Skanksome
Esther has had quite the month – a scooter crash left her with a bloodied chin and forced a trip to see our local GP which was a terrifying ordeal involving blunt scissors and the bedside manner an autistic mandrill. She has also fallen victim to a rash that demanded an antibiotic response, which felt given the impending apocalypse of modern medicine a little excessive, that was so foul in its taste Esther was compensated with sugary goodness. Which she never forgets about. Happily her chin is recovering the viral rash receding nicely. And is becoming increasingly convinced of her own comic genius (helped by the encouragement of her elder sister) and often describing her interventions in definitive terms “That was actually funny.” What was? Well she now delights in chastening her parents when we try an rein her in “Don’t be such a faff, Mum” or insulting her Dad “Don’t be a silly man” (signs of an emerging proto-feminism) followed by “That is actually funny” as she snortles away to herself.
She is also learning about her parents personal preferences – so when running her ice cream she shop she knows exactly what she needs to stock. Recently, when offering me a drink from her ice cream shop, she checked her [imaginary] shelves, looked at me with a capitalist glint in her eye and said “beer or nothing?”. Along with this she is developing an interest in the wider world “Do Cows live in the country Daddy?” and her own personal vocabulary – quite often referring to things that are subprime as “skanksome” as in “Daddy, I don’t like Spaghetti Bolgonese. It’s skanksome.”
More impressively, she is also has an innate sense of sharing – happily and under no duress does she share her things with her sister or father without need for a stern word. It has diffused many a regional tension when she happily hands over something to her sister, who continues to have a depressingly sensitive barometer for detecting when any given situation isn’t on the terms favourable to her. Alas, coupled to this sharing approach is her tendency to ignore the word no. In any context for any reason. Primarily as she feels slighted because she is a “big girl” and that means she should be able to do anything (carve a chicken, stay up late, own all spare change in the house) that an adult can. Deny here this inalienable rights and it turns into a Norwegian – she collapses into hysterical rage that can only be quelled by allowing her to stand with her head next to the bump preferably in a darkness provided by a dress. Which is, I admit, slightly odd, but when the cry of “But I can [rewire the house] because I’m a BIG GIRL” goes up desperate measures are called for.
She is also learning about her parents personal preferences – so when running her ice cream she shop she knows exactly what she needs to stock. Recently, when offering me a drink from her ice cream shop, she checked her [imaginary] shelves, looked at me with a capitalist glint in her eye and said “beer or nothing?”. Along with this she is developing an interest in the wider world “Do Cows live in the country Daddy?” and her own personal vocabulary – quite often referring to things that are subprime as “skanksome” as in “Daddy, I don’t like Spaghetti Bolgonese. It’s skanksome.”
More impressively, she is also has an innate sense of sharing – happily and under no duress does she share her things with her sister or father without need for a stern word. It has diffused many a regional tension when she happily hands over something to her sister, who continues to have a depressingly sensitive barometer for detecting when any given situation isn’t on the terms favourable to her. Alas, coupled to this sharing approach is her tendency to ignore the word no. In any context for any reason. Primarily as she feels slighted because she is a “big girl” and that means she should be able to do anything (carve a chicken, stay up late, own all spare change in the house) that an adult can. Deny here this inalienable rights and it turns into a Norwegian – she collapses into hysterical rage that can only be quelled by allowing her to stand with her head next to the bump preferably in a darkness provided by a dress. Which is, I admit, slightly odd, but when the cry of “But I can [rewire the house] because I’m a BIG GIRL” goes up desperate measures are called for.
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