Care factor

My son has started saying a couple of words and it is oh so very exciting. “Na” seems to mean anything from Blah Blah his stuffed manky rabbit to his cot or a banana. “There” is usually said when he is pointing to a plane in the sky or someone with a VPL and then there’s the “mumma” and “dada” that makes my little heart melt (slightly awkward that he also calls Cheef Dog “mumma” as well… but he will get there).

The other night while partaking in the 6-7pm peak hour home rush (tea, bath, story bed), Alfie threw a piece of mandarin off his high chair tray and said “oh, shiiiit”.

I died.

Then I laughed. Which was wrong. So of course he said it again. Then I died a little more inside. Oh shit.

How can this be my kid’s FIRST sentence?

Oh, that’s an easy one to answer: I have a potty mouth.

When Alfie was first born, we introduced a swear jar into our home. It became filled with IOU’s from me, and then it was bypassed as I kept nicking money out of the jar to buy coffee. I lied to my husband about how good I was getting at avoiding the nasty words, and then I would head out for beers with a bunch of pals and push out as many swear words as possible. It was like I had been saving them up. Sometimes I would sneak outside and secretly whisper naughty words behind the bin, crouching so I wouldn’t get caught. When driving on my own, I would shout big f-bombs as loud as I could just to shake them out of my system. I would always feel heaps better afterwards.

My care factor levels have changed post baby. What I didn’t care about before – such as using the F word as commonly as the word ‘and’ – is something I really care about now, especially in the presence of my kid (and my dog, who has a mouth like gutter trash).

I used to care about wearing lipstick on the weekend. This is now reserved for work time and playtime. There’s nothing worse than seeing my son covered in red smooches like he’s been rolling around in a barrel of tarts. I’m now two people – mum and office worker. I wear two uniforms – jersey and crepe. Both of which usually have a line of snot across the thigh or a scraping of yoghurt on the shoulder, which I have been known to scratch off on the train. Care factor.

On Saturday, I was playing mum wearing jersey sans lippy at Coles. Alfie lost his poo and started hailing from his trolley seat.  I felt the pressure – I was halfway through a mega shop – and I had to fix the problem pronto. I popped a bag of rice on my head and my kid thought this was the best. We finished the shop in hysterics, the whole time balancing the bag of Sunraysia on my skull. My care factor for others was low, but by God, the care factor for getting through the mega shop entertaining my son was as high as the sky.

As I headed towards the register I bumped into someone from my work world. He looked a little shocked. This person possibly did not know that I was a mum, had never seen me without lippy, without a frock, in jeggings and sneakers and a t-shirt bearing Jason Priestley’s face.

We shared our hellos and I introduced Alfie to the new face and he clapped wildly. My work acquaintance had a little giggle and I explained that this was the ‘other me’. He continued to laugh and so did my son. I was confused. I turned to push my stacked high trolley towards a counter and the bag of rice fell off my head and split open. My cheeks reddened.

Then Alfie summed up the situation perfectly: “Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

Dental teeth

I am trying to teach my son to be gentle.

Last Sunday we went to the Farmer’s Market in Willy for some fresh fruit and grub. The centrally located petting zoo looked like the perfect spot for my kid to test out his gentle patting skills.

                    

We have been here before, quite a few times actually, and the petting zoo owner recognised us saying: “This time, please don’t let your kid open the guinea pig gate. My babies get anxious when they run free.”

We got our little cup of animal seed and instantly my son poured this into his gumboot. He was so disappointed; he pulled off his gumboot and started eating the seeds. The minute he did this all the petted animals came sprinting over to him licking their lips (beaks).

Baby lambs, chickens, bunny rabbits and some tiny furry thing, perhaps a rat, came running at my son pecking him in every location trying to find a grain. My poor son. I reached down and grabbed him and realised he was laughing hysterically. He was enjoying being wrestled by farm creatures, rolling around in their shit with a mouthful of seed.

So I let him go and boy did he squeal. He chased after the animals, running them around in circles like a sheep dog, scarring the bejesus out of them, clapping like a mad man, all the while I’m shouting ‘gentle Alfie, gentle’. It was so joyful to watch, I was able to relax with another mum while our kids ran riot.

Then Alfie started getting rough. He is so obsessed with holes lately, that he realised the hole in the gate allowed him to reach the clasp. So he unlocked the gate. The hole in the pole along the side of the zoo fence allowed him to reach the fence peg. So he pulled the fence peg out and the side fell off. And the hole in the lamb’s backside was wear the poo came out. So he chased after the lamb, catching the poo.

Then he saw the teeny tiny baby guinea pig come out of a tunnel hole.

I went to grab him with his pooey hands and he saw me coming for him with my ‘time to go home’ face. He grabbed the baby guinea pig before I could reach him and held the animal close to his chest and ran to the corner with his back to me. I feared for an ‘Of Mice and Men’ moment where my son’s undying love for tiny furry animals would come to a sweet end. I released his grip by tickling him and the guinea pig coughed and ran back into his hole, scared forever more. My son eyed the hole off.

It was time to go. One near death experience was enough for this mum. Those poor, poor animals.

We got home and Cheef Dog was happily waiting for us at the side gate. He came running inside and Alfie ran after him, squealing and shouting ‘mumma, mumma’ (he calls the dog ‘mumma’ – let’s not go into this). Cheef Dog sprinted to the couch and I caught Alfie just before he got there. Alfie reached out his hand and firmly patted Cheef Dog across his back saying ‘dental teeth’ which I will take as ‘gentle Cheef’ over and over again.

‘Dental teeth, dental. Dental teeth, dental.’

Perhaps the petting zoo has helped him to get this gentle thing down pat?

This post first appeared on Bubba West.