I spent months teaching The Girl to speak when she was young.
Here are just four reasons why I wished I hadn’t bothered:
To the checkout lady in Asda whilst I’m packing the shopping: D’you know, my mummy makes me do the hoovering at home while she drinks wine.
The poor woman serving me looked horrified but I don’t think it’d have been so bad if she weren’t scanning a bottle of rosé just as The Girl opted to tell her story.
For the record, I don’t make her do the hoovering whilst I drink at all. The hoovers too big for her for one
In the car on the way home and she’s pretending to have claws: *raises her hand* Don’t make me use these bad boys on you!
Bad boys? Bad boys? Where the fuck did she hear that expression from? I certainly don’t refer to anything as ‘bad boys’.
In the changing room of a rather busy high street store: Mummy, your boobies are reeeeally big and wobbly
Yes. Thank you for that.
If I didn’t have big-boob-complex already then The Girl broadcasting her opinion on their appearance didn’t help.
On the way out of said changing room: Mummy, when I was a little baby I drank milk from your boobies and I used to say it was yummy. Didn’t I?
Whilst I’m not embarrassed by the fact that The Girl was breastfed, I’m sure the rest of the changing room didn’t need a) to know or b) the sound affect of how The Girl thinks breastfeeding sounds.
For the whole of Friday afternoon: Mummy, why aren’t you married to my Daddy? Don’t you want to marriaged Daddy? I want you to marriaged Daddy cause I want to be your bridesmaid. Oh and Mummy, I’m really, really, really ready to be a big sister. I am, I promise.
I could just cry.
Like my uterus wasn’t under enough pressure from family and friends it’s now coming under fire from The Girl.
I spent 3 hours trying to explain why she wasn’t going to be a big sister and why I wasn’t “marriaged” and got nowhere.