I grow weary of the three little monkeys, and short of bananas after a few days, but it’s only to be expected after experiencing the monkeys at “Longleat Safari park.” “Peanut butter mun keys! Peanut butter mun keys! Peanut butter mun keys!” he chants, oblivious and very, very busy.
“So how long do you think he’s going to keep going with this “ditty” then?” asks his Dad.
“No idea, as long as it takes I suppose.”
“Still it makes a refreshing change from…..” he covers his mouth to whisper “England is Evil.”

We both look at him as he jumps from chair to floor to fireplace in an endless un-tiring circuit, to see if he heard. It’s the third consecutive rainy day for a child that does not ‘do’ weather.

We pause. No fall out. He was probably to busy to hear. We glance at each other, happy not to have tripped his switch.

“So are you going to try some then?” I ask the moving target.  Come along now my nifty little neophobic, you need some calories for all that cavorting!
“Wot?” he bellows.
“Some peanut butter?”
“I am hate peanut butter. Peanuts is poison!”
“I know, but since you’ve been saying peanut butter for days I thought you might be willing to give it another try?”
“No.”
“So………what’s with the peanut butter monkeys then? Where did that come from?”
“Reeses.”
“Reeses? Reeses peanut butter cups? The candy?”
“No! The monkey.”
“I don’t remember any……oh……Rhesus!”
“Yes, Reeses monkeys!”
“But you read the sign at Longleat. R-h-e-s-u-s. You said it out loud. We talked about them. Remember?”
“England Rhesus. America Reeses. England is evil!”

Dang!

Grateful thanks to “Angela” from “Memoirs of a Chaotic Mommy” for pointing out that I cannot count, I probably deserve the name ‘chaotic’ far more than she obviously and not obliviously, does!

Whilst the girls are away at Summer camp………….

the boys keep vigil

and camp out in her empty room.

So good to be “home.”

This is another variation on “Perseveration” and how it can pan out in “adults,” maybe you might recognise a little bit of yourself, perhaps? A longish piece, but very worthwhile for a little personal insight.

To those who have grown weary of seeing the same title “England is evil,’ every day, I have a suggestion? Take the first letter that matches the name of your own country, such as M for Mexico and couple it with another word such as Malevolent. There after, chant in threes ‘Mexico is malevolent.’ It would help if your accent differed significantly, and identifiably from your country of choice. Ideally this should be repeated during every idle moment as well as any number of minutes when you are concentrating on something, or frustrated, or distracted. The phase can also be used both publicly and privately. Continue in this fashion for the next 22 days. Ensure that you are in Mexico when you say it. Ensure that you find a good translator so that everyone is sure to understand you. Ensure that the pitch, timbre and volume of the words is loud enough, even if their hearing aid is turned off. For variety, it can also be sung to any number of different tunes on random shuffle. You do not have to be on holiday or in unfamiliar territory to complete this experiment, but it helps. Once you have completed each and every one of these steps, then you shall be better placed to point a finger.

I would be willing to lay a wager, that even if you changed Malevolent to Marvelous, nevertheless it would still numb your brain cells.

Would that all the world’s woes were so tiny.

Non-verbal no longer, I am the luckiest mummy around.

Any takers?

Go on, indulge me, especially if you’re on one of those dratted ‘readers!’

Or maybe you might have an opinion about my future career prospects if we return to England? I’m thinking………exclusive importer and distributer of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers, or is that too self serving?

It’s nice to go away, but it’s lovely to be “home.”

The trouble with holidays is that they are just so exhausting.

Without the bribery of ‘electronics’ time, we fail miserably in the ‘discipline’ and ‘routine’ departments. Even when we ignore the issue of jet lag, they’re still up and buzzing about until gone 11 every night.

“Go to sleep and tomorrow we shall have a treat!” just doesn’t cut the mustard.

“Go to sleep and then tomorrow you can rot your teeth on candy,” is no sweetner.

“Go to sleep and we’ll go to the beach tomorrow / have a day trip / insert any other enticement you can think of!” fails to meet the mark.

Sadly they need no electronic assistance to ping them out of bed just before six every morning.

I drag them to the beach for an educational extravaganza. I’ve given up saying ‘it will be FUN,’ as I appear to be in the minority. My daughter was quite keen initially until the weather took a turn for the worse. The boys are both aghast and horrified.

We pass the Life Guards setting up their site on the edge of the beach as we pick our way over the rocks.
“Whatawe gonna do if we catch one?” she asks with a hint of caution.
“We’ll look at it for a while and then we’ll pop them back in the rockpool.”
“Can we take em home?” she pleads.
“Well…..maybe for a few hours but then we’ll have to bring them back to the beach.”
“It’s just I heard you talkin to Dad about crab sandwiches. You’re not really gonna eat em are you?”
“Eat crabs! Dat is insanity!” he bellows. “England is evil!”
“Put a sock innit why dontcha!” she announces in her best American accent.

It appears that everyone is picking up the vernacular. It sets him off in a vortex,
“Sock? Wot sock? I am not be have dah sock. Wot sock!”
“Oh dear. Nevermind socks dear. Lets concentrate on crabs for the moment.”
“Crabs not socks?”
“Yes.”
“You are eat dah socks?’
“No, not socks nor crabs, anyway these, will be too small.”
“Good!” sighs my daughter, grateful for the pause. “Come on guys it’ll be fun,” she calls encouragingly. She looks at me. I look at her. She grins, “well maybe for us huh!” she adds conspiratorially.

So wise yet so young.

They boys generally lack enthusiasm for “new” experiences and this time is no different. “We used to do this when we were little too, but we used hooks,” I offer forgetting the trigger of anything that could remotely be described as a deadly weapon.
“Hooks!” he shrieks in anguish, “England is evil!”
“But not these ones. These ones don’t have hooks. They won’t hurt the crabs.”

I stuff luncheon meat into one of the tiny net bags and demonstrate my dangling skills amongst the crashing waves. “That’s never gonna work mom, you shoulda got the ones with the hooks.”
“Of course it will work, we just need a little patience.” My sons hold a bucket in one hand and a reel of cord in the other with expressions of those condemned on death row.

I pull up the string gingerly. I am flabbergasted to see a crab on the other end. “Quick pass me the bucket!” To my utter amazement two buckets are hurled at my personage. A lightening speed reaction. Horray! My daughter passes her across too.

We all peer in the bucket. Joint attention! Horray!
“Ooo he is a little gorgeous one,” squeaks my youngest.
“He ain’t little,” commands the middle one.
“He’s a girl,” demands my daughter. “Mom, how dya know if they’re girls or boys?”
“Er……”
“He no crab! Wot is it wiv five legs?”
“Um…”
“I am luv my new friend. We can take him America?”
“Probably not.”
“England is evil!”

I demonstrate, rather ineptly, how to pick up a crab without being pinched. I exist in a vortex of squeals of delight as the crab demonstrates waggling.
“He is dah cutest guy!”
“He is more gorgeouser dan my rock. I think.”
“What do you think dear?”
“Maybe I am liking England a lil bit.”
“Oh good! At last! About time Sunny Jim!”
“I am like free pet crabs and free rocks.”
His big brother looks across at him. Do I detect mischief? A tease or a prompt or both, I’ll never know as he mutters, “America! Land of dah Free!” But it works, “ENGLAND IS EVIL!” he bellows to the surprise of Life Guards, up wind 50 yards away.

I know I shall be a complete basket case by the end of the day or deaf.

We sit in the café by the beach in the rain, a picture of misery, although that’s probably just me.

The first time my exceptionally clean son helps himself to a wad of paper, I lecture him on recycling, deforestation and scarce resources. “Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

As usual, no-one is listening. “Roger! Over and out!”

I stomp back to the counter in a huff to return them to the dispenser.

Back at our table I find my older son, the filthy one, wiping his mouth on his T-shirt with a fully exposed tummy. I immediately spout on the subject of unnecessary laundry, water and detergent usage with thinly disguised grumpiness. I plod back to the counter for one more leaf of napkin.

When I return the little one grins at me, “intruder alert! Intruder alert! Intruder alert!” I expect a sense of humour failure very shortly, but I cannot see his brother, with his face hidden by a bowl as he licks the platter clean to the wrathful glances of other guests. I show him my best pouty expression with hands on hips for extra emphasis when he volunteers, “save trees use tongue!”

I shall resolve to try harder to avoid typecasting my children.

“Roger! Over and out!”

p.s. to newbies - it is important to note the following [ a few years ago]

a] I would not have been able to help anyone to go to the cafe in the first place

b] no food would have been acceptable

c] no conversation of any kind would have ensued [reciprocal exchange]

d] everyone, including me, would be unhappy about this ‘choice.’

e] no-one would have eaten anything

f] we would have been asked [politely] to leave

g] I could not have left them ‘alone’ at the table for a nano second

conclusion - things change in ways that you may never have anticipated

p.p.s jus luv em [feel free to admire my American accent!]

I assumed that the joys of “Longleat” had passed him by completely, but after a few days I find out otherwise.

Every time the bell strikes and I have a moment to draw breath, I find him teetering around on one leg, ballerina style.

“What are you doing dear? You’ll do yourself a mischief if you’re not very careful!”
“I am be do my exercises.”
“Really! Maybe you could try a safer position?”
“No. I am need.”
“Why?”
“So I can be do dis!”
“What is that………….exactly?”
“It is being ………….. exactly……. er……..
…. up-side-down double horned Rhino.”

“I am liking the English wimmins.”
“Yes indeed. I remember that you told me that.”
“Why?”
“Why did I remember?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why you are not one?”
“Why am I not one what? A woman? I am a woman.”
“No.”
“English?”
“No!”
“No? Lets start again.”
“Why you are not being an English punk?”
“Er……I’m probably too old to be a punk.” Has he never seen an American punk?
“No.”
“Ah thank you dear.”

Sweet child of mine.
I think?

“No.”
“No what?”
“You are maybe not er…..um…..nevermind!”
“Nevermind! Really. Thank you luvvie.”

Ahh. Bless his little cotton socks. Tolerance personified.

“I am liking the English wimmins punks.”
“Oh good. I don’t remember seeing any actually.”
“Look.”
“Look where?”
“There.”

He points! Ooo a lovely pointing finger in the direction of…..the horizon…..the path…..some people……..lots of people…..which people….little groups……..some old ladies……one with a blue rinse!