21st Birthday Gold

So some people might say that our little Mouse is growing up.

Others might say that she has officially entered a 'challenging' period of development.

Some folks have chuckled at my futile attempts to restrain my wilful daughter in such stimulating environments as Woolworths, and offered an opinion about how best to 'handle' her.

Many times over the last month or so, I have closed my eyes, counted to ten, and waited for limitless patience. Many more times, I have wondered if I would go straight to hell for wishing for my littlest child to be just a weeny bit older. Or reasonable, if you will.

Not that I'm wishing her life (or mine) away. But rather, I am sure I will be quite appreciative when the stubborn, argumentative, wily, fearless Duracell bunny who is my youngest daughter develops the area of her brain labelled "Logic and Reason".

In the meantime, I'm assuming that it may be a while before calm prevails in our house. Which is why I'm making hay while the sun shouts at everyone and sits herself on the naughty step, and writing this stuff down. It is 21st birthday gold. Gold, I tells ya.

Lately, the Mouse has picked up a few phrases that she likes to trot out when she's feeling friendly and social. She'll run up to me, bend over as though I'm the short person to be spoken kindly to, and say in a high voice, "Have fun, Mumma!" For example, "Have fun washing the dishes, Mumma!", or "Have fun going to work, Mumma!" Or my personal favourite, "Have fun folding da washing, Mumma!" What a little gem she is.

Her newest trick is to clasp both sides of her face and gasp, "Oh my doodness!" Which she will repeat, ad nauseum, until one of us also exclaims, "Oh my goodness!". This is quite cute, and not nearly so irritating as the bedtime routine in which she says, "See you inna mornin'!" about five times. If you don't reply loudly enough, or quickly enough, or whatever, she will repeat herself until you do. And she gets increasingly louder and more insistent with every repetition. At 7pm, this is annoying. At 2am, when you've merely tucked her back into bed after a bad dream, it plain sucks.

The other night, I had to GET BACK OUT OF BED after tucking her in at 2am, walk into her room, and say "See you in the morning" until she was satisfied enough to shut up. Problem was, I was saying it through gritted teeth. Which, according to the rules of the Mouse, was not good enough. Given that I had tucked her back in more than a few times by this point, to say I was responding in an enthusiastic manner would probably be a lie.

Anyhoo. She's not always a cranky little witch. When we go to swimming lessons she can be almost charming. Her favourite activity in the pool is jumping along with a kickboard, learning how to move through the water with confidence. Her teacher calls it 'bunny rabbits'. Maisie calls it 'runny babbits'.

The thing is, most of it is all very cute. I guess I'm just a little nervous about what's to come, given that she is so much more verbal than the other two were at this age. And more bolshy than Jack and Phoebe put together. Given what occurred this week with the big kids, it can only get worse.

At the beginning of last week at school, Jack's (everlastingly patient, seriously-deserves-a-medal) teacher was asking her Prep grade to brainstorm words either beginning with 'x' or with the sound in it. You know, words like box and socks and axe and xylophone. My son puts his hand up and offers the word that springs immediately to his mind. Sex.

Seriously.

Now, Jack's teacher did a much better job than I could have done in keeping a straight face. She just kept making that list, saying, "Oh yes, that's right, like when you fill in a form and you have to say what sex you are, like if you're a boy or a girl. Like that, Jack?" And Jack, who clearly did NOT mean that at all, nodded his head and kept his mouth shut (a bit too late, but never mind). The kid sitting next to him, however, offered this: "I thought sex was something to do with ladies with babies in their tummies?"

Sigh.

All I want to know is, where did my son learn that word? Because it sure as #$%^ wasn't from me.

So then, while they're all blithely chatting about S.E.X., Jack's teacher looks up and sees the RE teachers waiting to come in. Yeah, you know them. The Religious Education ladies. Riiiiiiiiight. And so my kid beckons to his teacher again, and whispers, "I know I've been working with (let's call her Mrs. Church, ok?) for a long time, and I really like Mrs. Church, but I believe in dinosaurs. And I've been thinking, it's really hard to believe in God AND dinosaurs, y'know? So I think I might not do RE anymore. Because I believe in dinosaurs."

Jack's teacher (let's call her Mrs. Roy), bless her cotton socks, said, "Ok Jack, I see your point, but how about we talk to Mum before you stop doing RE?" And my son replies, "Ok Mrs. Roy. You talk to Mum, and I'll believe in dinosaurs."

Mrs. Roy came and saw me at lunchtime, absolutely shaking with laughter. I explained that neither Christian nor I had ever dissuaded Jack from RE, despite our household not being a religious one. I just found it fascinating that the son of a scientist (and believer of evolutionary theory) and a Buddhist came to this conclusion by himself. And, I'll admit, I was a teeny bit proud. (Oh, and rather remorseful that my progeny had given his teacher such a challenging morning...especially since she's so gorgeous and we love her.)

By the time I got home that night, I was pretty satisfied that I would remember the stories from the day for blogging on the weekend. Obviously, Phoebe thought she could make my day stick even more indelibly in my brain.

While I started cooking dinner, the two girls sat playing together on the carpet. Given that it was quite late and I was absolutely wrecked, I was really grateful to see them playing so nicely and quietly. As I peeled and chopped, I overheard Phoebe say in her sweet little voice, "Just let me get my prick out."

Thankfully, I had put the knife down only seconds before.

She then went on, "Ok, let's both get our pricks out", and they both bent over their laps, concentrating fiercely. By then, I couldn't restrain myself any longer, and called out, "Darling! What game are you playing? It sounds like a funny one!"

She gazed at me with a very serious expression and replied, "We're playing doctors, Mumma. Maisie has a sore foot, and I'm giving her a prick." And she held aloft the toy syringe, using for giving needles. "Oh!" screeched I. "A prick!  Ha ha! Lovely!" and went back to chopping furiously.

Phoebe just looked at me as though I were the weird one. Which I guess I am.

I may be the weird one. And the tired one. The nervous one. The one who shouts. The one who polices them in the supermarket. The one who sees a teacher approaching and wonders which word has come out of his mouth now. But I'm also the one who'll be in charge of the 21st birthday parties. With 21st birthday speech gold in my pocket. Now all I have to do is stop giving my kids 60th birthday gold...