A new problem has developed in our house; we can't stop the baby from swearing.
It started innocently enough with him hissing 'I HATE you!' every time he was annoyed about something -- which was actually a little bit funny; there's something intrinsically hilarious about a three-foot-tall tot, with the face of an angel, spouting such venom -- but he's fast developing the vocabulary of a sharp-faced docker.
Strolling around Target with him the other day, he sat bolt upright in his buggy lisping 'You stupid bitch!' over and over again to anyone who so much as looked at him, much to the distress of an old woman smiling in at his pink, plump, ringletted-self.
This has developed into him yelling 'Oh SHIT!' every time he throws something over the balcony outside (which is often, and in fact when we had our grass cut recently, a treasure trove was discovered down below -- kitchen implements, toys, electrical gadgets -- tossed mercilessly over the top by this rambuncious two-year-old).
It's hard to avoid this sort of thing when there are four older siblings for him to copy, and he mimics everything he hears, and although we have tried everything we can think of to stop him -- ignoring him, scolding him...err actually that's it really -- it is proving to be pretty much impossible once he's warmed to a particular profanity.
It's a stubborn age, the proverbial 'Terrible twos', and the most innocuous of events can descend into a flinty-eyed battle of wills. When he toddled into the kitchen chewing a plastic tampon applicator the other afternoon -- which he had valiantly rescued from the bathroom bin -- it took a two minute struggle and half a block of cooking chocolate to release the offending item from his grasp.
A smart business card isn't everything....
However, truculent two-year-olds aside, we are once more in the proverbial shits, since DH was let go from his job four weeks ago. He seems to have a unique knack for carefully selecting employers who don't seem capable of planning beyond a nice logo and swanky offices, and the four years of work he was offered (which to be fair I didn't want him to do anyway, what with it being the hateful FIFO and all) materialised into little more than a few months up in the Pilbara.
As I type he's being interviewed for a city role, for which I'm crossing my fingers and toes, although worryingly, I've seen this company's offices, and they're pretty swanky....
Yes we are little more than surf bubbling onto the sand, swept along in a fickle and precarious economy, in a permanent stage of 'reaction' rather than 'pro-action'. I would like to be able to charge in -- Joan of Arc-like -- and save the situation, but sadly am qualified to do little more than answer the phone (and speak on it long enough to actually get fired -- this happened once), or write about two-year-olds'. And so it remains for DH to once more put out this fire. Perhaps he should have been a fire fighter....? Certainly the mindless idiots who like to regularly start bush-fires up in these here hills would keep him gainfully employed for much of the year. Well it's a thought....
And finally...
Forget the fabled Dubai Stone (in fact I lost a stone within three weeks of arriving in Abu Dhabi; this had a lot to do with 50 degree heat and an inability to flag down any taxis), I've gained at least a stone since arriving in Australia.
When discussing the many attractions that Australia has to offer, 'outdoor lifestyle' is a much touted phrase, with 'wonderful beaches' and 'ubiquitous parks' being some of the biggest attractions to life Down Under.
All this somehow lead me to imagine that I would be long, lithe and honey-limbed within weeks of getting here, spending my days frolicking with the children in the sand, while DH looked fondly on, turning steaks on the barbie.
It hasn't happened, in fact quite the reverse. Living up in the hills, while undoubtedly beautiful, has meant that I drive everywhere. Add in the fact that unlike Galway city -- around which I could wander for hours --shopping is mainly confined to shopping malls, and it takes approximately forty minutes to visit every shop in my local mall; the freak-magnet which is the wonderful Midland Gate.
In addition, and much to my regret I'm not that fond of going outdoors. Not at all. Yes I do love a bucolic scene as much as the next person, but I'd rather look at it through the prism of a window. Or perhaps on the telly.
No, heaven for me is a book, a fireplace and an open bottle. And so I decided the only way to lose some of this excess poundage was my old friend, the dance class.
And so I took myself off to an Irish dancing lesson last week, in the hope of dancing away this extra weight, while rediscovering an old passion. I suspected I may still be rather brilliant in fact. A career in Riverdance may still beckon, I reasoned.
My hopes were dashed within minutes of arriving as I realised rather quickly that my brain can't remember steps as efficiently and quickly as it used to. And despite the very patient male teacher taking me through them six, seven, eight times at a go, I struggled to reproduce them the second the music started.
To be honest he looked genuinely alarmed as I huffed and puffed -- beetroot of complexion -- thighs, bosoms and bottom repeatedly rising then pounding into my body, as I hopped up and down, and he kindly ignored me while I sweated and hyperventilated alone in the corner for a minute during the hornpipe.
For three days afterwards I shuffled around like a ninety-year-old on death-row, my calves in shreds, albeit with the satisfaction that the pain was due to exertion, rather than over-indulgence and stiff-jointed laziness.
My Perth Pounds will be gone in no time, I'm sure of it!
It started innocently enough with him hissing 'I HATE you!' every time he was annoyed about something -- which was actually a little bit funny; there's something intrinsically hilarious about a three-foot-tall tot, with the face of an angel, spouting such venom -- but he's fast developing the vocabulary of a sharp-faced docker.
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| What did I say? |
This has developed into him yelling 'Oh SHIT!' every time he throws something over the balcony outside (which is often, and in fact when we had our grass cut recently, a treasure trove was discovered down below -- kitchen implements, toys, electrical gadgets -- tossed mercilessly over the top by this rambuncious two-year-old).
It's hard to avoid this sort of thing when there are four older siblings for him to copy, and he mimics everything he hears, and although we have tried everything we can think of to stop him -- ignoring him, scolding him...err actually that's it really -- it is proving to be pretty much impossible once he's warmed to a particular profanity.
It's a stubborn age, the proverbial 'Terrible twos', and the most innocuous of events can descend into a flinty-eyed battle of wills. When he toddled into the kitchen chewing a plastic tampon applicator the other afternoon -- which he had valiantly rescued from the bathroom bin -- it took a two minute struggle and half a block of cooking chocolate to release the offending item from his grasp.
A smart business card isn't everything....
However, truculent two-year-olds aside, we are once more in the proverbial shits, since DH was let go from his job four weeks ago. He seems to have a unique knack for carefully selecting employers who don't seem capable of planning beyond a nice logo and swanky offices, and the four years of work he was offered (which to be fair I didn't want him to do anyway, what with it being the hateful FIFO and all) materialised into little more than a few months up in the Pilbara.
As I type he's being interviewed for a city role, for which I'm crossing my fingers and toes, although worryingly, I've seen this company's offices, and they're pretty swanky....
Yes we are little more than surf bubbling onto the sand, swept along in a fickle and precarious economy, in a permanent stage of 'reaction' rather than 'pro-action'. I would like to be able to charge in -- Joan of Arc-like -- and save the situation, but sadly am qualified to do little more than answer the phone (and speak on it long enough to actually get fired -- this happened once), or write about two-year-olds'. And so it remains for DH to once more put out this fire. Perhaps he should have been a fire fighter....? Certainly the mindless idiots who like to regularly start bush-fires up in these here hills would keep him gainfully employed for much of the year. Well it's a thought....
And finally...
Forget the fabled Dubai Stone (in fact I lost a stone within three weeks of arriving in Abu Dhabi; this had a lot to do with 50 degree heat and an inability to flag down any taxis), I've gained at least a stone since arriving in Australia.
When discussing the many attractions that Australia has to offer, 'outdoor lifestyle' is a much touted phrase, with 'wonderful beaches' and 'ubiquitous parks' being some of the biggest attractions to life Down Under.
All this somehow lead me to imagine that I would be long, lithe and honey-limbed within weeks of getting here, spending my days frolicking with the children in the sand, while DH looked fondly on, turning steaks on the barbie.
It hasn't happened, in fact quite the reverse. Living up in the hills, while undoubtedly beautiful, has meant that I drive everywhere. Add in the fact that unlike Galway city -- around which I could wander for hours --shopping is mainly confined to shopping malls, and it takes approximately forty minutes to visit every shop in my local mall; the freak-magnet which is the wonderful Midland Gate.
In addition, and much to my regret I'm not that fond of going outdoors. Not at all. Yes I do love a bucolic scene as much as the next person, but I'd rather look at it through the prism of a window. Or perhaps on the telly.
No, heaven for me is a book, a fireplace and an open bottle. And so I decided the only way to lose some of this excess poundage was my old friend, the dance class.
And so I took myself off to an Irish dancing lesson last week, in the hope of dancing away this extra weight, while rediscovering an old passion. I suspected I may still be rather brilliant in fact. A career in Riverdance may still beckon, I reasoned.
My hopes were dashed within minutes of arriving as I realised rather quickly that my brain can't remember steps as efficiently and quickly as it used to. And despite the very patient male teacher taking me through them six, seven, eight times at a go, I struggled to reproduce them the second the music started.
| Quietly confident this will be me quite soon |
For three days afterwards I shuffled around like a ninety-year-old on death-row, my calves in shreds, albeit with the satisfaction that the pain was due to exertion, rather than over-indulgence and stiff-jointed laziness.
My Perth Pounds will be gone in no time, I'm sure of it!
Aaaah Claire! Kylie says 'Oh shit' all the time and the other day sat at the table doing her colouring going 'fucking, fucking, fucking...', ending in a triumphant 'Mommy fuck!' What to do yanni? I found tabasco quite effective with JJ....cruel, but effective! I haven't cracked it out with this one yet. I'm hoping it will pass....
ReplyDeleteAs for the Perth Pounds....a new challenge begins in less than a week and if you're exercising you should be scoring major points! Do join us! x
Haha, yes the problem with a two year old swearing is that you simply can't keep a straight face. This only compounds the problem because Hugo knows he'll get a reaction.
ReplyDeleteAnd yes, the exercise should, help, and I may well be up for a new challenge (and a new home I think!).
x