Thursday, March 22, 2007

Once upon a time

I am the household's teller of tales, and I can spin a yarn from the flimsiest topic (peppered with laboured metaphors if needs be). Lu has her favourites: how Jasper the dog came to us on an aeroplane and slept his first night on my hair; how we bought a lithograph in Germany; the purchasing of the little green house on Howick Street and our subsequent move to our current home. I'll tell these stories seven, eight, nine times in a row, hitting a rhythm that allows my thoughts to drift elsewhere. I think Lu uses these stories to feel secure in her world and I'm happy to help with that.

We've tried to be very matter of fact about bodies, naming the bits appropriately (and feeling incredibly uncomfortable as we do so: who wants to say 'vuvla' to a two year old when one's own childhood was peppered with "pee pee" and "down there"?). Because of course our bodies are to be owned, they are nothing to be ashamed of. This smug claim has been sorely tested in practice. As I was dressing Lu asked me to tell a story about pubic hair. Well, I'm not that kind of story teller. So where does a mother go from here? For the sake of posterity, here's where:

Once there were some pubic hairs. They went to the supermarket and bought some lollies and chocolate. And then they took them home to Mummy. Mummy was very happy. And that's the end.

I think the story lacks any real emotional resonance and the characterisation is sketchy. Lu, on the other hand, is more than satisfied with it.

Eating from the garden: oven roasted tomatoes on toast and pate for breakfast (posh!); beans in a Dad type stir fry; corn (from the second harvest), beans and tomatoes with snags for dinner, with a chutney made from part of the tomato pyramid; raspberries, apples and cherry tomatoes for snacks.


h&b said...

Can't wait until I get my veges started ( after some rain !?!?! ).

We too, name bits properly .. but we have one friend that is scared to, it seems. I find it quite bizarre.

While my son wee'd on the garden ( all water is sacred ;) with his p#nis ( munged to avoid creepos googling your blog ), her son uses his "Hooley Dooley". Now, come on .. but isn't that an all-male singing group along the same lines as the Wiggles ??!?! Creepy.

Funny though, we had a mobile-masseur come the other night to un-creak the father figure, and my son came and tattled that the lady was 'wiping daddy's bum'. heh ! :)

Kris said...

Hooley Dooley is creepy, though it's got a good rhythm to it. My least favourite phrase is "booby juice", used by an aquaintance when I feed Nell. This sounds far more crass than breast milk.


Em said...

Oh goodness... a story about a pubic hair... I'm laughing here!

We try to be matter of fact about it all too... but I still squirm a little.

nutmeg said...

Hi Kris, thanks for visiting the other day. I'm v. jealous of the haul from your garden - you are living my Tasmanian escape dream :-) But if my move out of the city comes about I know I will miss my friends and the city's many ammenities - but I do like peace, quiet and seclusion. Something I've done my best to "cultivate" even within a city environment. And one can always get a direct flight from Launceston to Sydney to visit people etc.

I am now waiting to see how my FIRST crop comes along Woo Hoo! I will be coming back to get many tips and tricks from you.