It was T-Bot who noticed it. Quite frankly, I had not paid much attention to the product, let alone the packaging.

This is Freddy Flamingo, as featured on the front of a packet of Huggies Flushable Moist Wipes.

” Hey Mommy,” remarked the T-Bot, “they want us to go potty in a flamingo!”.

Then, obviously finding the idea more funny than gross, he jumped around for a while, giggling and mumbling in that six-year-old-boy fashion,

“potty in a flamingo! potty in a flamingo! ha-herrr! ha-herr! (snort)”

I know you can buy potty chairs and such with cat decals and giraffe spots and hippo faces but they are, you know, just decoration. Am I alone in finding Potty Flamingo a little disturbing?

I am so, so sorry.

I just can’t help it.

I just keep thinking of Freddy Flamingo, doing what flamingos do. Standing on one leg. Stalking through the reeds. Dipping his beak in the water. Preening his back. And … sloshing.

Last night as we were hauling our tired, boated bodies into bed, The Daddy and I agreed to both try and cut down on the amount of junk we eat. We have been in vacation mode for too long as regards food, throwing back beer and dessert and pizza and cookies with blatant disregard for our health or for whether our shorts would even fit the following day.

T-Bot was either listening at the door or he is psychic. I am going with psychic. This morning he announced that he was going to prepare me a “Yummy, Yummy Breakfast” and that I was to sit at the dining room table and wait. After being called back briefly to peel my own carrot and chop my own apple I was presented with my meal. 

“Oh!” I said weakly, “That looks yummy and very … healthy!” 

“Yes,” he said, with a satisfied grin, “It is yummy! I’m going to sit here and watch you eat it!” 

At the supermarket: “Wow! Lots of dead animals! Mommy, they shot lots of animals and then they put them in the supermarket so people could eat them!”

“I am lucky our house is so close to our school. If the school moved closer to the house and the house moved closer to the school it would be a schoolhouse.” 

Mommy: “T-Bot, do you know what an apple a day keeps the doctor away means?”

T-Bot: “Ye- es…”

Mommy: “What does it mean?”

T-Bot: “If you have an apple and you give it to the doctor, he will wave his hands in the air and scream and run away.”

“I don’t think an old, old, man is allowed to be president”

For my 2.4 readers holding their breath and waiting for an update - I cancelled our doctors appointment. 

After lunch The Wictor had a long nap and The T-Bot and Baby Sister watched a good hour or more of Charlie and Lola, during which they laughed hysterically and did not come downstairs even once, and I - oh bliss! - guiltily engaged in computer based activities which did not involve Nick Jr or Starfall. And when The Wictor finally emerged, he still refused to put weight on his foot. But this time, when I inspected carefully, I discovered a tiny patch of swelling between his toes where an inexpertly cut toenail had been forced into the skin. Once he had finished lunch I tricked him into walking, and although he still trots awkwardly with two toes raised, he is more or less fine.

I cancelled the doctors appointment with 20 minutes to spare, breathed a sigh of relief, and then the fun started again.  The T-Bot declared today Earth Day! and instructed us in preparing a celebration mostly involving balloons with continents drawn on them and a reading about Pangea by Yours Truly. Also, South America and Australia cutouts on sticks cuddled up and had a cosy conversation and then cried as they were wrenched from each other. “I’ll miss you!” they shouted, as the Great Continent slowly broke apart. 

You couldn’t make it up. 

T-Bot: Mommy I am going to paint this paper, all over. And then I will put it on the windshields of all the cars. When it rains it will turn into a rainbow! Then it will be really cool!

The Mommy: T-Bot, I don’t think it will turn into a rainbow, it will just be a big slushy mess.

T-Bot: But that’s Art, Mommy. You don’t understand. It’s Art.

Artistic ambitions seemingly thwarted, he proceeds to the back yard, where experiments with a cardboard box and a hosepipe soon create a huge pile of brown pulp.

Later, the Wictor wanders out and with a “OOK Mama! Poopoo!” transforms the experiment into another, more squashed, work of art, which we are then prohibited by all from clearing away.

Until it dries and starts to smell like its namesake, then the Daddy gets mad, ignores all protests and washes it down the drain. 

With parents like us, none of them will likely grow up to be the next Damian Hirst. But in the meantime, we don’t have a yard which smells like poopoo. I think I can live with myself. 

I wasn’t going to blog about Mothers Day because we don’t really celebrate it. We just try really hard to make every day Mothers Day. Or so the theory goes. 

But just now, I was walking past one of my Mothers day offerings from T-Bot, and I just had to share: 

…has sprouted incredibly long legs and cut all her hair off. But at least she is smiling. 

Yes they are, but only when she is really angry. 

 … and she forgot to put up one side of her Princess Leia do. But ever calm in the face of adversity, she is still smiling. 

To match her eyes. Obviously. 

1. I saw a real, live Renault Megane driving down our street! I did a double take, listened hard for that spooky Twilight Zone music and then ran home to tell The Daddy, because as far as we know they don’t sell them here.  

2. Yesterday I finally found some espresso grind coffee in one of the local supermarkets. We stopped drinking espresso for a while when we got our new drip filter, but then decided it was time to use the machine again before its insides went moldy. The only problem? In the meantime it seems every supermarket in town had noticed their sales had dropped 100% and decided not to carry espresso grind anymore. 

I almost left the fancy silver Illy tin on the shelf because ye gods! $13.99 for a tiny tin of coffee? I think I was paying $5.49 before. But I am so glad I brought that baby home because tonight we had the best espresso we have had in a very long time. The crema alone was to die for, smooth and sweet like hot chocolate. 

3. The kindergarten class had a Mothers Day breakfast this morning and although T-Bot refused to sing or do the actions to the cute song they had been practicing for weeks, he was very excited about giving me the blue crepe paper flower he had made. And because he was excited, I was excited. 

Let’s just say you are 50 something and sitting minding your own business in a suburban haircutters, when you hear the following conversation. How would it make you feel? 

*****************************************************

Mommy: “T-Bot, you can go sit up the front, they have magazines and books…”

T-Bot (squirming): “Mommy? Where? ”

Mommy: “In the seating area. The lady is going to cut Baby Sisters hair, it will only take 10 minutes ”

T-Bot (loudly): “Mommy, I can’t sit there. There are OLD people. Mommy, I don’t like OLD people”. 

Mommy (squinting to see): “You mean, um, hrghmm… OldER people…”

T-Bot: (up an octave): “No Mommy, I can’t sit next to them. They are really OLD!” 

***************************************************

Not being in my fifties yet, I am still pondering on how it would make me feel. Is this cute or bratty? Would it be cute coming from a 3 year old? But bratty from a 6 year old? I still haven’t decided. So I gave him the benefit of the doubt. 

For a child who hardly ever injures himself badly, the T-Bot sure is sporting a lot of Band Aids these days.  

It all really began when he started Kindergarten. He had a lot of trouble adjusting to the big school routine and I found it very stressful to the point of blubbing. My baby was out there in that big big world and he wasn’t having a good time and there was nothing I could do-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-! 

And almost from Day One at Kindergarten, he came home with knees and hands full of bandages. I weeped and I wailed to anyone who would listen. I was sure he was being bullied, because boo-boos bad enough for medical treatment are usually a rarity in this house. In fact, my kids think Band Aids are a toy or a treat, like funny stickers which don’t stick in the middle. 

But every time I asked him he would tell me he fell over at recess. 

It wasn’t until months into the school year, when things were going much better, that I discovered the truth. The kindergarteners have free reign of the Band Aid box! They are encouraged to tape themselves up whenever they feel like it! And to my son, any excuse is a good excuse. 

Last night he was sporting 3 fingers full, plus one behind his knee. Why the Band-Aid behind his knee? Because: 

“Mommy, I was walking at recess and I was tired and my leg hurt so-o-o-o-o much, so I said to myself, I will have to put on a Band Aid”. 

All was quiet Inzaburbs. The Daddy had already prepared and placed the chicken in the oven, with the enthusiastic help of The T-Bot (enthusiastic! with a pepper pot!). The Mommy’s job was to peel an enormous sweet potato. When the T-Bot asked to help, she didn’t say no. Because she is a neglectful mother who would do anything to get out of helping with dinner and anyhow, a potato peeler is hardly dangerous. Is it? 

Under supervision, I will have you know. The peeling was strictly under supervision. And this is a 6 year old we are talking about. Do you sense a little defensiveness creeping into my tone here? 

You guessed it. Suddenly a horrendous shrieking rends the air. A series of anguished, high pitched screeches which goes on and on.  

I look at the end of the T-Bot’s thumb, with its bubbling fountain of blood. I never saw it coming. That blade moved faster than the eye to wreak its terrible havoc. 

“Aiiii eeeee argh eeeeeeeeeeeee eee eee eee eee aa eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee aaaaaaa iiiii eeeeee iiiiiiiiiii Mommy! Mommy I peeled myself! I peeled myself and red is coming ouuuuuuut! ”

If the phrase “like a stuck pig” wasn’t such a cliche I would use the phrase “like a stuck pig”. Applicable in this case to both the bleeding and the squealing. 

The T-Bot, so unaccustomed to the sight of his own blood that he doesn’t actually have a name for it, is sent into a panic. I have to admit that I too am moving fast to prevent his precious life force draining out of his body. I bustle for the kitchen roll. I hustle for the Band-Aids. 

The moaning and shrieking continues, along with frequent loud reminders that he peeled himself. By now the whole situation is getting a little over dramatic. The Daddy has politely left the room to indulge in some quiet cackling in a corner, and I am very tempted to join him. Because we are very bad parents like that, who find it hysterical when our son has injured himself and is making the absolute most of the situation, in such a cute, childish way. 

Instead:

“You know sweetheart,” I say, “that’s what Band Aids are for. ”

Soon a double application of tie-dyed bandages has done its job and The T-bot is ensconsed in a chair, watching me peel the sweet potato.

“Mommy I will sit here and if you peel yourself you will tell me and I will get you a Band Aid,” he states importantly, “because if I don’t help you all the red will drip out of your body and on the floor”.