Ben’s language development is truly spectacular, he has quickly picked up words like moose and meerkat from playing with a game his aunty bought him. Sadly, he has also picked up other less choice language. Crap and Fart to be exact.
“Have you done a poo Ben?”
“No Mamma, no poo. Crap.”
This is a typical conversation in our house over the last two days. I have tried ignoring it, calmly correcting him by saying “poo” when he says crap and finally telling him that it is a naughty word and only naughty people say it. Eventually this morning he kept saying it so I explained that he was being very rude and if he carried on I would put him in the naughty corner. He smiled sweetly at me, and a minute later said “crap”. Two minutes in the naughty corner has curbed his taste for swearing for the rest of today at least.
Ciaran had his 4 month injections yesterday (2 in one leg, 1 in the other) and his legs were very sore in the evening (red and swollen) so he had a lukewarm bath last night rather than his normal warm one, he looked a bit suprised at the temperature and then contented himself with lifting his tummy and bottom out of the water before bringing them back down to make a splash (obviously he wasn’t going to kick his poorly legs).
Poor old hubby had to work late (he wasn’t home til gone 10) so I put the kids to bed before popping a bit of pastry over the pie filling I’d made earlier in the day (I cheated and used ready rolled). With the left over pastry I made jam tarts. I stupidly forgot that hot jam is like molten lava and treated myself to one straight out of the oven. Before I stripped my tongue of taste buds and about three layers of skin I thought that my homemade jam tasted lovely in a tart.
Today I have left the house twice, once for weightwatchers (another pound down – woo hoo!) and the second time with both kids for a pram service at a neighbouring towns church. I had been invited to this whilst getting my jam bits and bobs in the cook shop. It felt a bit arkward, there were only two other Mum’s there along with a Nan and the church lady. Ben was one of the oldest, along with another little girl, Ciaran was the youngest.
Ciaran showed his respect for church by grizzling and insisting on being fed (having to breastfeed in a church whilst sitting around a kiddy size table, and then having the vicar walk up behind you is an experience) and then regurgitating the milk he had been so desperate for when I sat on the floor with him to sing hymns. It was a little happy clappy for me, but all child friendly church things are going to be happy clappy, but I did enjoy marching around the church singing and making noise (Ben led the other children in the march, not that I am boasting of my son’s confidence!). After a prayer (and attempt to stop Ben climbing onto the altar, or worst finding the wafers and tucking in!) it was tea and biccie time in the chapter house.
I prefer the more laid back jelly tots atmosphere, it felt a bit like being back at the NCT when Ben was a baby where all the Mums judged each other.
I am sure that the local church does a mother and kids group, and of course if I didn’t have to cook a roast and fancied spending an hour physically restraining Ben, I could take the kids to Mass but I would feel awful if he started on the “craps and farts” in the middle of Mass so we might have to content ourselves with going to the pram service in the next town (where people don’t know us and therefore won’t be stoning me in the street for my son’s fruity language).