Mumu has started trumpeting a phrase no 2-year-old should ever say: “Oh sh*t!”
I’ve been racking my brain, going over the last 13 days of solo parenthood, trying to figure out where she might have picked it up.
I’m sure it’s not from anything I might have said that morning I went into their bedroom and discovered Lulu’s dirty protest. I realize some of you might be reading this at breakfast, so I will refrain for describing in detail the horrific event, but, suffice to say, Lulu got across–in the strongest possible terms–her distress over her father’s extended absence. Message received!
And I’m sure it can’t be from anything I might have said when I hauled Lulu to the bathroom that morning, plopped her down, then screamed bloody murder when I saw the 10 inch centipede in the tub. And of course they bite. And move really fast. And head straight for your filth-covered 2 yr. old.
And I’m sure I didn’t say anything uncouth while chasing the biting 10 in centipede around my bathroom, chucking it in the toilet, and then chasing a hysterical two-year-old, now running across the living room rug. Tracking. Yeah.
I’m almost positive I held my tongue when the girls, together, brought down my 7 ft standing lamp. And broke it.
I’m sure a bad word never left my lips on any of the 6 mornings (in a row!) the girls decided to rise at 5am.
And I’m sure I was cool, calm, and cuss-free when I turned around in the front yard, and found Lulu covered, head to toe, in scarlet red, congealing blood. As I fumbled with my cell phone and shook in terror, I’m sure I said nothing potty in nature when I realized my daughter was laughing at me, and pulling squished, pulpy cherries out of her hair. Not blood. Cherries. From our cherry tree. Apparently they’re for wearing, and scaring the sh*t (oops) out of your mother, not for eating.
I must I said, “sugar!” when I put Mumu down for the night and realized she had a full, soapy, shampoo-filled head of hair. Although, as my kind twitter friend Janel pointed out- this may have been my own resourceful method of multi-tasking– simultaneously washing Mumu’s head AND the bedclothes.
I never, in any colorful language, expressed my disappointment when I found that Lulu had pulled half the tea bags out of the box (and tea costs as much as gold dust on this island, btw), tore them up, and spread the leaves all over the kitchen floor.
I probably said, “golly gee!” this afternoon, when Mumu somehow managed to split her lip on the windowsill and start gushing blood. Real blood this time.
And I’m positive I never muttered anything unladylike under my breath during the 10 hour power struggle I engaged in with Mumu after she smacked me and refused to apologize after time-out.
I’m sure I said, “oh boy!” when I found the cat had vomited all over my laundry room.
No expletives at all were uttered upon Lulu finding, and subsequently wailing over, her beloved rubber toy walrus in the grass, decapitated by the lawn mower.
Yes; the more I think about it, the more I realize–it couldn’t possibly be any of these. She must have picked it up somewhere else.
Now, advice regarding toddler potty-mouth please: Is it best to ignore, or issue a firm reprimand?
Oh, before I forget- I don’t want to disappoint anyone, but I won’t be writing a blog post about my 14 day single parenting of 2-year-old twins experiment, because as you can see, I obviously rocked it, and wouldn’t want to make you all jealous of my manifold parenting/house-management skills. I mean, 14 straight days without the girls doing anything disgusting, or saying anything offensive, or breaking anything, or getting up at ungodly hours, or suffering real and faux injuries, or forgetting to rinse out the shampoo, or cleaning up the feline digestive failures, or discovering toy decapitations, or chasing galapagos-sized insects. Wait…..all that all did happen. Oh sh*t, guess the cat vomit’s out of the bag.
P.S. Jungledad returns tomorrow, and I retreat to my novel-writing cave to lick my congealed cherry wounds and finish the bloody thing. Again.