Love hurts

Petal has had a crush on a fellow pre-schooler, let's call him Don Juan, for months now. Sadly, he was showing little sign of feeling the same way. Petal decided to take matters into her own hands.

"Mummy, I'm going to ask Don Juan if he loves me," she informed me one morning.

"Ah, okay, um, are you sure?" I spluttered.

"Yes, I'm going to ask him and I think he's going to say 'yes'," she proclaimed.

I admired her guts, but I was terrified too.

She left for pre-school that morning with a look of determination.

That afternoon when I picked her up, she came running to me with her big, round eyes on the verge of tears.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"I asked Don Juan if he loved me and he said, 'No'," she sobbed.

Oh dear. "Then what did he say?" I asked.

"Nothing, he just went back to playing in the sandpit."

The cold-hearted bastard!

I couldn't think of any words of wisdom until later that evening as I was putting her to bed.

"Darling, you know you're not able to get married when you're four years old. So really, you don't want to meet your perfect boy at this age." I consoled.

"But Mummy," she protested. "It's too late. I've met the boy I want to marry."

This was going to be tricky.

"Well, I met Daddy when I was 27 and that's a good age to meet the person you want to marry."

She thought about this for a while.

"Or 87?" she asked.

"Sounds good to me!" her father called from the next room.

"Me too" I added.

We lay in bed together, blissful in the thought of 83 years free from heart-break.

"But not 170," Petal piped up.

"Yes, that may be too long to wait," I agreed.

"No, Mummy, because when I'm 170 I'll be dead."

I couldn't take anymore.

"Goodnight, darling," I sighed, hoping that tomorrow we could return to talking about Barbie and glitter.

Feeling like a boob

Petal cuddled up to me on the couch.

"Mummy, when I'm older I'm going to have big boobies," she grinned.

"Just like Mummy," I grinned back.

"No, yours will be old boobies by then... Grandma!" she laughed.

I didn't.

Sticky situation

Petal asked me if I could get her some "chewing-gum tape".

What did she mean?

Blu-tac.

Grow up!

Petal’s little brother turned two recently. In the morning, she rushed in to wish him a ‘happy birthday’. She quickly stopped in her tracks.

“You still look one-ish!” she exclaimed to him.

“What do you mean?” I asked her.

She looked him up and down.

Looking up again, she said, “He still doesn’t have much hair.”

Then looking down again in disgust, she grunted, “And he still wears a nappy.”

Get a room!

As we pulled up in the car outside our home, my husband reached over and gave me a kiss.

From the backseat of the car we heard, "Stop it!"

We both turned to see Petal glaring at us.

Quite unimpressed, she growled at us, "You have two little kids!"

Hot stuff

As we dined together the other night, Petal asked me the name of the sauce on my steak.

"It's called Bernaise," I explained.

"Is it spicy?" she asked.

"No, not at all."

"Well, that's a bit silly," she tutted.

"Why?"

"Because it's called burn-aise," she huffed.

Fair enough

Petal's aunty from the UK popped over to visit us.

"Where do you live?" asked Petal.

"In London," explained her aunty.

"Like 'London Bridge is Falling Down'?" continued Petal.

"Yes, just like that. I sometimes travel over London Bridge."

Petal stopped in her tracks and looked at her aunty with great interest.

"Are you the fair lady?" Petal quizzed her.

Her aunty was a little surprised by this question.

"Um, er, I'd like to think so..." she uttered.

At this point I interrupted the conversation.

"Do you think she's the 'fairest of them all?'" I asked Petal, explaining to her aunty that we'd just been watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

Petal shook her head. "No, that's not what I mean."

Her aunty stepped in. "Have you seen 'My Fair Lady'?"

Petal looked at us both bemused. Then without any warning, she launched into singing:

"London Bridge in falling down, falling down, falling down,
London Bridge in falling down (she takes a deep breath)
MY FAIR LADY!"

Ah, of course.

Something in the air

Petal and I are happily sitting on the couch together, while her baby brother plays at our feet.

"Poo-ey," screeches Petal all of a sudden. "What is that smell?"

I sniff the air but can't pick up on any bad odours.

Holding her nose and grimacing, Petal points to her brother. "I think he's got a poo in his nappy."

I dutifully check but it's all clear.

"Nope, nothing in there," I inform her.

Petal turns to me with her face still screwed up.

"Well Mum, it must be your breath."

Fishing around

Petal finds a box of tampons in my handbag.

"What are these called?" she asked.

Phew, at least she hasn't asked what they are for.

"They're called tampons."

"What do you do with them?"

Shit.

"Er, um, ladies put them somewhere," I answer, vaguely.

"In a pond?" she replies.

Huh? Does she think they resemble gold fish?

"Ah, not usually, why do you think that?" I'm baffled.

She gives me that 'you're so silly, Mum' look before answering.

"Because they are called tam-ponds."

Easy as 1, 2, 3...

I was mentioning to my husband how impressed our son's carers were that he could count to seven. He is only 22 months. I'm referring to my son, not my husband.

Petal overheard our conversation and challenged her baby brother.

"Can you count to five?" she asked him.

He dutifully started, "One, two, three, four, five, six..."

"You can't do it," she gloated. "I said five and you counted to six!"

Don't impress me much

Petal's baby brother is learning to say new words every day.

Today he said, "DVD".

"Well done, little fella, you said 'DVD'!" I exclaimed with great enthusiasm.

Petal was not impressed.

"He didn't say DVD," she grunted. "He only said 'Video'."

Red sky in the morning...

To make this morning's dust storm even more exciting for Petal, I commented that the sky outside our window that looked like this...



... kinda looked like the sky on Avatar that looked like this:



Petal looked at me, looked out the window, looked at the TV, then turned back to me.

"No, it doesn't," she sighed, shaking her head.

Oh well, I don't think I'll be the subject of a mymumisfunny blog anytime soon.

Puzzling

Petal called me at work.

"Mummy, I'm at the shops with Daddy..."

"Yes..."

"Can I buy a puzzle? It's got a cute, little baby in it," she pleaded.

"Sure, darling. It sounds lovely. Tell Daddy I said it was okay."

This was not what I expected to see when I got home:




So useful if Petal plans to be an gyneocologist one day...

My kid is... disgusting

Petal asked me, "Mummy, smell my finger?"

This could only end badly, so I told her, "No way."

"But it smells like strawberry," she assured me.

She had been blowing strawberry-scented bubbles earlier, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt and went in for a whiff.

It smelt like fish. There are only two things that smell like fish and she hadn't been near the one with scales.

"That is disgusting!" I told her.

Her defence?

"My friend Vagina does it all the time."

For the first time ever, the mispronunciation of Jemima's name seemed quite fitting.

Busted rhymes

This is Petal singing Mary, Mary, quite contrary...

"Mary, Mary, cock and cherry..."

Oh dear.

Ho, ho, ho

As we were preparing for a barbecue at our place, I told Petal she would need to look after the little guests who were coming along (I'm referring here to her friends, not my short-stature mates). Petal loves a label, so I told her she would be the 'host'. This impressed her no end.

Later, while the barbecue was in full swing, Petal proudly announced to everyone there:

"I am the ho of this party!"

As my friends choked on their drinks, she added:

"Mummy told me I'm the ho!"

"St, st, st..." I spluttered. "Don't forget the 'st'!"

Petal just looked at me as though I were insane and continued playing 'ho' to her friends.

Buddhism 101 (#4)

Petal was enjoying 'reading' her Disney Princess magazine. I could hear her naming each of the princesses.

"Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Ariel, Buddha, Cinderella..."

Buddha? The question had to be asked:

"Sorry, darling. But which one is Buddha?"

Petal looked at me as if I were stupid.

"This one," she said, as she pointed to Pocahontas.



Pocahontas?



Buddha?

Little Miss Pronunciation #3

Lady bug = Lady bugger

And that's how three little letters can turn an innocent name into one that is oh-so-dirty...

Clean language

Petal has begun to describe various things as "clean and clear and under control".

I think she has seen one too many Clearasil commercial...

Art attack

After a recent trip to the Blue Mountains, Petal was inspired to draw a picture of the 'Three Sisters'.



As you can see, her sisters were more human-like than the rock formations we'd admired. They even had names: Zali, Charlotte and Chanel.

Petal paid particular attention to details such as the teeth and tongues, and the enormous belly-buttons and minuscule noses that resembled, erm, full-stops.

However, she did forget one major detail.

"Where are their arms?" I asked.

Petal laughed heartily. "Silly me!" she giggled.

Promptly, she picked up her texta and drew the missing appendages.



If only I'd pointed out they were missing ears, too.

Three's a crowd

At a party on the weekend, Petal entered her first three-legged race. Her partner was to be her four-year-old mate, but after she broke under the pressure of a rigorous training regime, Petal was left without the required leg count.

Her only option was her little brother. Almost three years younger and a good head shorter, he wasn't an ideal match. But I grabbed the beige pantyhose and tied them together regardless - and there they stood joined at the hip. Well, his hip, her knee.

Ready, set, go! Off they raced, taking on the fierce competition, which included a set of twins who clearly had an unfair advantage from their womb days.

Amazingly, Petal and her little brother didn't trip or fall. Less amazingly, they moved at the pace of an arthritic pensioner. When they finally crossed the finish line metres, minutes, er, eons, after the other three-legged athletes, Petal looked up at me hopefully.

"Did we win?" she asked.

She obviously thought her competitors were out of sight as they were trailing so far behind them. In fact, by then, they were collecting their lolly-bags to leave...

What could I say?

"You were great!" I squealed.

"Yay, we won!" She jumped up and down - as did her brother. But thanks to the pantyhose, he had no choice really.

Little Miss-Pronunciation #2

Yum cha = yum chow

Strangely, it almost sounds better that way.

Rock and toilet roll

I couldn't help but watch Petal wiping her bottom the other day. Yes, I know that sounds weird, but she has the most unusual technique and I was transfixed.

Firstly, she stands to wipe, closing off any easy access. Then she pulls off sheet-after-sheet of paper, while only using one square that her finger invariably pokes through.

And on this particularly occasion, after giving herself an eye-wateringly thorough wipe, she proceeded to check the paper for results.... but her hand was empty. She looked behind her and couldn't see where the paper may have fallen.

To my amusement (and her bewilderment), she was a sporting a toilet-paper tail wedged tightly between her clenched cheeks.

Not funny to me...

As I walked to the bathroom just wearing a pair knickers, Petal gasped:

"Mummy, your boobs are falling down!"

"What do you mean?" I was perplexed.

"They are so LOW!"

Yes, about as low as I felt at that moment.

Splitting hairs

Petal was very impressed by my recent visit to the "hairdress-ups".

Hunger pains

Petal tells me she's hungry, so I ask her what she'd like to eat. Her response:

"I don't know! My brain has gone to my tummy and it can't think!"

The biggest loser

Petal was recently outraged that a friend of hers had laughed at an old man.

"It's not nice to laugh at old people," she explained to me.

"That's right, darling. It's not nice to make fun of anyone."

She agreed, but had one exception. "But it's okay to laugh at fat people."

Funny or not? #2

While hanging out with her dad, Petal said something that made him laugh. She took this opportunity to ask:

"Do you think I'm funny, Daddy?"

"Yes, I do, darling."

"Okay, when you go to your office, you write on your blog that I am funny," she demanded.

My husband is an actor. He doesn't have an office. And he definitely doesn't have a blog.

Oh Cod, what have I created?

Fishy

When Petal is really shocked by something, she says:

"Oh. My. Cod."

Funny or not?

As the subject of this blog, I thought it was only fair Petal should know what I'm up to. She knew I wrote about her, but didn't know exactly what I was writing.

"I write down the funny things that you say," I told her.

"Why?" she seemed perplexed.

"Because it helps me remember these funny things and sometimes it makes other people laugh, too."

She thought about this. Then asked me, "Would other people think it is funny if I said 'eyes go in your mouth'?"

Huh? "Er, um, I'm not sure..."

"Mummy, write it down and see if they think it is funny."

So, as you can see, I have followed Petal's orders. She will be expecting a full report, so please let me know if this rates funny or not. Be gentle, she is only four.

Lost in translation

Yesterday she asked me if she could have a "lifeguard ice-block".

Yes, she meant to say "lifesaver".

Say what?

Petal asks me what we are having for dinner. "Stew," I tell her.

"I hate sha-woo," she says.

"You hate 'what'?" I tease.

She goes to say it again, but stops herself. Instead, she says:

"I hate that-thing-you-said-we-are-going-to-have-for-dinner-tonight-and-I-don't-want-to-eat!"

"What's that, darling?"

Without thinking she says, "Sha-woo".

Mummy (1) Petal (0)

A real cock-up

While cooking hot cakes for the kids' breakfast, Petal came in and asked me:

"Can I have a hot cock now?"

Wrong. So wrong.

It's a date

I plant a big kiss on Petal's cheek this morning.

"Ouch!" she says.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"That hurt me," she complains.

I'm a little taken back. "Since when do kisses hurt?"

She thinks about it before telling me, "January."

Don't go changin'

Yesterday we caught up with a friend of mine and her two-year-old son who have been living overseas for the last six months.

As you'd expect, the two-year-old has changed significantly in that time. He's taller, he can talk in full sentences, he's out of nappies, he's just, well, bigger.

After he left, Petal turned to me and said:

"There's something different about Noah." She paused, trying to put her finger on it.

"Has he had a haircut?" she asked.

The weighting game

Petal jumped onto the scales in the bathroom this morning.

"Mummy, I weigh 3-7-7," she announced proudly.

Last time I checked she weighed around, erm, 350kg less. I took a glance at the digital scales to see if there was an error.

Yes, there was. Displayed was: Err

Under where? #2

I have written previously about my daughter's fascination with g-strings. I recently found her trying on a pair of mine. Let me just say, there's something very creepy about seeing a four-year-old girl in a pair of black, lacy, barely-there knickers.

"Oh darling, get them off."

"Why Mummy?"

"It's just so wrong."

Petal looked confused. "Am I wearing them wrong?"

She went to fix them up in the only other way she thought they must be worn. She stretched at the elastic waist and in a move to make a contortionist proud, she slipped her arms through the leg holes and hoisted them onto her shoulders.

"Is this still wrong?" asked my mini-Borat.

Are you talking to me? #2

Petal’s grandma rang to say she was returning the lovely message from her granddaughter. I had no idea any call had been made.

You see, Petal has a memory like steel trap and she has memorised her grandmother’s phone number. All eight digits.

In between colouring-in, watching SpongeBob or playing with Barbie, she has taken to making secret phone calls to her grandma.

The messages my mother returns to hear go like this:

Hi Gangi…

Yes, I’m fine…

I told you, I’m fine…

Okay, I’d better go now…

Bye-bye, love you…

CIick.

Or sometimes it’s:

Hi Gangi…

Yes, I’m fine…

I’m never having a boyfriend ever again…

Bye-bye, love you…

Click.

It’s seems Petal is using her grandma’s answering service as a (self) help-line.

Under where?

Due to a run of bad weather, it's been a little longer than usual between loads of washing. I had no choice on the weekend than to rummage through my drawer to find my rainy day (literally) underpants. This will explain why I was wearing a cream, lacy g-string under my leggings as I did the housework.

Petal was quite surprised to see these sexy knickers poking out as I was bending over. She ran to me and gave them a huge tug. Yes, a wedgie.

I squealed, "What are you doing?"

"Oh Mummy, your undies are stuck up your bottom. I'm getting them out for you."

Tug, tug.

"No, darling, stop it! They're supposed to be up there."

She continued to yank at them. "No, they're not. I'll get them out for you." Cue more bum-splitting wedgie action.

"Ouch! Stop it!" I squeaked. "They're called a g-string, ouch, and they go up, ouch, ladies' bottoms!"

Petal stopped in her tracks. Oh no, what must she think?

She paused for a moment.

"Mummy, can I wear them?"

Question time

I could hear Petal in the next room talking with her dad. Out of nowhere, she asked him this pressing question: "What colour does Madagascar live?"

WTF?

I was curious to hear how my husband would answer this mind-boggling query. He said the only thing he could, "Sorry darling, but I have no idea what you mean."

Petal paused for a while. "Is it pink?"

In a desperate attempt to escape this senseless inquisition, I heard him say, "Yes, it's pink."

But he wasn't free yet. "Or is it blue?" she asked.

"Ah, yes."

"So, Daddy, is it purple?"

"Huh?"

"Well, pink and blue make purple."

Her tone was 'you're so silly, Dad. Don't you know anything?'

Seeing red

This morning she asks me, "Next week can we paint the car red?"

Where did this come from? "No, darling, we are not painting the car red."

"Why not?"

"Because I like the car the way it is, and I don't want to paint it red."

She thinks about this for a while.

"Okay, Mum, we'll paint it blue."

Who am I?

Petal comes racing into the bathroom as I'm showering. She pulls back the curtain, excitedly squealing, "Who am I?"

She stands there wearing her pink Dora the Explorer underpants over her blue pyjama bottoms.

The pressure to get this answer correct is huge.

"Wonderwoman?" Wrong.
"Super Dora?" Wrong.
"Sorry, Super Dora the Super Explorer?" Huh? Wrong.

The pressure is mounting. If I wasn't in the shower, I'd be breaking into a sweat.

"Super Princess Girl?" Obviously wrong.

I give up...


"I'm Superman!"

For the first time EVER the most obvious answer is the right one.

The good news or the bad news

Yesterday morning, Petal told me what she had planned to say for her preschool 'news day'. She was going to share the joy of receiving a new Tinkerbell dress-up outfit. It's cute and sparkly - really sparkly. There is a button that sets off a rainbow of lights on the dress.

She also had one other piece of news she wanted to share.

Vomit.

"What exactly are you going to say about vomit?" I asked.

"Just vomit."

Okay, this was going to be a tricky one. I gently explained to her that maybe sticking with the Tinkerbell dress news would be a better idea. No. She wanted to add the vomit bit.

That afternoon, I asked how she went with her news. Her face dropped and her big, round eyes filled with tears.

"Mummy, everyone went 'eeeeewwwww'!"

"Oh dear, then what?"

"They all said, 'That's horrible news!'"

"Oh darling, what did you do?"

"I cried and sat on the teacher's knee."

"What did the teacher say?"

"She told all the kids, 'You've ruined her life!'"

I'm pretty certain that's not what the teacher said, but I'm equally sure it's exactly how Petal felt.

Liar, liar

This morning she asks me, "Am I going to preschool today?"

"Yes, you are." I thought she already knew this.

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious."

She's taking quite a bit of convincing.

"Are you joking?"

"No, I'm not joking."

Is this a joke?

"Mummy, have you been drunking?"

Drunking! This must be her truncated way of asking if I’ve been drinking so much that I'm drunk - and now I'm making up stories about her going to preschool.

"Darling, Mummy is rarely 'drunking' and especially not at 8am when I've just got out of the shower!"

But I do like this new word: drunking. In just one word it so neatly explains drinking to the point of being drunk.

I'm going to use it. It could take off.

"I'm so hangover because I was drunking last night"... "It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been drunking"... "Let's go out drunking this weekend"...

Buddhism 101 (#3)

She asks me, "Mummy, why does Buddha wear earrings?"

I think, "What next... why does he paint his toenails pink?"

Then I look at the piece of art in the hallway and I notice something: Buddha has the biggest, dangliest earrings I've seen this side of eQuip.

But I still can't answer her question, "Why?"

Little Miss-Pronunciation

The top three words she fails to pronounce correctly:

3. Baked beans = bacon beans (mmm... tasty)
2. Sparkle = farkle (it sounds worse than it reads)

And the winner is...

1. Her friend 'Jemima' = Vagina (oops...)

Sign of the times

As Petal bolted through the lounge room she slipped on the floorboards and ended up on her knees... and hands... and chin. Quite unimpressed, she looked at me and asked, "Why didn't you put up a 'wet floor' sign?"

Does she think I keep one in the kitchen cupboard next to the mop and bucket?

Top of the morning

Last night she asked me if I liked morning breath. I told her it's not my breath of choice.

We sat there for a minute in silence. I got the feeling she wanted to give me her opinion on morning breath, so I asked her what she thought of it. This is what she unleashed:

"I like morning breath because I like my morning breath. But I don't like morning breath because I don't like Daddy's morning breath. It smells really horrible. It smells like black apples mixed with Vegemite mixed with disgusting. I really don't like it."

She seemed so relieved to get that off her chest.

In the jeans

Petal has grown so accustomed to wearing skinny-leg jeans that when her dad dressed her in regular ones she complained:
"These jeans are too FAT!"

Hell hath no fury...

Angry at her baby brother, she shouted at him:

"I HATE YOU THE BEST!"

Preschool Idol

It was Petal's news day at preschool yesterday. She had intended to show the class her favourite magazine. At the last minute, she changed her mind and sang this:

"Why don't you bweak my heart
Make it hurt so baaa-aa-aad
Come on give it the best
Nothing less
I want it just like that

Why don't you bweak my heart
Sounds good to me
Do it over again, again, again
You're just what I need
Why don't you bweak my hearrr-arr-arrt"

Did I mention she is four?

Just desserts

After slaving in the kitchen for over an hour, I proudly presented my family with a home-made dessert.

Petal took one mouthful of it, then matter-of-factly asked me:

"Mum, why did you make a pudding out of poo?"

Who's your daddy?

Yesterday she referred to her father as 'David'.

"She's hardly the first child to call her dad by his first name," I hear you say.

His name is not David.

And on that farm...

I never wanted to hear my daughter ask for 'MacDonald's' or worse, 'Maccas'. So I have always refused to tell her what the name of the place with the golden arches is called.

In a clear case of double-standards, I have less of a problem with her eating there.

Whenever we go on road trips, she begs us to stop at the 'cheeseburger shop'. On our most recent jaunt, she must have overheard my husband and I refer to the fast-food institution by name.

She now asks to eat to at 'Old MacDonald's'.

I really hope she doesn't ask what he has on his farm. Do I say, "Cows, chickens, fish and before 10.30am - pigs"?

Buddhism 101 (#2)

Just as she is about to fall asleep, there's one last question:

"Mummy, how did Buddha's mum die?"

Whatever happened to a simple "Good night"?

A movie by any other name...

She told me she'd really like to see 'High School Music Kids'.

So boring

This morning she says to me, "I'm boring, so boring." No, she doesn't lack self-esteem – she just meant to say 'bored'.

Yes, of course

Petal has chosen to replace the simple word 'yes' with 'of course'.

It can make her sound either certain, smug or plain rude.

Certain...
Me: Have you brushed your teeth?
Petal: Of course.

Smug...
Me: Did your friends like your new shoes?
Petal: Of course.

Rude...
Me: Would you like toast for breakfast?
Petal: Of course!

Will she ever just say 'yes' again?

Yes, of course she will.

Plastic-free zone

She asks me, "Do you have silicon in your body?"

She now lives in left-field. "No, some mummy's do, but I don't."

"Yes, you do." She convinced.

"No darling, I'm all natural. Who's been telling you about silicon?"

"My teacher says everyone has silicon in their body?"

"Has your teacher just visited LA?"

She shrugs. "She says your bones make your silicon."

"Do you mean your skeleton?"

"That's what I said!"

Buddhism 101 (#1)

As I'm hanging out the washing, my daughter comes to me with an important question. "Mummy, how did Buddha die?" I wasn't expecting this.

"Um, ah, I'm not sure, darling. I think he just got really old and died."

She looks at me suspiciously. "Mum, did you kill Buddha?"

I burst out laughing. She takes this as a sure sign of guilt.

Staring me down, "Mum, why did you kill Buddha?"

I'm speechless. She runs off in tears.

"I didn't kill Buddha. I DIDN'T KILL BUDDHA," I call out.

I'm left standing there with my husband's damp underpants and a plastic clothes peg in my hands, wondering, "What must the neighbours think?"

Warning: may contain nuts

When offered a piece of hazelnut chocolate, her response:

"No thanks, it makes me nutty."

Not funny ha-ha, funny weird (#1)

Her favourite bedtime story is Duck, Death and the Tulip. It really does feature the Grim Reaper. He does kill the duck. Creepy, yet strangely beautiful.

Sweet dreams, darling.

Are you talking to me?

My daughter, who will now be referred to as Petal, calls her grandmother:

Ring, ring...

Petal: Hello..
...

Petal: Yes, I'm good.
...

Petal: Yes, I'm wonderful.
...

Petal: That's good.
...

Petal: Okay, I have to go now.
...

Petal: Bye-bye, love you.

Hangs up.

"How was she?" I ask.

Petal just shrugs her shoulder. "I don't know. It was just a message."

Sticks and stones

In a fit of rage last night, my daughter yelled at me, "Mum, you are a lawyer!"

She has no idea what a lawyer is, but she knew it was an insult.

BTW, I'm a journalist.

Even the faintest pen...

... is more reliable than the most retentive memory.

If Confucius was around today, I'm sure he'd happily swap 'faintest pen' for 'stickiest keyboard'.

I'm writing this blog because every day my four-year-old says something that I think is hilarious. I laugh so hard that I'm sure I'll never forget those words. But come the following week, I haven't got a clue what had me doubled-over.

My 14-year-old nephew is always asking me to remind him of the funny things he said as a little one. I can only remember two things:

1. When served up a delicious pasta meal (which he recalls as consisting of bacon and peanuts. They were pinenuts), he looked up and said, "That's gourmet cooking for ya!". He was three. Years later we discovered it was a line from Willy Wonker and the Chocolate Factory.

2. He would pronounce 'vomit' as 'bonnet'.

These are the two 'gems' I can recall from his days filled with funny little quips.

I'm not going to allow my daughter's comic genius to be lost forever.