Princess

I must assume that when the Princess speaks English, she takes her tone from me. I fear it is not a very nice tone.

When I stub my toe and howl in agony, she will kindly ask what’s wrong and when told say sternly “well then be careful and don’t do it again”.

The house usually echoes to the sound of herself shouting “are you coming or not?” when she wants me to inspect her latest achievement “look Mummy, I’m eating a slice of ham” regardless of what I might be doing “I’m just finishing changing Daniel’s nappy” and how easy it might be for me to get away and how important I might consider what she particularly wishes to draw to my attention.

Every time she addresses me and I fail to respond instantly she says in a strict and reproachful voice “I asked you a question, Mummy”. A lot of the time, I’m forced to point out to her that no, actually, she hasn’t asked me a question and has just made a statement to which I am supposed to respond. She is trying to work out what a question is, so now when she says something she follows it up with “Is that a question or a misstatement Mummy?”. It’s like living with President Bush.

Me: Sweetheart, please eat or you will fade away to nothing.

Her: Like Echo.

Me: Eh?

Her (patiently): Echo who fell in love with Narcissus and faded away to nothing but her voice.

Me: Oh right.

In the end I was glad that she didn’t eat anything because there was less to throw up. Oh dear, home again with three children, one of whom is pathetically sick, thereby precluding a trip out of the house. In view of this, I have chosen to wear tracksuit bottoms, ancient hoody type thing and scholl sandals with no socks. Oh yes, I am a tremendously appealing sight today. You will be relieved to hear that I did shower; it was easy, really, I put the boys sitting in bouncy chairs in the bathroom while the Princess retched over the bath.

On the plus side, this is an excellent way to spend my last day of maternity leave because it means that on Monday I will leap into the fray with added gusto. Last night I calculated that taking into account our prohibitive childcare costs and my four day week, there will be relatively little left in my monthly salary for fun (yes, I appreciate that I might have done this calculation a little earlier but where’s the spontaneity in that?). Mr. Waffle said encouragingly “well, lots of women in your position have no money over when they pay for childcare so think positive”. Hmm. I feel like some kind of government statistic. And I know that it is a false calculation because, even, if I didn’t go back to work, we would still have to have some kind of childcare to preserve my sanity and I understand that the cost of valium is prohibitive.

Irregular plurals The Princess is fond of a piece of poetry from this book that goes as follows: Daddy is a doofus, a doofus, a doofus Daddy is a doofus, a doofus because… It goes on to ennumerate reasons why Daddy is a doofus including “belly like a burger” and “combs his hair with fingers”. I think that it would be fair to say that it’s probably not Mr. Waffle’s favourite poem. Her: Daddy doesn’t like “Daddy is a doofus”. Me: No, I don’t think so. Her: It makes him go like this (sticks out lower lip). Me: I see. Her: But I say to him “Daddy, you’re not a doofus, all the other daddies are doofi.”

Her: No, Mummy, I’m a baby tiger, roar, you must call me Princess Baby Tiger.
Me: OK, Princess Baby Tiger, are you going to eat any dinner?
Her: I’m Cinderella.
Me: OK Cinderella…
Her: No, Princess Cinderella Baby Tiger.
Me: Now Madam..
Her: Madam Princess Cinderella Baby Tiger.
Him: I see where Bob Geldof gets his children’s names from.

Her:� Look Mummy, a marmalade.
Me:� A marmalade stain?� Where?
Her
(impatiently): No.
Me: You
know that marmalade is a kind of jam made from oranges?
Her:
(Pause) But in the fountain Mummy, a marmalade.
Me:
(Peering into the fountain) Do you mean a mermaid sweetheart?
Her: YES.