Tuesday, 30 April 2013

Oh, deary, deary, me.  It's NOT good.
Youngest has done it again.
We were talking about what present to give my friend whose birthday is on Friday.  Last year gave her the most enormous pair of pants EVER.
HUGE.  SO vast that two grown men can fit, one entire body in each pant.  As it were.
Why? Why did I give her enormous pants?
Absolutely no idea.
It is her birthday again, so thinking caps were on, and my three children were all having a thought about what I could give her.
Giant thongs? asked Middle Son, guffawing and spitting out tea.
Youngest giggles hard.  Obviously finds that very amusing indeed.
'What's a thong?'
We all spit out our tea again, and try to explain what a thong is.  Difficult to keep it clean.
As it were.
Anyway, we all agreed that it's NOT a great idea, not in the grand scheme of things. Thongs.
Big silence while we all think again.
'Giant condom?' asks Daughter, hardly able to get the words out.
After we've all shouted EWWW and told her how disgusting that is, and NO, I WILL NOT buy giant condoms, we all settle down again.
Youngest still giggling.  You can see the think bubbles working.
'What's a condom?' he asks, clear voice slicing the quiet air like a knife.
Oh, no.
'Well,' I say.  'Um.'  I absolutely can't think of a nice, clean way to explain this one.
The other older children looking across at me with grins as wide as the M25.  Wondering what on EARTH I am going to say.
Youngest pipes up.  'Is it a Love Bag?'
That's it.  We've all had it.  Tea, biscuits, spit, all comes out in total hysterical bout of painful laughter.  Youngest looking on, all interested and amused that he has caused such a riot.
Middle Son horrified and delighted at the same time.  Daughter pealing with laughter and unable to talk, let alone stay on her chair.
'Love bag?' I ask feebly, unable to frame words with mouth that is so wide open in mirth it has stopped functioning as tool for language.
'Yes, is it a Love Bag?' asks Youngest.  You could even HEAR the capital letters as he said the words.
It was no good.  I couldn't answer as paralysed by hysteria.  Gave up.  Washed up and ran bath for still giggling Youngest.
And as I did so, mused in confused sort of a way WHY Youngest would come up with Love Bag?? But have to say that it is rather brilliant way of describing said item.  New marketing tool?

And so Youngest now believes that condoms are Love Bags and that thongs are pants without a bottom.
Great conversationalist, my kids.
And so my friend's birthday?  What will I get her?  I thought a nice book and a bunch of flowers.
Am SO not asking my children for any more advice.  EVER.

Friday, 26 April 2013

In which Youngest becomes a Pirate

Youngest and Husband are off for on a Rugby Tour today.
Staying in a Caravan for two nights.  Not exactly the Dorchester, but should be good fun.
Rugby all day Saturday, and nearly all day on Sunday.  Otherwise mucking about with lots of other eight/nine year olds, doing all sorts of eight/nine year old sort of stuff.  Kicking balls. Throwing balls.  Scratching balls.
Youngest had some worries about Stuff.
I asked him fondly what it was that was worrying him.
'Well,' he 'pondered.  'I think that I am a bit worried about the caravan.'
Well, so am I, my angel.  So am I.
'And I think that I am a bit worried about the Pirates.'
It seems that he is a Pirate for the weekend.  Has to take some Pirate costume sort of thing.
Husband had come home from work this afternoon, with about an hour to spare before leaving for Rugby Tour, and started to think about what sort of Pirate things they could take.
(he's had about two months to think about what sort of Pirate things they could take.)
He had found two eye patches in a shop.  Hooray!
Nothing else.  Naught.  Nada.
Right. OK then. Time for Motherly Intervention.
And so together we find two spotted handkerchiefs.
Full. Stop.
'I think Youngest might need something else apart from a spotted handkerchief and an eye patch,' I said, hurling Youngest's pajamas and socks into suitcase.
'No!  He'll be fine with this,' says Husband, hurling pajamas and socks into suitcase.  His own.
Youngest arrives home from school.
'Daddy is the stupidest daddy in the world,' he tells me as he hurls pajamas and socks into a suitcase.  Apparently I had packed it 'all wrong'.
'Why?' I asked, repacking the hurled pajamas as soon as they touched the suitcase.
'Because all I have for a pirate is a stupid hanky and a stupid eye patch.'  He scowls at the socks and stuffs in about fourteen t-shirts.  I take them out, fold, remove twelve of them, and stuff them back in.
'Better make one then,' I say nonchalantly.
I can feel him staring at me, appalled.
'Make one?'
'Yes.  Make one.  We need a really tatty pair of trousers and we hack them to pieces. Got any?'
His eyes light up, hope shining bright. He searches his room.
'This pair?' and he holds up a longish pair of shorts, hideous shade of goose poo green, and never worn.
Our eyes meet and we grin at each other.
'Come on!' I say, and we TEAR into the kitchen and race over to the scissors.
I grab the orange pair. They cut like a dream, and I start to cut jagged lines up and down the hem line.
Youngest gets really excited and pleads with me for him to have a go.  He attempts to make holes in the shorts.  I warn him not to have huge holes in the wrong places.
'Or all your friends will see your pants.'
Youngest finds this hysterical, which doesn't particularly help with the cutting.
But we get it done and within five minutes the shorts are tattered and beautifully Pirate like.
'Right.  Now all we need is a top with horizontal stripes.  WHERE will we find one of those?'  I look suitably doubtful, knowing full well there is a top with horizontal stripes sitting in his chest of drawers.
'WAIT!' he shouts and dashes out of the kitchen.
Twenty seconds later he is back.  Brandishing the top with horizontal stripes.
'HOORAY!' I shout, and we grin some more.
He tears off his school uniform and puts on the new Pirate costume, along with spotted handkerchief so despised five minutes before.
And with the generous loan of my gorgeous eye liner ready to be applied later to create a suitable moustache, my darling Youngest and Husband are off, grinning like Cheshire cats.
As their car crunches over the gravel I wave and wave.  Youngest is waving back, all reservations gone, looking JUST like Jack Sparrow.
Only MUCH more handsome.
I SO love being a mother.
Have fun, Youngest.  And don't you DARE lose my eye liner.