sleep time. Sweet dreams, darling.’ I back out of the doorway swiftly before he can think of anything else to say.
I go up to check on him half an hour later, expecting to find a sleeping child. Instead I’m greeted as I open the doorwith a red-faced Charlie saying furiously, ‘Go away, Mummy, I’m having a waggle.’
I’m not quite sure how to react to this. I’ve been adamant that playing with your willy is fine in private, but not in Marks and Spencer’s, however long the queue. But somehow it feels deeply dodgy to have interrupted him. I have visions of family therapy at some point in the future, where I’m accused of hampering his psycho-sexual development. I decide it might be best to simply ignore it.
‘I just wanted to say goodnight. You should be asleep really, you know.’
‘That’s OK, Mummy. I love my willy. I bet you wish you had one.’
Apart from late on Saturday night when the gin and chocolate supplies have run out, I can honestly say I never have, but naturally do not share this information with Charlie.
‘No, darling, I like what I’ve got.’
I know this is a pathetic euphemistic defence of female sexuality, but I’m too tired for anything more robust.
‘Well, I think willies are much better. You know, if you have a hole in the front of your pyjamas you can poke your willy right out. You can’t do that with your bottom, can you, Mummy?’
Not unless I am very drunk, no. But I can’t let this slur go unanswered.
‘No, I can’t. But you wouldn’t have been born if everyone had willies, so both sorts are good. I love my bottom and you love yours, so that’s great. Now go to sleep, you’ve got school tomorrow.’
Please God he does not share this conversation with Miss Pike.
I go back downstairs feeling shattered, and make a cup oftea. I’m halfway through it when Leila rings. She thinks it’s all terribly funny, and vows to adopt waggling as her new word for the week. The conversation moves on to other favourite euphemisms and we end up nearly hysterical. Our favourites are tinkle and hampton. We both think they’d make very jolly names for characters in a children’s series. We finally get round to what she rang for, which is to fix up a visit at the weekend as she thinks it’s too long since she last saw Charlie. The lovely prospect of a day with Leila is only slightly marred by the fact that she tends to ask what time Charlie goes to bed about half an hour after she arrives. She adores him, but her boredom threshold for child-centred activity is very low, in common with most of my friends who don’t have kids. Last time she came down she got involved in a Lego-building session which nearly sent her into a coma. Also she usually wears some item of exquisite clothing that Charlie manages to stain permanently. I make her promise to wear something washable and arrange for her to come down on Sunday. I also confirm we’re meeting for supper tomorrow night, for some Charlie-free gossip time. If the weather is nice on Sunday we can go to the beach and Charlie can run about getting soaked. I can’t wait.
Edna is due at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so I set the alarm clock extra early so I can get up and clean the kitchen before she arrives. I wake full of good intentions, but end up standing in the kitchen watching the birds building a nest in the hedge opposite the window. I’m tempted to put some kitchen paper out for them to make duvets with, but suspect they prefer the twigs and straw from the field next door. I do manage to remember to spray Jif cleaner all over the kitchen surfaces, which suggests a recent cleaning spree. And even through I know this won’t fool Edna for long, it makes mefeel better. I’m dressed and ready to go by seven thirty, when Charlie belts downstairs and starts telling me all about his dream about Egyptians. Smiling vaguely, I try to steer the conversation away from pyramids and then Edna diverts his attention by offering to cut up fruit
I go up to check on him half an hour later, expecting to find a sleeping child. Instead I’m greeted as I open the doorwith a red-faced Charlie saying furiously, ‘Go away, Mummy, I’m having a waggle.’
I’m not quite sure how to react to this. I’ve been adamant that playing with your willy is fine in private, but not in Marks and Spencer’s, however long the queue. But somehow it feels deeply dodgy to have interrupted him. I have visions of family therapy at some point in the future, where I’m accused of hampering his psycho-sexual development. I decide it might be best to simply ignore it.
‘I just wanted to say goodnight. You should be asleep really, you know.’
‘That’s OK, Mummy. I love my willy. I bet you wish you had one.’
Apart from late on Saturday night when the gin and chocolate supplies have run out, I can honestly say I never have, but naturally do not share this information with Charlie.
‘No, darling, I like what I’ve got.’
I know this is a pathetic euphemistic defence of female sexuality, but I’m too tired for anything more robust.
‘Well, I think willies are much better. You know, if you have a hole in the front of your pyjamas you can poke your willy right out. You can’t do that with your bottom, can you, Mummy?’
Not unless I am very drunk, no. But I can’t let this slur go unanswered.
‘No, I can’t. But you wouldn’t have been born if everyone had willies, so both sorts are good. I love my bottom and you love yours, so that’s great. Now go to sleep, you’ve got school tomorrow.’
Please God he does not share this conversation with Miss Pike.
I go back downstairs feeling shattered, and make a cup oftea. I’m halfway through it when Leila rings. She thinks it’s all terribly funny, and vows to adopt waggling as her new word for the week. The conversation moves on to other favourite euphemisms and we end up nearly hysterical. Our favourites are tinkle and hampton. We both think they’d make very jolly names for characters in a children’s series. We finally get round to what she rang for, which is to fix up a visit at the weekend as she thinks it’s too long since she last saw Charlie. The lovely prospect of a day with Leila is only slightly marred by the fact that she tends to ask what time Charlie goes to bed about half an hour after she arrives. She adores him, but her boredom threshold for child-centred activity is very low, in common with most of my friends who don’t have kids. Last time she came down she got involved in a Lego-building session which nearly sent her into a coma. Also she usually wears some item of exquisite clothing that Charlie manages to stain permanently. I make her promise to wear something washable and arrange for her to come down on Sunday. I also confirm we’re meeting for supper tomorrow night, for some Charlie-free gossip time. If the weather is nice on Sunday we can go to the beach and Charlie can run about getting soaked. I can’t wait.
Edna is due at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so I set the alarm clock extra early so I can get up and clean the kitchen before she arrives. I wake full of good intentions, but end up standing in the kitchen watching the birds building a nest in the hedge opposite the window. I’m tempted to put some kitchen paper out for them to make duvets with, but suspect they prefer the twigs and straw from the field next door. I do manage to remember to spray Jif cleaner all over the kitchen surfaces, which suggests a recent cleaning spree. And even through I know this won’t fool Edna for long, it makes mefeel better. I’m dressed and ready to go by seven thirty, when Charlie belts downstairs and starts telling me all about his dream about Egyptians. Smiling vaguely, I try to steer the conversation away from pyramids and then Edna diverts his attention by offering to cut up fruit
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