Belly buttons and shirt-lifting

The other thing Babe has noticed is belly-buttons. And he can more or less say that, too. Although it sounds a bit like ‘bliggy buttoms’. But he doesn’t seem to get that they are generally located on - aha! - your belly. Instead, he has become obsessed with trying to gain access to your back, so that he can lift your top and see if he can spot a belly button there.

At home, this seemed like harmless enough fun. But at nursery it is another matter entirely. He has made himself unpopular with all his little friends, by chasing them around, trying to lift their shirts. And was socked on the jaw by one little girl when he tried lifting her skirt. Clearly the carers have had enough of it too, as they’re constantly having to pull him off the other kids, and the implication is that this behaviour is both uncommon and odd. I feel obliged to reassure them that at home he has not witnessed Other half and I crawling around the floor, lifting one another’s shirts, and looking for new crevices we can stick our little fingers into, but you can feel their scepticism as you blather on, and the brains behind the raised eyebrows wondering where he’s learnt to behave like this if we haven’t taught him.

Yesterday, he upped the ante and played in a whole new way that has been recorded (so I was told in a private meeting) in the ‘abnormal behaviour book’. It seems he was simulating sex with a small plastic doll, rubbing his face into hers, and lifting his shirt and rubbing his tummy against her plastic one. Poor little mite – I must introduce more sensory pleasure into his routine. And double check that he hasn’t tuned into a pornographic channel that we’ve yet to discover, with the remote.

It would be nice if he could do something a little more normal. The folk at nursery already know we listen to Greek music at home, smash plates, roast lambs in the back garden and worship the television, decorating it with doilies and ornaments on top. I’m worried that we’ll get social workers on our case if we’re not careful.

If anyone has read a book on how to make your child kick and bite, please let me know.

Apologies

I'm sorry I didn't update my blog last week. I was at a wonderful festival, feeling utterly miserable as it dawned on me that looking after a toddler on a camp-site would be no less labour intensive than it is at home. Instead of meditating, ecstatic dancing and sitting in a late-night hot tob under the stars, I was tiptoeing around sleeping campers with a muddy, dew-damp Babe and his football at dawn; developing a terrible knee injury thanks to the wet conditions and the fact that I was carrying him everywhere instead of pushing him in the buggy; struggling to find vegan food that he didn't spit out in embarrassing disgust, and by the end of day one feeling generally pissed off with the World At Large.

Other Half came to relieve me on the last day, but the Thai massage I'd booked for myself was nothing short of agony, as my exhausted body told me in no uncertain terms that I am in need of complete and utter re-conditioning. Plus it seems that these days you're expected to undress completely without so much as a blanket to conceal your privates, ahead of your massage, and thanks to the fact that the masseur in question had a faulty zip on his tent door, quite a few people wandering by got a view of said privates when leg was raised in said agonising postures that not even Other Half has had for some years now. I thought it was ok to be modest, and not to want to reveal yourself to anyone you happen to be paying to lay hands on you? Is nothing sacred any more?

I feel ancient, out of touch and in need of six months at an expensive spa. Instead, I have emailed a local Buddhist group, asking if they will waive the fee they usually charge for drop-in meditation so that I can get a weekly fix of feeling calm and as though I'm coping. (Since when did it cost to pray? Am suprised and saddened by state of world.)

In order to bring love and good energy back into my home, I am going to build a healing pyramid on the decking in the back garden. (As it happens, the decking is our back garden and I think aformetioned healing vortex may enrage Other Half and result in temporary karmic deficit but hey, needs must...) You probably think this is a joke but it is not. I will keep you posted on my progress. Am off to find tape measure and string before practising yogic poses that will apparently get energy flowing through my body - whahay! - and then breathing pranic life force into my knee joints. The mind boggles.

Spots and titties

Babe is learning tens of new words each week. It is a joy to witness. He’s such a clever little chicken.

But it raises questions about what to tell him to call some of the things he points at. Chicken or hen? Leopard, cheetah or jaguar? See what I mean? I need to go back to school myself to work out some of the differences. And Other half is already having to avoid some early-learner books as he knows his vocab range doesn't cut the mustard. Even the alpahabet flashcards have him on his knees begging for mercy: 'net', 'igloo', 'xylophone' (hardly everyday words, and if I can't spell them, how can he be expected to?)... God only knows what we’ll do when Babe is revising for his GCSEs. Run for cover, I imagine.

I have a small mark on my leg that he pointed at yesterday. I didn’t see the point of introducing ‘bruise’ or ‘cut’ so I said ‘spot’. Now he is calling every small blemish on my being, ‘spot’. But yelling it while pointing at my neck/arm/cleavage as we walk down the road does not float my boat.

Talking of cleavage, he has noticed and starting pointing at my breasts. For some reason, the word that sprang from my lips when he first noticed them (and which I have never used before in my life!!) was ‘titties!’. Gordon bennett! I’m living to regret that, too, as you might imagine.

Why is it that sometimes random and previously-unused words pop out when you least expect them to? I was walking along the street on holiday abroad once, looking at my reflection in a shop window, when I walked straight into someone approaching me from the opposite direction who’d been doing the same thing. Strangely, the only part of us that made contact was the top of our heads, and the impact caused us both to fall over backwards. (I know you think I’m making this up, but I swear it’s true.) Thanks to my linguistic skills, I could have produced expletives in a number of world languages, including that of the place in which I was staying. Which was not Italy. But what did I shriek? ‘Mama mia! The mind boggles.

Anyway, going back to words for the more private parts of our anatomy, Babe has also discovered his ‘privates’. And I didn’t hesitate in using the word ‘willy’ to describe them for the time being. But what do you call a girl’s private parts? What word doesn’t sound faintly embarrassing, or imply that they’re something to cover up, or sound somewhat insulting? Suggestions, please! I won’t bore you here with a diatribe on the sexism that is so inherently embedded within our society and perpetuated by language. Thank God it’s Friday tomorrow.

Coming soon: belly buttons and shirt-lifting

Points of clarification

Further to my previous post, I feel I should elaborate on one or two things. Firstly, I AM crazily in love. Oftentimes it feels like more of the crazy and less of the love (hence this blog) and I can’t deny that to describe our relationship as turbulent would be the understatement of the millennium. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Probably.

Also, you may have wondered whether Other Half knows he is being committed to online pagination in this way. Well, yes, he knows. He sits on the sofa watching me giggle and squawk delightedly as I write, and then throw myself onto the floor gasping when the pins and needles kick in (internet cable only a short distance from the TV set so I have to perch on a stool at the coffee table to write). I even read bits to him sometimes. He says he wants me to pursue my creative endeavours at any cost if that's what makes me bearable to live with, and just isn’t bothered about what I share with you all.

'It's me, I loves you'

You have possibly been wondering why this blog is called ‘Crazy in Loves’ and not ‘Crazy in love’, after the popular Beyonce hit.

A week or so into our relationship, Other Half took my hand, looked sincerely and lovingly into my eyes, and announced ‘It's me, I loves you.’ Wow! I had never experienced such a bold declaration of love. What’s more, it was followed by the question, ‘Why not you me gettin’ marry?'

Obviously, I was swept off my feet. Unlike any other man, he had immediately realised what an amazing catch I was, and wanted to land me fast. His confidence and assurance were a key factor in me persuading myself that he was the one. And to this day, grammatical errors involving the letter ‘s’ take me back to the romantic moment that changed the course of my life so bloody dramatically :). And as it happens, 'Crazy in love' was already taken.

Incidentally, eleven years down the line, Other Half completely denies the aforementioned declaration of love. He says his English was not good enough to have made such a proposal. And that he would not have fallen in love so quickly. And that I must have misunderstood. Hum! To wit: how many other decisions of unspeakable magnitude might have been rushed or taken as a result of misunderstandings? George Bush take note!