There's A Baby In My Belly?

Smelling of shampoo and baby soap, Cheeky and Monkey were tucked up in bed for stories. Tonight I was on bedtime duty as Him Downstairs was off throwing himself round a soccer pitch in an attempt to keep fit.

I read them a book called Mommies Are For Counting Stars which is all about all the lovely things Mommies/Mummies do for their children. Lots of…

’A mommy knows how to kiss a boo-boo…’

’If you need an audience for your puppet show, a mommy will watch.’

’A mommy reminds you to say “thank you”..’

Then I turned the page and read…

’A mommy can look like a rose. A mommy can have a baby inside her.’

This one is accompanied by a drawing of the mommy in a maternity dress and a hat adorned with roses. (Personally, I have never whether ‘up the duff’ or not, worn a hat with a load of dead flowers on it, but each to their own.)

Anyway, Cheeky and Monkey who have been paying close attention (for once) to my words, stop me from turning the page.

Cheeky looks closely at the picture of the mommy’s swollen belly and asks, “Mummy, why is there a baby in her tummy?”

(Maybe this book was a bad idea. That’ll teach me to purchase before thoroughly reading every page.)

“Because that’s where babies grow darling” I say. (Am crossing my fingers no more questions will follow, but who am I trying to kid?)

Meanwhile, his brother, Monkey, is looking down his pyjama top and saying, ”Baby. Baby. Baby? This?”

“Yes boys, that mommy has a baby in her tummy, that's where babies grow.”

Cheeky looks at me in exasperation. “Don’t be silly mummy, babies don't go in our bellies. We don’t eat babies, do we Monkey?”

And his brother looks at me and says, “No eat baby Mama. No. No. Me baby?”

I can’t help smiling. “Yes, you’re right. We don’t eat babies.”

They wouldn’t taste good would they? I don’t want a baby in my tummy Mummy,” says Cheeky.

And with that, I wrap my babies in a bear hug, cover them in night-night kisses and assure them that in no way, will they ever have babies in their bellies. (Well, obviously not unless medical science gets that advanced in their reproductive lifetime, but that's not a conversation to get into with a 2 and 3 year old, is it?)

On the way out of the door, I dump Mommies Are For Counting Stars in the back of the closet. That was quite enough 'Where do babies come from?' talk for one night. I think I cleared it up quite well for them, don't you?

Mummy Guilt

This morning didn’t start well.

“I don’t want to go to Jay-Jay camp, mummy.” said son #1 (Cheeky)
“But you love Jay-Jay,” I said. “I bet you’re going to make some cool airplanes.” “But I just want to stay here with you!” he pleaded, eyes starting to fill up.

Oh gawd. I didn’t chose my words wisely when I replied that he was going to have to go to Jay Jay camp because mummy had paid for it already and that it was surely going to be much more fun than hanging out with me at home.

You see, the thing is, he is obsessed with two things in his little 3 and ¾ yrs life: planes and trains. And Jay Jay The Jet Plane is one of his favourite shows on TV. (Not that he watches much TV mind. Well, not that much. Ok then, he’s bloody obsessed with TV and it’s all I can do to drag him away and get him out of the house!)

Back at the beginning of June, with the 12 week summer holiday looming, I did as all my US Mom friends seem to do and booked my square-eyed boy in for numerous camps. When in Rome after all...

So Cheeky has done ‘Stretch n Grow’ Camp and came out telling us where his biceps, triceps and abba-dabba-dominals were. He did ‘Pre-School Camp’ and made a fishing rod, a drum and a rather malnourished looking T-Rex. He went to 'Tumble Camp' and thankfully didn’t break his neck or arms learning to somersault and cartwheel.‘Buzz Camp?’ Yep – he was there! Though I’m not so sure how successful this one was, because when I picked him up, all the kids were sat watching Toy Story. And then there was ‘Zoo Train Camp’ which we did as a family - minus Him Downstairs. Someone has to go out to work to pay for all these camps after all.

In Zoo Train – a musical themed camp, me and the boys sang our way through the American version of Ally-Ally O (theirs is about a train, not a ship, which totally threw me.) We banged glockenspiels together and jingled bells bonding over our love for a good tune.

Actually, I have to pause here and be honest with you about Zoo Train. It was a bit of a disaster doing a class with both boys. Littlest boy (Monkey, aged 2 ¼) clung to my hip like a Monkey through every class. All this dancing and parading round the room with drums, maracas etc was near damn impossible as Monkey wouldn’t let go of me or his bells which he kept bashing me round the head with, whilst in my other hand I held a clacker I was trying to play and Cheeky, who decided if his brother was going to get a ride around the room, he sure as hell was too.

As usual I was the only Brit in the room (totally obvious because I kept singing about the Good Ship Ally Ally O and not a bloody train, I mean, since when has it been a train?) and all the other Moms were skipping along with their little ones totally in time and in tune with Mrs Andrew Lloyd Webber who was swinging her hips and rousing her class like we were in some terrible am-dram version of Cats.

There I was dragging my two dead weights around the room, dropping instruments and growling under my breath at them that we were here to enjoy ourselves, meet new friends and not stick like glue to mummy’s legs!

The Moms were glaring at me right from their perfectly manicured nails down to their perfectly pedicured toes. (Damn, I’d put shorts on and forgotten to shave my legs again!)

Anyway, back to this morning.

After Zoo Train, I decided to change tactic and be all upbeat and positive about this last camp before school starts next week. But this morning we were running late (as always) and I kind of forgot to put on the nicety-nice line. Forgive me; I didn’t have time for my usual caffeine induced kick start to the morning.

So I ran round the house throwing toast in their mouths and flinging arms into T-shirts.

“But I don’t want to go…” wailed Cheeky.

“It’ll be fun. Come on. You’re going!” I barked (I know, I know). I strapped them into the car, with barely a chance to swallow their breakfast.

Cheeky is complaining about this camp all the way there, into the room and at the little table they’ve set out for the kids to do their make-an-airplane-craft.

Meanwhile, other son, Monkey, is chirping, “Jay Jay. Me Jay-Jay!” Then, crying, “ME JAY JAY!” as I drag him away from the camp. (Thankfully one of the camp leaders has engaged Monkey in the craft-making with cotton wool balls and he finally seems to be enjoying himself so I can leave.)

“You want to do Jay Jay camp?” I say to Monkey as we get back indoors.

“Yes, me Jay-Jay.”

“Right then. Jay Jay camp home-style for you then,” I reply. And I switch on the TV…

How many bad mummy points did I just accumulate?