I’m thinking of starting a support group for people who live with three and four-year-olds.
And offering Heather Armstrong free membership. Armstrong is the woman behind the wildly popular blog, DOOCE where the thirty-something mother of two blogs about having depression, her marriage break up, her struggles with parenthood and the routine humilation that is living with a three-year-old, Marlo.
I hear ya, Heather. I hear ya.
I also live with a four-year-old who is quite simply like the greatest song I have ever heard. Ava is funny and wry and loving and wise and just every type of delicious.
Fifty percent of the time.
The other fifty percent of the time, it’s like spending every waking minute with, I don’t know, say Princess Anne. Or Stalin. Actually, that’s not true. Ava is extraordinarily fond of narrating EVERY WAKING MOMENT OF OUR DAY. So sometimes, living with her is like living with Evan from Secret Life of Us.
I don’t remember reading any of this stuff in What To Expect When You’re Expecting …
And of course, when all that isn’t happening, the three or four-year-old in your life is on a mission to shame you like you’ve never been shamed before.
Ava likes to keep it simple and just blithely announces “My va-GINA is itchy” when we’re standing in the checkout at Woolies.
Which is better than author Kylie Ladd’s daughter Cam who – on her first day of four-year-old kinder – chose to sing “My Humps, My Humps, My Lovely Lady Lumps” by the Black Eyed Peas as her get-to-know-you song. The other kids chose, you know, nursery rhymes.
Or my friend Danielle’s daughter Eleanour who – after someone commented on how beautiful her hair was – replied with “Everybody says that to me. But you must say it cause your hair is pretty gross.”
I’m not entirely sure where to go to from there … possibly therapy.
Back to Heather Armstrong. And so it was that Heather recently blogged about a recent humiliating incident with Marlo. Let me set the scene. Marlo had recently been rather badly constipated (you think that’s bad? It gets way worse …). And so it was that Heather had been giving Marlo enemas to help relieve the problem.That’s right, ENEMAS. Except that to help make the situation a little less frightening, Heather called the process “Butt Medicine”. As in “Hey Marlo, it’s time for your butt medicine”. You still with me?
Cut to a few weeks later when Heather has been roped into helping with ‘craft day’ at Marlo’s preschool. I’ll let Heather Armstrong explain what happened next during the preschool craft day …
She (Marlo) and a few of the other kids were sitting around a low table with me, all of them dressed in plastic aprons, all giddy with the idea of destroying the planet with glitter. Her teacher had prepared a tray with bottles of glue and bowls of glitter and was approaching the table with this tray when Marlo’s face contorted with panic….
Before I could do anything she screamed, “BUTT MEDICINE!!!!”
She sure did. Loud enough and with such dread that I’m pretty sure you couldn’t have mistaken it for, “But, medicine?” The teacher shook her head as if she didn’t hear her correctly, and Marlo continued hysterically, “I DON’T WANT BUTT MEDICINE! I DON’T WANT BUTT MEDICINE! NO. BUTT. MEDICINE.”
I very quickly explained to Marlo that it was glue for the glitter and not butt medicine, nope, not butt medicine at all, not one bit.
You can read Heather’s full post on DOOCE here.
I think screaming “Butt Medicine” beats mentioning an itchy vagina. So Heather wins.
Now it’s over to you. Do you have embarrassing kids? What’s the most embarrassing moment you’ve had with your child, niece, nephew, godchild or grandchild? Come on, give us a laugh.