In the past few weeks, the Boy has changed into your stereotypical disgusting little boy. As well as the – uuuuuuuugh – musky smell, there’s the constant hand-down-the-pants, the joy in farting, and the non-stop poo / bum references. “HAHAHAHA, I can see your BUM! You are a bum! You are a poo-poo! Your dinner is POO from a BUM!” he shrieks, ecstatically.
And yet he remains a toddler in many respects, in particular his penchant for talking to ANYONE about ANYTHING.
Last week, to an older lady in the street:
What’s that on your finger?
It’s a bandage.
I split my finger.
My sister split her bum.
Yes, she split it and there was blood everywhere and she was screaming and my mum was screaming, and I was shouting BLOOD BOTTOM!
But we couldn’t put a bandage on it.
(By now I am hiding behind a privet hedge so I can’t be sure how this panned out; I think the lady just backed away, bewildered.)
The same day, at the park, to a woman holding a very young baby, sitting at a table with a very old lady:
Who owns that baby – you (pointing at the mother), or you? (pointing at the old lady)
(Proud mother, smiling) Me!
Oh. Is it a boy or a girl?
He’s a boy.
He’s not very cute.
My sister is much cuter. Look, she’s over there.
(I am sitting just behind her with the Baby on my lap. The woman looks around and sees a 4 stone 7-month-old with lentil puree all over her face, her hair, in her ears, and down her shirt, being held up by a haggard middle-aged woman with scarlet cheeks. Because I have to hold the enormous girth up with one hand and am spooning lard into her mouth with the other, I have nowhere to hide my shame. Instead I look at the woman and smile in a manner which I hopes convey my deep mortification and apologies. She, meanwhile, looks at me with deep pity.)
To the security man at Tesco’s:
Hello young man!
What planet are you from?
(Country! I hiss)
What country are you from?
I’m from Ghana
Is it very hot there?
Is that why your skin is so brown?
Why is your skin so brown? Is it brown from the sun?
Are you asking why I’m black?
You’re not black, you’re brown. What’s that? [pointing at walkie talkie] Can I play with it? Are you God? I like your hair.
(By the time I have emerged from the pile of newspapers I have crawled under, he is sitting on the man’s knee, arm around his neck, talking into his walkie talkie to the other security guard.)
And to ANYONE who will listen:
You're a silly bumbum. A BUM! And a POOPOO! My sister is a POOPOOBUM! I’m doing a fart, it’s from my BUM! BUMFACE! Ha! YOU ARE A BUMFACE! My bum has a face HAHAHAHAHA!
My very own Jeckyll and Hyde. Wonderful.