Tuesday, 10 May 2011

So what have we learned this week?

We're driving to see a friend. Little O is the front as it helps with car sickness. Radio One is blurting out its hip hop "music" blah blah bop bop. Next comes on JLo's new song, "I like this" says Little O and starts bopping in his booster seat, he pauses , compiles his thinking face, turns his ear to the stereo and looks very confused, "Why's she saying she wants to be sick on the floor?"
I want to say "because she's still Jenny from the block", but bad jokes only lead to more "why?"
"I think she's saying "she wants to get hip on the floor"
"Doesn't she have a hip?"
"She does have hips - some would argue very good hips, but I think she means she wants to do some good dancing on the dance floor."
What... like this?" bops in booster seat, thumbs circling each other.
"Yep. Just like that."

I later look up the lyrics, because I need to be "down with it" for my 3 year old

Steal it quick on the floor, on the floor
Don't stop keep it moving
Put your drinks up
Its getting ill
It's getting sick on the floor

I should have known he'd be right!

* * *

Yesterday I promised Little O we could make a cake after school, which was a stupid thing to say. I had dinner to make, downstairs floor to tidy, tutoring session to prepare for... and now a cake to make. I don't know why I agreed to it; I think I just wanted some cake!

Anyhow, he darts through the front door, rushes to the kitchen, assembles his step ladder and waits patiently at the work surface.
"I'll just tidy this room" I holler through to him. Tidying now includes a humdinger of a nappy change, removing squashed, brown banana from under the TV stand and retrieving a pair of earrings from the play dough.

I open the door to the kitchen, steaming nappy bag in hand, and Little O's feet are the only thing visible beneath the cloud of smoke.

"Oh my God! Get out! Get Out!" I grab the child, somewhere above his feet, which are poised in tiptoes on the orange step ladder. My panic screams send him into floods of tears; I grab the youngest en route to the patio doors and dump them on the decking. "Stay here!" I say to the two bundles, both of which are streaming with tears.

I return to the kitchen, the smoke is thick, but there's no flame.

I can hear ticking; tick-tock, tick-tock.

For a brief second, this is no word of lie, and I can only admit this here... I thought there was a bomb! (What a smoke bomb? Maybe? I'm not a terrorist). I can only justify this level of neuroticism with my recent fears about possible repercussions arising around Bin Laden's death. Why the prime target would be a full time mum, in a terraced house, in North East suburbia? I don't know, but this what I thought: "Fuck! A Bomb!"

Fortunately, A millisecond later and the toaster pops to display two squares of charcoal, so burnt they disintegrate at touch.

Tick-tock, tick-tock. "What the hell is ticking?" I scream at the charcoal.  Brrriiiing! The cooking timer on the fridge sounds its alarm. Wow, that has a loud tick I think. Maybe my hearing was extra sensitive due to being blinded by the smoke.

I open the window, return to the decking and remind myself I must check the smoke alarms. Little O, wipes away his tears " I just wanted to make you some toast"
"I know darling, but you burnt it." I explain pulling him into my arms.
"But I put the timer on" he sniffs

* * *

So what have we learned this week?

My eldest child knows how to use the toaster.
JLo wants to be sick on the floor.
Nobody wants to blow me up.


  1. Teehee, great post :) It's adorable that he wanted to make your toast really :)

  2. Thanks Kerry... Yes, very difficult to tell him off when his intentions were so sweet. Needless to say we didn't make cake - took 20 minutes to fumigate the kitchen!