Phonetics, The N word, The C word and my two year old

mummy's writing darling

We thought we had it bad with our first child when he started grappling with the English language. We thought we had it bad when truck became cock, and clock became cock, and socks became fucks, and fox became fucks. Oh how we cringed. But WAIT! Enter second child – or as we call him “If we had him first we wouldn’t have had any more.”

He is three next month and is at the fully fledged stage of “make noises that sort of sound like coherent words but not quite.” We were completely prepared for the embarrassment – here comes the cocks and fucks we thought.

Oh no – this child is a game changer.

He has two words of choice. The first is – The N word.

The actual N word. Now we are pretty sure he hasn’t got Tourettes.

We are pretty sure he hasn’t learned it from us – or grandma – Great grandma could have been an option – but he’s only met her once and she’s not a massive racist.

We also haven’t been letting him listen to NWA – “Fuck the police” and all that.

We can not for the life of us figure out what he is actually saying. For a while I thought it might be “New Car” – but he keeps shouting it whilst looking at his brother. And he doesn’t work at we buy any car.com

It’s pretty much the first thing he says in the morning. He walks out of his room – sees his older brother and shouts the N word at him. (If you have any clue what he might be saying please send your answers on a postcard – before social services get hold of us).

Pretty much the worst thing he could say right?

Well – enter his second word of choice. Which generally immediately follows the N word – THE BLOODY C Word – C#NT!!!

Now it might be that he’s saying “can’t” like this Alan Partridge episode :

But in which case – why is he continually screaming at us “N word C#nt!” what can’t we do? And why are you being racist towards us? NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE.

I can’t take him in public for God’s sake. It sounds like I’m growing a tiny angry racist Danny Dyer.

If we have a third GOD knows what he’ll be screaming at the top of his lungs in a few years time as they seem to be getting progressively worse. “This is our third son, say hello!”

Cock Fuck C#nt N word twat wanker shit goo goo ga ga BOLLOCKS!!!!

Send help!

 

 

 

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Why is it you?

mummy's writing darling

Why is it you?

 

At age two, to a goose, I wouldn’t say boo
whereas you son, would shoot it and stuff it too.

Why is it you?

who cant sit still, while fifteen others do,
Who has to play with the fire extinguisher on the wall,
while everyone else is queuing, single file, down the hall?

Why is it you who has to snatch the block off the three month old,
who doesn’t seem to acknowledge anything you are told,
who needs to jump up and down at the front,
who has to roar, bark, gurn and grunt?

Why do you always rugby tackle the babies,
leap and stomp and stamp on the daisies?

When others are sitting, listening sweetly in a trance,
why are you performing a deranged, erratic, river dance?

When everyone is singing ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ notes
why are you trying to shove the maracas down your throat?

Why is it you – and seemingly no other?
Can you not see everyone judging your mother?

When you turn five and all you ask is why,
why, why, why, why, why?

I shall say, great question son, glad you asked
Why, when you were two, were you such an arse?

poetry, mummy's writing darling
why is it you?

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