Posts Tagged ‘don’t kids say the darnedest things’

The other morning, The Pixie told me about a dream she’d had about Harry Potter. This was markedly different from the dream I’d had about my husband misbehaving himself with a french exchange student. (“We’re never getting a french exchange student now, are we?” my husband said dolefully when I told him about the dream. Listen, he’s only got his Dream Self to blame.)

The Pixie’s dream involved her talking to Harry Potter and then getting ‘ouchies’ all over her foot.

“It wasn’t real – it was just a dream!” The Pixie told me, as she examined her foot. “Is Harry Potter real, Mama?”

“No, sweetheart, he’s just a character,” I replied. I explained about the books and then the movie version of the books. The Pixie thought deeply about this for a while.

“Harry Potter is a boy who just wanted to be in a movie!” she concluded, before jumping onto her next question. “Was Michael Jackson real?”

“Yes,” I replied. Well, bits of him were.

“He’s dead because his doctor gave him the wrong medicine,” she gravely informed me.

This was a little different from her original theory when he first died that “Michael Jackson was just too sad because he had girl hair.” Mr Justice, on the other hand, was quick to say “Why did Michael Jackson die? Because someone told him to ‘Beat It’.” which – at the time – fell into the ‘Too Soon’ joke category. I was so proud.

There’s a whole generation of children who are learning about death through Michael Jackson. Even my friend The Fabulous Miss Jones’ three year old knows who he is (although she calls him “Mikeson Jackson”) and my little friend Cyclone Bella (aged 4) is often heard to exclaim “Michael Jackson is the best boy in the world!” and refuses to accept he is dead. According to her dad Uncle B, however, she was heard to remark “Michael’s face is changing!” while watching his ‘Best Of’ collection on DVD. And no, Uncle B went on to add, it wasn’t when she was watching Thriller.

Anyway, we talked a little while about Michael Jackson and how his kids must have felt very sad when he died. The Pixie went on to explain that he was probably “in Heaven” now – a place that is apparently “on the way to Chloe’s house”.

“You mean the place where all the graves are?” I asked. I mean, she was either referring to the big cemetery or the Hungry Jacks with the cool slide.

“Yes, you go to Heaven when you die so you can become soil. Michael Jackson is soil now.”

Tiddles McGee piped up suddenly with something that sounded like “He wore a pumpkin suit!”

“He wore a pumpkin suit?” I asked.

“No! He drank pumpkin juice,” Tiddles McGee clarified – which, quite frankly – didn’t make much more sense than him wearing a pumpkin suit. “And there was this hand that went all mouldy.”


“No, moley.

“Michael Jackson had a mole hand?” I tried to clarify. It would certainly explain why he wore one glove.

“No! Harry Potter drank the pumpkin juice. And the other one got the moley hand.”

I didn’t want to ask who “the other one” was. I was confused enough as it is.

Need I mention this conversation happened before 7 o’clock in the morning and before I’d even had my first coffee of the day? Hopefully someone will read this post before their first coffee of the day and can share my pain…

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At my 21st birthday party, my sister Belle stood up and made a stirring speech in which she casually mentioned she used to tie me to the bed and whip me with shoe laces.

“But… but… but…” I spluttered at the time. “We were playing a game! She was the Master! And… and… and I was the Slave!”

Which really didn’t further my case One Little Bit. Still, at least I was able to defend myself, albeit poorly. 

It was a different story for the parents of the six year old little friend who visited us the other day. He suddenly – and most cheerfully – informed us that his dad slept in nothing but his underpants and that his mum had been caught by a policeman that morning for driving too fast.

I almost smiled at his candour but then had one of those chilling moments when I imagined my own six year old boy merrily telling another parent “My mum is hungover like a bastard!”. Which I did happen to be at that moment. But I had my reasons. Reasons, I tells ya! 

I then thought of some other beans my son might inadvertently spill:

Son’s claim: “My mother tried to walk to school when she wasn’t wearing any trousers!”
In my defence: It was a joke! A JOKE! Of course I know I’m not ready to walk to school before my trousers are on. Although my trousers being inside out is another thing altogether.

Son’s claim: “My mum sings songs about my bum!”
In my defence: “Bum” rhymes with “tum” and “mum”. And at least I’m not using the obvious rhyme “cum”. Or, worse still, “Heidi Klum”. 

Son’s claim: “My mum let my brother poke her boobies while she was on the phone to the phone company!”
In my defence: Well, I think we all know that story by now. 

Son’s claim: “My mum called the cat a rude word!”
In my defence:  The cat refuses to eat any Actual Cat Food I place before His Royal Catness and yet, at the first opportunity, will jump up on the kitchen table to feast upon the children’s unguarded milk-sodden Weetbix so he can then happily slosh diarrhetic cat-shit on the back step. Believe me, that cat had that rude word coming…

Son’s claim: “My mum hit me on the head with a Barbie doll!”
In my defence: He was asking for it. No, really. He claimed it didn’t hurt when he did it to his sister and insisted that I do the same to him to prove once and for all that it did not hurt. Turns out it did actually hurt. A lot. 

Son’s claim: “My mum says she’s taking a hip flask to the next School Concert!”
In my defence: Because I sat through last year’s concert without one and… and… and…

My conclusion? Slap a gagging order on him until he’s 18 and old enough for me to sue him for defamation of character. It’s the only way to protect my Good Name. Or at least give me first dibs at spilling the beans myself on this blog.

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The other day we were all playing a guessing game in the car – you know, the kind of thing you do with the kids to distract them from the fact it’s been five minutes since you last passed them back a biscuit. Five Whole Minutes. Sheesh! A kid could starve to death back there in the Love Bus without even a single milk arrowroot. Apparently.

Anyway, I was describing an armadillo, employing all my finely-honed writerly skills. My potential Pulitzer Prize-winning description went something like this: “I’ve got armour like a knight and I rhyme with ‘pillow’. What am I?” (Like it?).

And the Pixie immediately piped up with “A chicken with love hearts!”

Because of course a chicken has armour and rhymes with pillow, when it comes with love hearts. Those love hearts make all the difference, I find.

Now I love my little girl, but she’s one trippy child, man. When recently asked, as part of one of those facebook “memes”, where her mother liked to go, she responded: “To a party, to the city, to holiday, to sugar.” As my friend JS later pointed out: in her weird way, The Pixie totally summed me up.

And just when we thought we’d heard it all, my Pixie recently revealed herself to be one of the Greatest Minds of her generation, pioneering a new scientific phenomenon known to the world as “Fairy Science”.

Mr Justice was typically scathing, when he heard about it. “Fairy Science doesn’t exist,” he sneered.

“Yes it does,” The Pixie argued back. “You can make a Giant Fairy Wand which makes Magic using Fairy Science.”

“If it’s a giant wand, it will be 100 feet tall and you wouldn’t be able to hold it,” Mr Justice argued back. 

“Then you use Fairy Science to make a Giant Fairy Robot which uses Giant Fairy Robot Batteries and then the Giant Fairy Robot can hold the Giant Wand,” The Pixie replied, as if pointing out the bleeding obvious. Of course you’d do that. You know it makes sense.

There’s apparently been all manner of recent advances in Fairy Science, according to our reputable source. Apparently, if you “make lots of little fairies and press a button to make them go chi-chi-chi“, this makes “fairy snow”. Amazing.

When I asked her who she’d heard about Fairy Science from, she said “Nobody. I thought it all myself.”

That I would believe. This is the little girl who will suddenly announce in the shopping centre “I wish I were an elephant blowing its nose” and, at other times, will shout “Turn off my ears, mum! The wind keeps rushing out of them.”

This is the little girl that I love “mostest” in the world, who snuggles against me each night and covers my face with small, sweet kisses each day.

Keep pioneering, Fairy Scientist. The world needs your magic.

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