most wonderful Mum for the past 24 hours, he has been traipsing about his parents showroom of a house with the contents of the baby's explosive nappy on his chubby little toes. I suspect there shall be words when we meet up shortly.  C'est la vie.)

my lovely Ma :)

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