Wednesday 9 October 2013

Divine intervention.

As religion goes, I'm a 'live and let live' kinda gal. As long you don't either a) ram it down my throat on my own doorstep or b) shoot someone for saying that God is a woman, I have no strong feelings either way. I can completely understand how some people find strength in faith, just as I can see how others need definitive proof of something tangible in order to believe.

The Childbeasts attend a church affiliated school, but this is more to do with its reputation than it's religious orientation. I don't have a problem with them attending worship, or studying religion, and The Daughter does seem to be growing up as a believer. Well, mainly when she wants something. A few weeks ago she came back from the grandparents with an acorn, and on this acorn she'd drawn a smiley face. As she often does, she got the urge to destroy it by taking the top bit off (which I liked because I thought it looked like a little acorn hat). The Husband said no, that he thought it would ruin it. But away she went and wrenched it off anyway. And then started sobbing because it had wrecked it. "WHHHHHHHHYYYY?!" she wailed, "Why did God let me do it?!" And as we stood, aghast and wondering how on earth it had become the good Lords fault, she looked to the heavens and her little mouth began to whisper. "Erm, Jenny?" The Husband said, laughing, "are you praying for God to fix it?" Casting us a dirty look, she flounced off and threw Mr Acorn with the rest of the broken crap she's accumulated.

That incident reminded me of how, when I was young, I would pray really hard if I had lost something. There would be a bit of bargaining going on, of the 'if you help me find my French homework I promise I'll never say 'bugger' again' kind. Which, to be fair, quite often worked. Although how much of it was down to God helping me out rather than me tearing my room apart, I'm not sure.

But after an experience in Matalan (of all places), I may have to reconsider my religious perspective. As I was paying, the Jamaican woman in the queue next to me patted me on the shoulder and said, with a sympathetic look on her face, "Trust in Jehovah" and walked away.  I could perhaps have understood this divine intervention if I'd been drunk in the middle of the day, swearing and offering the other shoppers a fight, but I was only buying a cat-print snood! Does Jehovah really have such a strong opinion on cats? Or snoods? Either way, she seemed to think I needed help from the Lord. I think I might have to get The Daughter to pray for me. And possibly donate my snood to charity.

Tuesday 8 October 2013

What's in a word?

My name is Kirsty and I love words. All of them. Everything about language fascinates me; how we learn to speak and write, how our brain makes associations and applies grammatical rules to form new sentences, how words can be used to evoke all kinds of emotions from anger to joy. Of course, while the right selection of words can have consequences ranging from the hilarious to the catastrophic, the wrong words can be just as effective..



The Daughter has always been articulate and frequently - although not always intentionally - funny. It's the things that she gets wrong that make us laugh the loudest and hardest, and that makes her the most furious! From her weather-orientated bloopers - "Look outside! It's shittering it down!", to her culinary blunders - "This bubonic sauce (balsamic vinegar salad dressing) is actually quite nice", her little funnies have earned the name 'Nennyisms', which have become all the more poignant since she learned the written form. Since then, her quaint little turns of phrase have taken on a whole new dimension, as she writes letters to her friends, and leaves us little notes...



Boyface has started to follow in his sisters footsteps, although it's the pronunciation of words he struggles more with. He would gleefully shout about the "church cock (clock) and "fags (flags..I hope) on the park". I'm sure I've given my parents the same sort of laughs over the years though; they never let me forget about the time we were driving through a place I called Birminghamshire. And I do remember being very literal in my pronunciation of words when I was younger. I pronounced Penelope as 'Penner-low-pee' and Parade as 'Parradee'. But despite my own somewhat shaky introduction to the English language, I am now a fully paid up degree holder who loves to read and write. And so the next time The Daughter is playing with a pair of Lego Ninja Turtles nunchucks and says "I know what to do with these gymnackers!", after I've finished wetting myself laughing I will tell her she has a bright future ahead. And that if she ever finds herself in Birminghamshire, she should look out for the church cocks and the fags on the park..

Tuesday 1 October 2013

The lowest form of wit

Someone told me a while back that children don't really understand the concept of sarcasm until they're about eleven (my smart-mouthed daughter is only 6 so I'm reserving judgment on that, but let's run with it..). If this is true, I pity any child that comes into contact with myself or The Husband, because sarcasm is what we do. We both graduated from University with degrees in Sarcasm and General Ridicule (him with 3rd class, me with a 1st - natch).

Our own kids are subjected to this relentless wisecracking on an almost daily basis. Sometimes they go with it, answering with a weary "Oh you are silly daddy.." (it's always him because he takes it too far) and a pitying shake of the head. Sometimes it riles them to the point of hysteria, and I have to step in because I just can't bear the tears. But sometimes, it's just too much to resist and we go wading in to battle, side by side in our mission to wind up the offspring.

Like tonight for instance. On emptying The Daughters lunchbox I discovered that, yet again, she'd taken the cheese out her sandwich and essentially just had bread for lunch. In our quest for a sandwich filling she will actually eat, we've gone through pretty much every variety of meat and cheese that Asda stocks. And so, whilst buttering the bread for tomorrows sarnies, we saw this as a prime urine-extracting opportunity. "If you don't like this cheese," The Husband began, "I don't know what we're going to do because we've tried all the others". "Why, what is it?" The Daughter enquired. "Well, I've milked all of the cats and...". "DADDYYYYYY!" she shouts, knowing that silliness is imminent. Well, it was just too much to resist; I rolled my metaphorical sleeves up and joined in. "You know how 'Cathedral City' is spelt c-a-t...?" I asked her with a knowing raise of the eyebrow and BOOM!  The fish bit the worm and I reeled that sucker in!

It's when it's other people's kids that the problem arises, and The Husband in particular can't seem to resist winding up our daughters tiny dinner guests. the boy from down the street came round at the weekend and the kids sat watching 'Monsters Inc.'. The Daughter - being an almighty show off - announced "I've seen 'Monsters University". Not to be outdone, the little lad said "I've seen 'Monsters University too!". And The Husband, doing what he does best, said "I've BEEN to Monsters University - that's where I got my degree". The poor kid didn't know what to think, but I bet the rumour is already well on its way around school that Jenny's daddy went to a cartoon university.

In a way it's a good thing that kids can be so easily wound up; it's not going to be half as much fun when all we get for our efforts is a smart-arsed retort. Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it's also the most enjoyable!