The Hairclip
*WARNING* this
post contains material of a sensitive (and somewhat painful) nature. If you are
easily offended by the shenanigans of childhood, please do not read on. That’ll
be all….
For the
benefit of those of you who know me, I’ve given the kids entirely different
letters in order to maintain some anonymity and afford my lovely girl some sort
of dignity since I’m broadcasting her antics across the world wide web.
S and I had
finally managed to grab a grown up date night, and we obviously went all out and
picked the classiest establishment in town. I’d like to say our caviar and
champagne had just arrived but in reality our Nandos medium chicken burgers
with piri piri chips and corn on the cob had finally been served- yum. We
savoured the first few bites of our long awaited dinner before being rudely interrupted
by my phone. Hand poised to kill the annoying duck-quack ringtone; I glanced at
the screen and saw it was one of our babysitters. A thousand possible reasons
flitted through my head and thinking it was odd because it so rarely happened I
answered, silently praying for no puke or poo to be involved. J’s voice was
controlled but I detected definite hints of concern as she asked us to ‘please
come home’ and it was ‘a bit tricky’ to explain over the phone. I quizzed her
for more details but her reluctance spoke volumes and abandoning our food we
headed straight for the car. Conversation flowed freely on the 5 minute journey
home about the possible scenario we might encounter on arrival; S’s logical
theories of sprains and broken bones paled in comparison to my grisly scenes of
gore featuring electric shock, slipped knives and boiling kettles. Curse my
ridiculous imagination.
Bracing
ourselves, we walked through the door and with considerable unease surveyed the
situation. Z was still awake and bounded over to me and as I scanned her for
clues I noted nothing out of the ordinary- definitely no blood or broken bones.
So far, so good. Clocking my bemused and slightly concerned expression she put
me out of my misery and blurted out in dramatic fashion. (I quote) ‘Mummy, X
has got a hairclip stuck on her fanny.’ Oh. My. Gosh. Relief and nervous
hysteria swept over me and I inappropriately giggled my way upstairs to assess
the damage. For my American friends reading this I’d like to point out for
clarity’s sake that over here in Britain our fanny differs somewhat from your
fanny; for those of us still immature enough to find it funny there are
sniggers aplenty when an American refers to their bum-bag as a fanny-pack.
Having enough sense to pull myself together slightly I stepped into the
bedroom, where I found X, legs splayed and with a snappy hairclip clamped onto
her nether region like some incessant metal insect. J (our 17 year old babysitter)
sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed; suitably traumatised and trying to look
everywhere BUT at X. One of those elephant in the room moments, and as a mother
certainly not one of my finest. J hurriedly left the room and I further stifled
my laughter while simultaneously apologising to X for my epic fail in the
empathy department. With one swift and somewhat brutal move I detached the
offending article, promptly binning it on the judgement it was no longer fit
for purpose as a hairclip. When asked her reasoning behind the whole hilarious
debacle, X simply shrugged and told me she ‘wanted to know what it felt like.’ Fair
enough to some degree- all kids do it right? S was regularly told as a child
that if he played with his thing too much it would fall off. Regular
exploration within the realms of some normality I understand. Feeling the need
to shove a hairclip where the sun inevitably does not shine is beyond even my
comprehension. Top marks for creativity though- the mind boggles.
Then again,
whatever is ‘normal’ anyway?!
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