Eat Butt (and other half-term activities)

Well we have survived half-term and although I 'may' have consumed slightly more Strongbow, cheap white wine and hot cross buns than the Government recommends (is there a government limit on hot cross bun consumption? They do, after all, contain fruit. Mind you, so does cider and white wine. The easy way to 5-a-day.....).

I can probably sum up the holiday in the following conversations:

1.

Location: My kitchen every morning.
Scene: Crazed looking toddler running up and down with a very cross face.
Conversation:

Toddler: I want butt! I WANT BUTT BUTT!

Me: Sigh (long and drawn out).

Toddler: I WANT BUUUUUUUUTTTTT.

Me: No. There is no more butt.

Toddler: BUTT BUTT BUTT. I WANT TO EAT BUTT.

Me: Read my lips. NO MORE BUTT BUTT.

Toddler: BUTTTTT BUTTTTT.

HWASF (Husband With A Sad Face - probably hoping for a cup of tea): What is he on about now?

Me: Butt butt (obviously!).

HWASF: Yes but what is that?

Me: He wants peanut butter. Out of the jar. On a knife. Only a knife. The sharper the better. He doesn't just like butt, he like dangerous butt. But anyway he can't have it - on anything - as it's run out. And it doesn't get more dangerous than that. The butt butt barrel is empty.

(HWASF retreats to the toilet).

Toddler: I WAAAAANNNNNNNT BUUUUUTTTTTTTTTTTT.

Me (to myself): How many minutes til bedtime?

2.

Location: Steam Train to the Seaside.
Scene: Sat at a table on the train in a crowded carriage full of very nice holidaying families and enthusiastic pensioners with sparkles in their eyes.
Conversation:

Original Son: Mummy, what is this station?

Me: Watchet.

Original Son: What?

Me: Watchet. That's not a threat. It's actually the name.

Original Son: Ratchet? Why is it called Ratchet?

Toddler: Rat shit. Rat shit. Rat shit!!!!!

Me: (emit huge guffaw of laughter, because if you didn't laugh you'd cry).

Original Son: Mummy, why are you laughing?

Toddler: RAT SHIT, RAT SHIT, RAT SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!

Me: I'm not.

3.

Location: Living room (which is also our bedroom and replete with mattress, pillows, cushions, duvet, bedspread and circa 18 blankets required to keep us warm at night)
Scene: Small children appear to have mistaken living room/bedroom for a soft play centre and are leaping from sofa to chair, via half-pike triple-salko on the mattress......).
Conversation:

Me: (looking up from the seed catalogue I am trying to absorb myself in. The world of Hybrid Sweetcorn has never looked so tempting......) Can you BE CAREFUL.

Original Son: Awwwwwwww (in that whine only possessed by children aged approximately 4 and upwards), but we are only PLAYING.

Me: Yeeeeeees but be CAREFUL. I don't want anyone's head splitting open.

Original Son: But it's our favourite game!

Me: What game?

Original Son: You know, the game 'I-Run-At-You-As-Fast-As-I-Can-And-If-I-Get-You-I-Will-Bash-You'.

Me: As I was saying.......

(40 seconds later - toddler meets cushion, toddler flies through air roaring with laughter, toddler clears mattress....toddler clears bedding pile....toddler clears carpeted area......toddler's head lands on strip of wood which divides living room/bedroom from dining room.......).

Me: Once again, AS I WAS SAYING....

And tomorrow?

Oh, it's just another Manic Monday.

Good luck one and all.

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