“I definitely need to have a shower tonight because I’ve been swimming. I have Claudine all over me.”
“Stop laughing Mummy. There’s no laughing allowed in Outer Space”
I am cooking DorkySon’s dinner, while he plays with alphabet magnets.
“Look at what I can spell,” he says.
I look over at the fridge and see that he has spelled POO. I raise one eyebrow, and he clamps both hands over his mouth, although not very effectively because I can still hear a good number of hissy little giggles escaping.
“Very good,” I say. “But I wish you’d spell something else. What about some other words you know?”
DorkySon frowns at me. “Like what?” he says.
“Like CAR or VAN or BUS or TAXI or STOP.”
“Okay,” he says. “If I must.”
I turn back to the stove, and he turns back to the fridge door. A minute passes.
“Mummy,” he shouts. “I’ve spelled something different. I promise it’s not POO this time.”
I look at the fridge. He’s telling the truth.
This time it’s POOPOO.
“Should the yellow lobster go in the bathroom, d’you think, or in my secret box?”
“Mummy, what does symbiosis mean?”
“How come it’s okay to kill flies but not whales?“
It is Saturday morning and, while DorkyDad makes breakfast, DorkySon sets up a car shop on the floor of our living room. He carefully arranges a dozen or so of his toy cars in a row, inspecting them from every angle, then comes and pleads with me and DorkyDad to buy one.
“Roll up, roll up,” he says. “We’ve got big cars, little cars, bright cars, boring cars… Any kind of car you want. Bargains-a- plenty.“
But my son is not a fair dealer. DorkyDad heads through first, and when he returns he is triumphantly brandishing a purple Karmann Ghia convertible.
“How much was that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.
I head through to the store myself, and take an orange mustang for a test drive behind the sofa.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll take it. How much?”
“That’ll be one million and two hundred pounds,” says DorkySon.
I look at him, aghast.
“I know,” he says, shaking his head. “Daddy’s was much cheaper.” He leans in, touches me lightly on the arm. “But I’ll throw in a couple of doughnuts with yours.”
“Mummy, I was in the toilet at kindy today and a boy came in and asked me what I was doing. What a funny question! So I told him I was having a wee. Silly boy. What else would I be doing in the bathroom.”
“Rest time at kindy is rubbish. There’s no music. And no stories. And no lucky dip for the sofa. You just have to lie there doing nothing.”
DorkySon is writing thank you cards for Christmas presents. Actually I am writing them, under strict instruction, and he is drawing a picture to go with each one.
“What should I draw?” he asks me. He has already done a few with trucks, and a couple with googly eyed monsters, but now he appears to be running out of ideas.
I suggest robots or smiley faces, flowers, boats or rainbows, all of which I know he can do pretty well. DorkySon pulls a face at me. “No way José,” he says. Instead, the next three people on the list get a lime, some blueberries on a helipad, and a lollipop with arms.
I can only apologise if you were one of those people.
I’m linking this post up with Wot So Funee over at Actually Mummy.