The 'H-Word'

 "Mum, Jai said the ‘hih’ word,” narked Master Eight one day.

Hih-word? I wracked my brains to think of a swear word beginning with H.

“What hih-word?”

“You know – the hih-hih-hih - word!”

This was getting frustrating.

“I can’t think what it is, you’ll have to tell me,” I finally said.

“No, you said it’s a swear word,” he said sheepishly.

“Well just whisper it in my ear,” I bravely prompted, bracing myself for an expletive to come out my child’s mouth.

“Hate,” he whispered.

Oh.

I do loathe the word ‘hate’ and, because I think it’s a waste of negative energy, neither hate anyone nor anything.

Clearly I’d given this lecture to the kids on a previous occasion and clearly, for once, they’d had their listening ears tuned in that day.

Interestingly, kids’ selective hearing has a finely-tuned radar for such words as ‘chocolate’, ‘lollies’ and ‘park’. It will also hone in on a parent uttering an expletive.

As a result, a friend of mine will pretend she’s said the word ‘ship’ when questioned on her language.

“When I’ve used the ‘ship story’ (Miss Three) then questions me why I’m talking about a ship at soccer - “Where’s the ship?” Then more lies are told.” 

The measures we take to prevent a swear word coming out our babies’ mouths is understandable after you’ve heard it for the first time.

One day, we’d returned home from town where Master then-Two had thrown the mother of all wobblies. As I recall, it was after dragging him away from the trains in his favourite shop. He was irate and, unfortunately I’d parked a long way from the train shop - carrying a tantrum-throwing toddler for miles in public will always draw unwanted attention. Strapping a thrashing, writhing, disobedient child into their car seat is another challenge and this particular outburst lasted all the way home.

He leapt out of the car and raced down the drive looking for an escape from me. I managed to drag him, kicking and screaming, back onto the property and shut the gate, which he proceeded to try and climb.

After a while, he resorted to booting it with all his little might while shouting out obscenities in a not-so-little voice.

“You’re a horrible mum and I don’t like you!” he fumed for all and sundry to hear.

I let this go on for a while as I unpacked the shopping inside, knowing he was completely safe within the boundaries of our property and hopefully getting it out of his system.

“Dumb mummy!” he went on. “F***!” 

Did I hear him right?

“F***!” 

I dropped what I was doing and shot downstairs at lightening speed, scooping up my errant child, whilst casting a furtive look around the otherwise silent neighbourhood and hauled him into the safe-from-earshot confines of the naughty corner with a lecture.
After that, I must’ve installed the fear of god into my kids, should they ever dare swear because, apart from that one mishap, they’ve never dropped the F-bomb, uttered the “sh-word”, nor the “hih-hih-hih-word” in my company again.

Broken hearts, broken voices and babies coming out your bottom.

If the sibling bickering between me and my brothers in adulthood is anything to go by, there’s no hope for my lot.

Admittedly these days, it is now reduced to a few cheeky jibes on Facebook. Long gone are the days when mum would, in response to my squeals, come running from the kitchen to stop my older brother from twisting my arm around – a trick of the oldest sibling trade back in the 80s (or is it still?).

But no matter what I got (and still get) dished out, I would not cry. Miss Five, however, although she can give as good as she gets, if the boys laugh at her, she turns on the water works in spades.

Her brothers know how to wind her up and, just the mere sound of their communal laughter, reduces her to tears.

We were walking along the road to the shops one day when I noticed the usual banter had typically escalated out of hand.

By the time I tuned in Master Eight was hassling her about being a girl.

“You have to push a baby out your bottom,” he informed.

She didn’t miss a beat:

“Well your voice gets broken when you turn into a man,” she retorted. “And you get a broken heart too,” she added for good measure.

“Is that right mum? Do boys get broken hearts when they turn into men?”

“Ah, well you usually get a broken heart when somebody dumps you,” was my lame on-the-spot reply.

“Ha-ha, you’re going to get dumped by your boyfriend and get a broken heart!” taunted Master Five to his sister deciding it was boys against girls and siding with his brother.

This didn’t go down well – her face crumpled and she stopped in her tracks and, you guessed it, turned on the tears right outside the supermarket on the main road.

Meanwhile the boys had carried on ahead laughing while I simultaneously dealt with Miss Five and tried to call them back to apologise.

I’m not sure which I prefer sorting out on the side of the road – an unreasonable tantrum-throwing toddler or counseling an ‘emo’ five-year-old with hurt feelings.

But what came out of that wee jaunt that day, thanks to her brothers, was Miss Five concluding that one, because she is a girl her voice will remain intact, two she is never going to have a boyfriend so will therefore not get dumped and, likewise, three, she is never going to have a baby so needn’t worry about pushing one out her bottom.

Problems solved.

From ballerina to rugby star

It was with surprise and, if I’m honest, perhaps some dismay, that I learned Miss Five was keen to join her brothers in playing rugby this year. She had never shown any interest before and, having signed her up to ballet at the age of three, I thought I had my little ballerina in the making.

Rugby is their dad’s domain and, after returning from practice one evening, I got the full report from Master Eight as to his siblings’ progress.

Miss Five scoring her first try!

Apparently Miss Five was better than Master Five and she scored a try at practice.

I found this hard to believe as I hadn’t even seen her pick up a ball, being the type to prefer consuming chips and fizz on the side line.

And at their first game last Saturday this judgment was looking to ring true. She wasn’t quite ‘picking daisies’ but she spent a good part of the first half prancing around smiling and waving for the camera and chatting to her fellow pig-tailed team mate at the back of the pack, than focusing on the game.

But after consuming the oranges at half time – the highlight after the lollies at the end of the game – she threw a curve ball.

Well actually she wasn’t throwing any ball. She got hold of it, tucked it under her arm and ran for it. She ran nearly the length of the field, fending off the boys along the way, before scoring a try at the end.

Alright, she did go outside the line but, in true fair nursery grade-style, she was awarded the try.

Miss Five was proud as punch.

So was I.

That was it for her – she’d done her dash and went back to skipping and hopping around the field.

I should mention here, just to be even, that her brother, now in his second season and therefore a ‘veteran’ of the team, scored the first two tries for their side, and their older brother, in his first non-ripper rugby year, did some exceptional tackles (and a few head-highs).

Anyone who’s been a spectator at a junior rugby game will know these are a great source of entertainment with tiny tots taking off in wrong directions and continuing to make a dash toward the wrong try line, despite their parents’ anguished, yet amused cries of “Other way!”

There comes a time when you ask yourself if it’s more important to try in vain to get that perfect cute shot and miss the moment or put away your camera and live in the actual moment. I eventually put away my iphone but couldn’t resist pulling it out again when Miss Five came running past with the ball. After-all I already had plenty of the boys from previous seasons and this was her first.

That evening I looked at a photo of my three-year-old ballet princess in her tutu and then at her five-year-old self staunching it out on the rugby field and I saw my dreams slipping away.

But I have to admit to feeling admiration for her participating in a sport that I was too timid to try, and proud enough to share her picture on Facebook and with you.

April Fools

My attempt at partaking in April Fool’s was an epic fail.
The night before, the twins and I had concocted a plan to get revenge on their older brother for all the times he’s placed a doll by Master Five’s head while he’s sleeping.

Before they went to bed they gathered up all Miss Five’s dolls and teddies into a pile ready for me to carry out the joke once Master Eight was asleep.

The idea was to arrange them all around his head – something he would find "disgusting" – but do you think I remembered to carry this out?

I promptly went to bed and forgot about it and the next day I awoke to disappointed twins and a gleeful Master Eight. 

That night I decided to have my own attempt at pulling off a prank. I had bought a large bag of mussels for dinner and decided to make a mussel and surimi pasta salad. I’m never too enthused about finding a crab inside a mussel but this night I decided it might be funny to watch the boys’ reaction if they found a crab on their dinner plate. Miss Five, strangely, a fan of eating crustaceans, would not be fazed. But do you think I could find a single crab just when I needed one?

Giving up, I proceeded to dish up the salad, which included boiled egg slices, corn, celery and seeds.

By the time I joined the kids at the table they were dissecting the mussels and naming their anatomy.

“Here’s the tongue!” exclaimed Miss Five.

“Oh and here’s my one’s tongue,” said Master Five, holding up an elongated, curved shape which he’d just detached.

“I think you’ll find that’s the willy,” I couldn’t resist saying.

“Ew!” Master Five threw it onto the plate of Miss Five who promptly ate it.

“Oh and here’s his poo. I’m gonna eat the poo!” she delightedly yelled, having decided they were all boys and popping that in her mouth too.

By now they were finding eye balls, wings and …

“Look Mummy, this one even has a tail,” shouted Master Five flapping his dissected mussel around by a long string which was miraculously still attached.

“That’s enough,” I ordered watching in horror as bits of mussel, corn, pasta and the like went flying around my dining room.

“Oh look, here’s another penis,” he added, having obviously been taught the correct term somewhere along the line.

He threw that too onto the plate of Miss Five, who must have had enough and chucked it back in the original salad bowl.

At this stage I was still serving up my own salad which was looking less and less appetising.

Avoiding all the random body parts, I continued dishing up until I discovered a stray crab that had somehow got past my scrutiny and made its way into the salad.

At this point I promptly absconded and left them to it.

The joke was on me.