I’ll never cook at it quite the same way again..

There are some things that children say which permanently enter the family lexicon because they are so funny, apt or just plain adorable.

How sweet those childish mispronunciations and babyish attempts at big words can be!  And oh, how we cherish them long after the child in question has mastered perfect diction, bringing them out like old photographs to coo over, a reassurance that we were once the all knowing center of their tiny uncertain universes.  (Potty Mummy wrote a lovely post on just this subject the other day – you should go and read it at once, bring your hanky.)

Today Two said something which, while he pronounced it perfectly, was so side-splittingly, ridiculously hilarious, though when I think about it not unreasonable, that I have had a clear neural association burned into my brain which may have permanently altered the way I cook forever.

Five, Two and I are in the kitchen doing a spot of cooking. We have made some dinky little apple pies with a ridiculous heart-shaped individual pie-making-gizmo that I have been unable to prevent myself buying at Williams Sonoma because I have the illusion that it will not only turn me into a nicer person and a better mother but it will also magically transform my grubby, slightly crapulous kitchen into a Martha Stewart showhome. (note:illusion failed but the pies are rather sweet).

The children are eating up scraps of dough in manner of homeless urchins and it occurs to me that I might have forgotten to give them lunch so we decided to whip up some bolognese sauce with the organic ground beef I have defrosted earlier (note self congratulatory way I slip in that I buy grass-fed-hormone-free meat which almost makes up for failing to feed offspring. Sort of.).

They are standing on chairs by the counter, expectantly, as I bustle around the kitchen assembling ingredients.

“What do we need to start cooking the meat, Mummy?” asks Five

“We’ll brown some garlic in some olive oil..” I begin as I open the fridge and get out a clove of garlic, when I am interrupted by Two saying

“Poo! Poo, Mummy!”

“Have you done a poo? Do we need to change you?” I say, slightly vexed at the timing but trying not to show it.

“No! Poo! Poo in dere!” he says pointing at the fridge.

I am confused. WTF is he talking about??

“Mummy! Poo! Poo in dere! Poo in fidge! Look! Poo in Fidge!!!”

I turn around, searching the shelves, utterly mystified.

“Poo! Poo! LOOK! IN A FIDGE!!!”

Clearly exasperated he pushes his chair over, hops up and points to…

..a nice piece of ginger

Ah yes. Point taken. I had never really looked at it that way before but now that he mentioned it..

“See? Poo! Why poo in a fidge, Mummy?”

I couldn’t actually answer him because by then I was on my knees literally howling with laughter and wiping the tears off my face as the children looked on, puzzled. I couldn’t even stop long enough to explain that it wasn’t really a poo in the fridge,  that it was actually a type of food because every time I drew breath I’d think about poo in the fridge and it would start me off all over again.

Two looked on anxiously. He hadn’t really seen me this helpless with giggles before.

“Mummy? Mummy? No sad, Mummy”

Ok, I really had to pull myself together, he was getting worried. I didn’t want to upset him or make him feel bad about himself. Time to be a grownup and calm down. Poo is not THAT funny, for God’s sake.

“Oh, I’m not sad, Darling. I’m laughing! It’s funny! I’m happy. You said something clever and I laughed a lot but I’m fine now. Good boy. It’s okay. It’s all okay now.”

He looked a little doubtful.

“Mummy no be sad. It’s just a poo”

Oh dear..