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As always, it is just after I have announced my intention to teach “sex education” as and when needed, that the need arises.

They are in the midst of a debate.

“Don't be stoopid! No-one has four penise.s!”
“Cows do! They do so!”
“That's an udder. Anyways, cows are girls.”
“Milk is cow urine?”
“No.”
“What is chocolate milk being den?”
“It doesn't come out of the cow with chocolate. They put that in after.”
“Cow milk is make you ill?”
“Sure some people,” she says in an off hand manner. I hover. Has the need passed? The laundry crisis needs my attention. I decide to pay no heed, as he hasn't drunk milk for approximately 4 years.

“I am need!” he bellows at his usual 50 decibels. I pay heed at the sudden urgency and loudness of his demand.
“What do you need dear?”
“I am need a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a” I don't let him finish but whisk him away as only an astute mother can. After his experience in the “vomiting” department, I am swift and pre-emptive. There's no time to mess about, so I whip off his pants and trousers to park him on the loo in the blink of an eye. I lean against the door jam self satisfied that once again I have saved the day and possibly a heap of laundry.
“Wot?”
“Pardon dear?”
“WOT?” he bellows since clearly I didn't hear him properly the first time. Why do I keep making that same mistake I wonder?
“What to you mean “what' dear?”
“Wot I am do here?”
“What you normally do there dear. Do you need your privacy or something?”
“No I am need a…. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Yes I know that's why I've brought you here, quickly, before it's too late.”
“It is too late?”
“Is what too late dear?” Or do I mean 'too late for what?'
“It is too late for a….a….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“I hope not. I hope we're just in time.”
“Dey are in dah bathroom?”
“Er….. are what in the bathroom?”
“Dah….er….. a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a?”
“Any minute now I expect.” We pause. We wait. We wait some more. I have the distinct impression that I am waiting for something different to whatever he might be waiting for.
“What are you waiting for dear?” How can he wait at all?
“I am wait for dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a.”
“Well maybe you're alright after all?”
“No. Dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a is not here.” I look at his expectant face although I am now uncertain what he is expecting?
“Is your tummy o.k.? Do you have an ache?”
“No.” I'm not sure which he means but he looks perfectly fine.
“Is it safe to get you dressed again do you think?”
“I dun know? Um… dah a….a…..diah…a….ree….a….a be come if I am dressed?”
“No we want the diarrhea to come whilst you're sitting there.”
“I don't want diarrhea!” he shrieks.
“No, I know it's not nice is it?” He looks at me blankly even though strictly speaking is was more of a rhetorical question. I watch him blink, open mouthed, deep in thought.
“NO! Not diarrhea! I did not be say dat. I said…..er….dah book dat you be write fings in.” A book? A book that you write in? What is he on about now for goodness sake?
“I need dah book…….write every day…..you are start wiv 'dear.'”
“Dear Diary?”
“Yes.”
“You want a diary to write in?”
“Yes.”

Clearly I have a potential 'man of letters' on my hands, or maybe just on my mind?

I wonder what possible insight I might glean from sneaking a peek in a seven year old's personal diary, but of course only bad mothers do that?

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