Wednesday, 17 March 2010
'Scuse me Anglo Saxon...
But perhaps I really should moderate my language...it's not as if I have not been warned!
A few years ago my Mother and I went shopping to Norwich to buy The Boy some shoes. He was about three or four at the time. It was a glorious sunny spring day prbably teh first for many weeks a bit like now. We parked the other end of Pottergate and walked in past teh market and to the Royal Arcade looking for children's shoe shops. Everywhere we went we saw people eating ice creams.
The Boy: Mummy can I have an icecream?
Me: No darling we are going to buy shoes...
After traipsing about some more we found the perfect place for shoes and bought a pair of beautiful red trainers which met the approval of my mother, my approbation and of course, most importantly, they got the nod from the Boy.
Passing waterstones on the way to Habitat, The Boy saw some more people eating ice creams.
The Boy: Mummy I want and ice cream!
me: I want never gets, now come on Boy we have more shopping to do.
And so we did, wandering around Habitat and detouring into Jarrolds. Finally after what must have seemed like ages and feelign just a tad hot and bothered we started to make our way back to the car up Pottergate.
We passed and ice cream vendor.
The Boy: Mummy I want an ice cream...
I ignored him.
The Boy: Granny I want an icecream.
My Mother ignored him
The Boy: I NEED an ice cream
We both ignored him as we strode purposefully on up the hill with him dawdling a little behind.
Finally the longing got too much for him and just as we all strode into a small square full of studentsd laying around on the grass and smart ladies loitering in front of smart shop windows a carrying voice was heard..
The Boy: I WANT A BLOODY ICECREAM!!!!!!!!
Much as I wanted to charge after my mother, who by now was practically racing away in her attempt to distance herself from us both figurativley as well as physically, I was in no position to pretend he wasn't mine mostly because with that demand he also decided to have a sit down strike...
A few years down the line and I find that I don't like hearing my children swear, while it may be funny in a four year old on the odd occasion it is no good in a seven year old especially when other children are about who are quick tattle tale to their parents.
We now have a swearing box and my purse is definitley getting lighter and as for his swearing - I have hardly heard a bad word...!
Picture shows: Hagar The Horrible by Dik Browne