Worry

Regular readers ("Hello mum!") will know that I worry quite a lot. Just because I'm a worrier, doesn't mean I haven't got a reason to be worried. Allow me to present Submission A, Mi'lud;

Barbie Does Dallas

This is not a random occurrence. Whenever I find the Girl's Barbie, she's in this position. The Girl is either making a statement on the sexualisation of children's toys, or she's opened a toy VD clinic. And yes, that cushion is saying "hello." Its very polite.

Its not that I really think that she's doing these things. But it worries me on a level I can't quite explain. As if its a little warning that in the future, when the Kids are a little older, things will be much more complicated. In the same way that I say to prospective parents "Huh! Think things are tough now, wait until your kid is born!" parents of teenagers say; "You ain't seen nothing yet, mate." The Wife tells me horror stories of what she was like as a teenager, and I remember... Well, actually I was a geek. I spent most of my childhood trying and failing to program a ZX Spectrum. My highest level of achievement was;

10 Print "TITS!"

20 Goto 10

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

The idea of the Girl liking boys (or girls) is still a dim and distant thing since she's only three. I can't quite imagine how I'll react to a spotty oik turning up on my doorstep claiming to be her boyfriend. I my head I'll say "No. You're not," and spray Mace in his eyes. But on a certain level, I know I won't be doing that. At this point I'm more concerned about her anger management issues and sadistic streak.

"Where's mummy going?"

"She's going to give blood."

"I want to see!"

"You wouldn't want to see people sticking needles in her."

"I would!"

Or her weird obsession with the cat

"I'm sniffing Boris' bum!"

However, I once had a discussion that if the Girl was parachuted into the jungle she'd find a way to survive. She's naturally pragmatic. She'd be a bit like John Rambo in First Blood. She isn't the one to worry about.

The Boy, on the other hand... Well, the Boy isn't that practical. He has to learn everything the hard way

(Examining his pants) "My plan worked! At school I wiped my bum AFTER I did a poo!"

If you parachuted the Boy into the jungle, he wouldn't survive. He'd get eaten. Probably by the Girl. Either that, or there would be some terrible misunderstanding. It seems that the Boy doesn't so much get the wrong end of the stick, but miss the stick entirely. As demonstrated by

"Where's mummy?"

"She's getting the car fixed, then giving blood."

"To the car?!?"

And

"I don't know why they call her Mrs Lovall. She doesn't love anyone."

Or, he'd forget to eat. The Boy has a memory of a strobe-lit goldfish. Every day he comes home from school and I ask him what he did, and every day he says; "I forgot." In fact, he can forget things mid-sentence.

‎"Dad, what's the difference between a bogies and spinach?"

"I don't know. What is the difference between bogies and spinach?"

"I can't remember."

Most of all I worry he's going to end up in a secure unit with one of those nice button-up-the-back canvas jackets they give you.

"I licked a blow off once."