Horrid Mummy

Apparently I am a Big Fat Poo.
After wiping a bottom (not my own) I was instructed by my four year old (it was his bottom) to go and get his pants. He wanted clean ones. I said, not surprisingly, that he could go and get his own pants.
Well.
I might as well have told him to perform Brain Surgery.
Sobs.
'Mummy, I Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't.'
'Yes, you caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.'
Then it got really nasty.
'You are a Big Fat Poo.'
'I hate you, Mummy.'
'My Mummy is Stoooooopid.'
As I clattered round the kitchen, getting tea ready, I could hear him overhead, chucking his cars round and stamping, hard, on his floor. Making a Big Thing of getting his own pants.
He got them. Put them on. Found his trousers. Put them on. Mutter. Mutter. Stupid Mummy. Mummy is A Poo.
Made the tea. Called them all in.
He sidled in, arms crossed. Bottom lip out. A Very Cross Look on his face.
'Right.' I said, in my Bright Mummy Lets Forget All About It voice.
'Let's play the grapes game after you've had your food.'
The grape game is Just Brilliant for getting grapes down his throat.
I pretend to write down the names of each of the chickens on about 10 grapes. (just don't ask, OK?) I put them down on the table, to give to the chickens later. And Youngest eats the lot. He LOVES the look on my face when I see that all the grapes have gone.
'WHO ATE THE GRAPES?' I roar.
Giggle. Giggle. Wriggle. Wriggle.
Marvellous.
So he ate his tea. We played the grapes game. The others joined in valiantly to boost the roaring at the end.
And now I am downstairs again. I have just tucked Youngest in.
'I love you, Mummy,' he told me. Wrapping his plump arms tight round my neck.
'Love you, too, my darling.'

Don't think I'm a Poo anymore.