Brain. Mush. Bleugh.

The Soundtrack of my Day

Hello Puppy calling, do you want to play with me? We’ll have fun together while you learn your ABCs... Is the theme tune of my life. Does anyone else find themselves singing this one as they push the trolley round the supermarket, apply their mascara or indeed head to bed with darling hubby? No? It’s just me whose life is supported by the V-tech soundtrack? Yes that’s right, I have traded my sound knowledge of the lyrics of current popular hits from that there hit parade, for the lyrics of my child’s toys.

Bleugh.

And lets face it, it don’t get much better - being a mother has reduced me to spewing forth utter gibberish. I found myself in the kitchen earlier today making dinner in anticipation of lovely hubby’s return from work (oh what a wonderful housewife I truly am), singing (to the tune of ‘Here we Go round the Mulberry Bush’), “I’m making a yummy coq au vin, coq au vin, coq au vin, I’m making a yummy coq au vin, coq au coq.” An unfortunate ending to any song, I agree.

I blame my child (although I must confess she was actually napping whilst I was composing the above gem). Not only do all her toys play the same plinky plonky versions of the same vile melodies, but her mere presence, and her sleep patterns, have reduced me to this nonsense. Thank God I am opting to stay at home - not sure a classroom of 16 year olds would really appreciate the Coq Au Vin song. Either that or I would be a You Tube hit overnight.

Mummatron

Inane Gibbering

What is it about babies that makes us all gabble nonsense at them in an absurdly high tone of voice? I am sure there is a good reason for it, and babies do seem to respond, but do we really want to teach them to speak in a register which only small dogs can pick up clearly? And what’s with all the rubbish we spout?

Many years ago we lived next door to a Dutch family with three small girls. During that time there were a couple of incidents which made me realise that I excel in nonsensical drivel. The first was when the two year old appeared at the fence in her bathing costume. I complimented her on her attire:

Me; “I love your bathers.”

Annelise: “what?”

Me: “I love your cozzie, my sister in Australia calls it bathers.”

Annelise: “What?”

Me: “ I love your bathing costume, my sister in Australia calls it bathers”.

Annelise: “What?”

Me: “I love what you are wearing, I call it a cozzie, but my sister in Australia calls it your bathers.”

Annelise, showing some impatience: “yes, yes, but what is this Australia?”

The second was when we were in our respective gardens one lovely summer afternoon and the father of the three girls pulled the hover mower backwards and took off two of his toes. Gramps, who was considerably younger in those days, vaulted over the fence and ran to administer first aid, the mother of the three girls ran to call the ambulance, and I gathered the three girls and took them indoors away from it all. The inane gibbering began almost at once as I heard myself saying:

“Don’t worry, your daddy will be fine, it’s only his toes … I mean unless he wants to be a ballet dancer he will be just fine.” What?! “He doesn’t want to be a ballet dancer does he?” Three solemn little faces regarded me with utter disbelief but, bless them, three little heads shook in unison and one of them even tried a wan little smile.

So maybe one of my new years’ resolutions should have been to talk to my granddaughter as if she is a human being and not a cast member of a Punch and Judy show – think I’ll now go and practise a sexy lower register…

Granny Bloggings