My daughter's first word
My little 'un started talking pretty early, she'd had a hip problem when she was born and so I think she'd put all of her energy into talking, rather than walking first.
She can't have been much more than a year old when she uttered her first word, I'd been pushing her in her buggy through the park, when she suddenly pointed and excitedly shouted,

'Gay! Gay! Gay!'

I realised she was pointing at someone, who then gave me a disgusted look for having taught the little nipper such a bad word. I was embarrassed, shocked, I tried to shut her up repeatedly, distracting her and apologising to the passing man, who just so happened to be walking his dog.
It was then that I realised, it wasn't him she was pointing to, it was his dog.
His dogGAY.

She spent months pronouncing it that way, unable to make the full dog-gay sound, getting over excited in parks and shouting it at random strangers that were walking their pooches. Every time I'd be just as embarrassed, fail to distract her and fear that eventually one of the homosexuals she was outing would eventually flatten me, right in front of her.

Luckily, they didn't, but I'm going to re-tell this story, every single time she brings a boyfriend home in a few years time.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 15:26, Reply)

Since this is so vague, I just going to post related rants. That's how it's done, right?
I grew up on a housing estate built along fairly idealistic lines. All the different 'types' of house were built in a jumbled together fashion, to avoid social segregation, and care was taken to ensure exercise and community activity would be available to all. There were two big fields set aside for recreation, including one containing communal exercise equipment and a basketball court, and plenty of climable trees. There was a community hall, spar and chip shop. And there was a lovely little green area in the middle with grassy banks arranged specially so that kids could have somewhere relatively safe to ride up and down on their bikes.

What has happened recently? The communal exercise equipment has been chopped up because things you can climb on like that are not safe enough. The nicest houses on the estate are much cheaper than equivalent houses elsewhere because nobody wants to live near the 'lower' folk (so cheaper houses for those more willing to mix). But one little story I read in the local paper just makes me want to go round there and slap people.

The council have levelled the grassy banks. Why? Because some people/person in one of the nearby 'nice' houses complained the children playing were too noisy. Either that person has lived next to this noise for about 20 years and suddenly complained, or they chose to move into a house next to an area specially designed for children to play dangerous noisy games, then complained about the noise of children playing. WTF was anyone involved in this thinking? The children will now either stay inside watching telly and playing computer games, or play on their bikes on the only other banks available: those by the main road. I really want to punch whoever made a fuss about this to the council, and shake the council for listening too.

But then, my home town has people who write to the paper complaining about 'vandals' when describing young people who sit on the backs of benches. Fear it! Fear it!
(Skittlemcfluff ......................, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 15:24, Reply)

I don't think so
I haven't made up my mind yet about having kids, although at 31 I don't feel I have to yet.

I don't dislike them, I just don't see why I should put up with other people's annoying children on transport, shopping, generally out and about etc.. Mind you, I feel that way about dogs too. I think kids just bore me.

Probably going to get lynched for this!
(neveryoumind, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 15:17, 3 replies)

1991...
Kids, well, I dont have kids, so i'm going to tell you this story from when I was a kid (I guess that counts, we aint good lookin' but we're someone's child)

Its 1991 and i'm 7 years old. And i'm totally ashamed, even to this day, that I did not do anything to help this poor kid. Names have been changed blah blah blah

A product of The Thatcher Education system at the time, born in 1984- our generation has been used for all 'forward thinking Government proposals'- SAT's tests, Richmond tests, all sorts.

As the time, economically, thing wern't great. Just like today, some people were better off than others, and some people were poorer then others.

Kirk was from one of the local estates, and I still feel sorry for him whenever I hear this name.

Kirk came from a single parent family, constantly wore hand me downs from his older brothers, and was a fat little kid. Its depressing me just to try and describe him.

I always thought Kirk was alright, we werent exactly super-bestest-buddies- with secret hand shakes, but he was a decent enough footballer, and you could tell there was no malice in him-even though I didnt know what that meant back then.

However, not everyone thought Kirk was the decent chap I thought he was. Kirk was bullied terribly. He occasionally fought back when things got really bad but most of the time he took whatever 'punishment' the meatheads dealt out to him.

There was a group of about four kids who picked on him. And this, as far as I know, was the reason why he ended up in hospital

It started as a normal day, football, registration etc... and at the back of the class you could hear the sniggers, the laughing, the electricty in the air. Kirk was quieter than normal.

1st and second period ran as normal, and then we had break. The best time of the day. 25 mins of play time! Kirk had been out at break, but didnt turn up to third period.

See, it was well known that Kirk was chlostrophobic (sp?) you can probably see where this is heading, and you'd be right.

The bullies pegged it out of second period like lightening. A few of us were talking, probably about Power Rangers, when Kirk said he is going to the drinking fountain.

now in our school, there were lots of little corridors that had doors that open inwards (had to be pulled) to be opened.

The bullies had followed Kirk and asked where he was going 'To the drinking fountain, now leave me along' was probably his reply.

Two of the bullies tore away in one direction, and the other two in the other. Kirk didnt think anything of it, and carried on. Walking down one of these narrow corridors, the doors behind him slammed shut. The doors infront of him slammed shut. Kirk was trapped.

He could hear the roaring laughter of his tormentors, who had put very little physical effort into this torture. They simply shut the doors and propped push-brooms between the handle and the doorframe so that Kirk couldnt open them.

I happened to be walking by and noticed two bullies standing by those doors and didnt think anything of it, at the time i'm not even sure I noticed the brooms.

Well, the bell from break went, the bullies went to lesson and left Kirk there. Im not sure what happened but students took the long way around to class, assuming the caretakers had blocked the doors.

Lunch was two hours away.

Kirk had been left in his 'cell' to rot for what must have been an interminable amount of time. No water, no light, no way of escaping. He must have been in hell.

Then. Anarchy.

Police were everywhere. Bursting into classrooms, the great hall, everywhere to try and find Kirk. Because he hadnt registered after lunch, and there was no way of explaining where he had gone, the police were called.

Then the Ambulance.

Kirk had passed out from not being able to escape and crack his head on the floor. He was found, alive, in a pool of blood and in a not very well condition.

He made a full recovery.

And the bullies? tbh I have no idea of their fate.

I often think back as to what may have happened if i'd have registered that the bullies were standing akwardly. Were laughing. If i'd have noticed the broom. I might have been able to save him. And as i'm writing this, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

Even though the names have been changed, If you're reading this, went to school in south london, and recognise the story as being yours, I hope life has treated you alot better then back in 1991, mate.
(drain_bamaged, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 15:14, 2 replies)

Wild horses couldn't make my arse go thataway!
About 18 months ago I embarked on a short, sharp and very unwise relationship. She wasn't a bad person, perhaps not the most stable one, but then again I'm not a poster-boy for emotional cohesion. We were a terrible couple who had nothing in common, and once the initial rush had worn off we realised that we should not be making even the vaguest of long term plans together.

A couple of days before we split up we had one last futile attempt to rekindle some sort of spark. Talk about pissing in the wind, diverting an avalanche with a firm glance and a damp tissue would have been more likely.

Needless to say a bad relationship turned into a hideous breakup, and my ex no longer speaks to me except to send angry, hate filled replies to my emails; she doesn't even live in this country any more.

I wouldn't mind so much usually, but I really want to see my son.

Length - about two and a quarter minutes of loveless squelching.
(InfiniteMonkey, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 15:06, 8 replies)

I awoke this very morning to find my dangly bit all swollen.

I spoke to my son about it and he informed that that was the taste tester.

If food tastes good then it allows it to pass,
if bad then its a No-No. He said I had tasted something bad, his mum grinned.

He also informed me if I touched it with a blade of grass I would be sick.

Remy, I Love you so much.

:D
( war3n3xt < I'm with stupid, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 15:02, 8 replies)

As a wee sprog in primary School...
My class was to make "lanterns". Mrs Cartmail (yes, real name) explained the technique....

I didn't like Mrs Cartmail. She smelled funny and was mean.

1. Select Bog-roll tube, and wrap its waistline with silver/gold stick back paper.
2. Select favourite Coloured Sticky-back paper, fold down the middle and cut slits into it.
3. Cut 1 strip of paper, and stick over the top of the tube as a handle
4. unfold large coloured bit, and wrap around the tube... creating shoddy lantern effect.

I did this at warp speed. I've always been good with my hands. Other kids were having "issues" with their paper and so on... and I had a finished lantern. I was pleased. "Miiiissss I've finished!"

Humpty, That is NOT what I told you to make.
Yes it is miss
No It isn't. I told you to pick your favourite coloured paper.
I did miss.
Oh really? What colour is that then?
*confused* Black miss!
BLACK ISN'T A COLOUR!!
*so very confused, and aware that the rest of the kids were staring* Yes it is.. You said..
I SAID PICK A COLOUR... DO IT AGAIN!!
but but but *trembling lip* but ALL *our* lanterns are black miss
DON'T ARGUE! DO IT AGAIN!

I was distraught, and she tore up my lantern.
by the time I finished making my lantern again, all the others had finished. I was lagging.. but.. I had selected the darkest blue there was.

WHAT COLOUR IS THAT?
Blue miss
*Cartmail fumes*
Miss? If black isn't a colour, What colour are my trousers?
*silence*

************************

My mum came to collect me as usual... Mrs Cartmail was waiting and dragged us into the classroom. Cartmail ranted about how I argued with her about black being a colour.

My mum answered that Black *was* infact a colour, and if Cartmail had hated black so much, why did she supply black paper?

Cartmail then said I had been cheeky and tried to make her look stupid, proffering my trouser question as evidence.

My mum smiled a sweet smile and asked her what her answer had been... When Cartmail said she didn't answer it, my Mum asked her; "Well then, IF black isn't a colour, What colour are his trousers?"

Cartmail was silent.

"Well, Let me tell you. His trousers are black. It Is a colour, and he DID make you look stupid. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I was then home-schooled for a year.

*************

Shit... long and pointless. I'm sorry about that!!

Ohhh.. Tangent time.

Since then I've enjoyed asking pointy questions at exactly the right times.

I used to work at JCB at one point of my life. One of the Bamford (founders) family came around to each factory and spent time with his chief accountant explaining how we must all save money for the company. Use less hand-towels, close doors to keep heat in, Use public transport instead of hirecars, turn lights off.. blah blah blah. Serious stuff. the highlight and largest saving the reckoned was to use public transport instead of hire-cars

"Any Questions?"
*Humpty raises hand*
"Yes?"
"We know how you like to lead by example; how did you travel to the factory today?"
*Loud intakes of breath from well over 500 employees...*

The hypocrites habitually travel using the company helicopter...
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 18 Apr 2008, 15:01, 10 replies)

I am useless with children.
The sound they make when they cry goes right through me and makes me long for a roll of gaffer tape, and small ones either

a) stare at me and go 'look at that lady mummy, isn't she small?' (I am under 5' so yes, on the small side, which is all the more apparent when with the other half, who is 6') meaning I either glare at them or complain to their parents that their offspring are rude...

or b) they're the kind who run around Tescos when I'm trying to food shop (a task I already hate; Mr Maladicta and I have just come back from a packed Sainsbury's and I need alcohol, or chocolate, or both) clutching something random, yelling "MUMMY I NEED SOME SWEETS!! I AM A GOOD BOY/GIRL AREN'T I MUMMY? AARGHGRAREEERR!" and the mothers of course are either all under the impression that their offspring are beautiful and their creativity must not be stifled "put that down Damien..." or are incapable of controlling them "Chlamydia! Fahkin' put that dahn yer little shit!"

or c) they love me on sight, which I find a bit unnerving because I don't know what to do with them.

Or d) they throw up on me.

The few exceptions to this rule are kids I've had the time to get to know well, and a good friend of mine reduced me to hysterics last weekend by showing that his son will say anything he asks him to, in this case "dirka dirka". Yay. He's also got round the sweariness problem by telling the kids not to say 'daddy's words'.

However the following exchange at a friend of my parents' house reduced me to hysterics:
Clock: *chimes*
Granny: What's that sound Small Child?
Small child: Cock!

This is probably because I had a number of infuriating cousins as a small child - Jessica, the stereotypical spoilt little princess dressed in head-to-toe pink, with a nice line in sadism and tantrums, sometimes at the same time (she's Vicky Pollard now), Jack the literal anklebiter, and Alex the trainspotter. Not kidding; at the age of three you could ask him any train route in the country and he'd rattle it off station by station. It was a bit unnerving to say the least. Watching these grow up put me off kids for life; especially watching them trash my stuff (only child syndrome, I feel).

Give me teh kittins any day; Mr Maladicta and I have a mutual pact that we do not want any kids, but sadly we disagree on their replacement - I want Bengal kittens and he wants German Shepherd puppies.
( Maladicta, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:56, 6 replies)

Ken's Dead!
As a 7 year-old GooGoo, my mother took me to London to see the sights. This was back in the early eighties. We ended up in Westminster Abbey, where I - on spotting Dr Livingstone's tombstone - piped up: "Is that Ken Livingstone, Mummy?" much to the merriment of a passing cleric. If only ...

Pop!
(GooGoo, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:47, Reply)

Big Smurf
I'm kind of with you, but conversations with my nephew when his dad puts him on the phone are hysterical

Nephew: "Hi Uncle Coke!"
Me: "Hi nephew. What have you been doing today?"
Nephew: "we went to the park and we played and daddy bought me an icecream!"
Me: "Wow! Thats sounds ama..."
Nephew: "BYE!" *drops phone handset on floor*
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:47, 2 replies)

Melty legs!
When I was younger my Dad used to take me to the gym with him. I couldn't do much in there and this was before the days of health and safety so could mess around on the machines.

One time my dad takes me into the sauna and I'm sitting in there being a kid and being hot when I start looking at a bloke with a wooden leg and turn to my dad and say:

'Look dad, it's so hot in here that that man's leg has melted'

My dad had to get me out of there pretty quick I believe but couldn't stop laughing!
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:44, Reply)

I don't have sprogs of my own..
... but seem to get on with them Ok none-the-less.

Anyway.. There seem to be a lot of people bitterly spitting about how nasty the little shites are, and how damned annoying new parents are to boot...

*I* reckon they're adorable - albeit as ugly as sin in the first few weeks - and rather look forward to having some of my own.

That is all: I just wanted to state that.

oh.. Additional:

To you lot who feel the need to concoct spiteful responses to those who enquire as to your future sprog-based plans, repeat after me and be honest:

"No. I don't plan on having kids: too many people have asked now and I have become too bitter and spiteful to be able to enjoy it. Encouraging an embittered person such as myself to become a parent is irresponsible: please refrain from doing so."
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:31, 2 replies)

At the Checkout
I'm queuing to pay for my shopping in Asda and this stressed chav mother is in front of me with her terror of a lad. He's about 4 or 5 and he looks at me for some reason. As I catch his eye, I glare and stick my tongue out. The kid pulls a right angry face back, and the mother notices, tells him to stop and apologises to me. As the mother turns back, I laugh at him, stick my tongue out again, and he responds with a middle finger. The mother again notices, stops packing her shopping, turns to the kid, whips his pants down and absolutely BELTS him on his arse. Kid starts crying and rubbing his sore backside as the mother again sincerely apologises for her kid being such a bastard!!
(peakofphysicalfitness, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:30, 1 reply)

Young adults
I'm going to include 'young adults' under the banner of kids for a minute.

In the trafford centre the other day (yeah I know) I had the urge to grab all the teenagers and group them according to 'style'. It would be very easy:

Group 1 - Girls with ugg boots and the accompanying outfit, usually the same.
Group 2 - Girls in ballet pumps and the accompanying outfit and hairdo - long hair, occasionally bouffant/amy winehouse
Group 3 - Boys. Black 'tracksuit' and trainers. Hooded top. Short hair.
Group 4 - Goth/"emo" style.

Once assembled in a group I would then simply gesture at them all in a manner which would make them think "oh god we all look the same. I thought I was an individual. Maybe I should start thinking for myself for once and stop this conformist herd mentality that I appear to have sleepwalked into, learn to write using vowels, learn to read books, realise that I will never be famous or appear on reality television and just maybe the human race might survive past the next generation".


"Young adults" are shit. We were way cooler back in the day. And we didnt have R and fuckin B either which I firmly believe to be largely responsible for many crimes against humanity.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:28, 12 replies)

#5 Life imitating art.
Back in January of this year I went to a b3ta meet up where I saw a variety of the usual suspects. It was a rather frightening experience because the amount of witty and intelligent banter flying around the house was enough to spontaneously ignite even the dampest of wet blankets.

I was feeling very pleased with myself because I had experienced a hugely entertaining discussion with my sons only that week and I knew it would provide me with a great anecdote with which I would impress them all.

Unfortunately my sons have obviously got ahead of themselves on the DVD front and watched some Aardman animations that had (until last week) passed me by.

Okay, enough preamble - all will become clear later, but what I recount below is 100% truth.

We're on our way to school. I'm driving (obviously) and both sons are in the back. Often they will bring up subjects which have been troubling them at times like this - it's a good time to discuss things as we can't have eye contact and therefore no embarrassment on their part. So, the conversation goes roughly as follows…

Son #1 Mum, some kids at school have been using a swearword and I don't know what it means. Can you tell us?

Me Well, you know I don't like you using swearwords.

Son #1 Yes, I know. But we still want to know what it means.

Me I don't like you using bad language.

Son #1 We're not going to use it. We just want to know what it means!

Me Hmm. Okay, so long as you don't use the word. Now what is it?

Son #1 Wanker.

Me Oh. That's a really nasty word. I don't want you saying that.

Son #1 We won't! But other kids do. What does it mean?

Me Erm…It's a very unpleasant word used for someone who keeps playing with their willy.


Both boys fall about laughing.

Son #2 Hahahaha!

*Points at Son #1*

Son #2 You're a wanker!


******

So I had this little gem of a story all lined up and ready to recount to the assembled b3tans…. I began with telling them the tale and one of them said, "Yeah, heard it."

Oh bugger, I thought. I must have posted this and forgotten. Oh well, such is life and the evening continued with much laughter and the airing of the famous song, Bernard.

Now, skip forward in time to last Wednesday…I'm chatting to a mate, I start telling him the story and he says, "Oh, you mean this" and he puts his mobile under my nose and on it is playing the Angry Kid cartoon.

The Wanker one.

The one I'd never seen before.

The one my ten year old twin boys had obviously seen.

Little buggers.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:14, 1 reply)

Death. Oh, how cheery
When I was about 6 years old, my Great-Grandma died. Very sad times all round, as you can imagine. My mum sat me and my sister, then aged 4, down to tell us the bad news

Mum: Now girls, I've got some bad news for you. Your great grandma Scottie has died, but she's gone to heaven to be with Jesus
The Who Bird: Right. And what's the good news?
(The Who Bird is eating Jaffa Cakes on, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:11, Reply)

The joy of stupidly named children
There I was, doing the shopping in a well known food super-nay-megastore, gritting my teeth against the cacophony of argueing couples and screaming kids, that sounded very much like the steerage hold of a 17th century sailing ship on the way to the new world, when what do I hear above the din?

"Pepperoni! Put that down and come 'ere."

Pepperoni! Words fail me.
(don't eat yellow snow, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 14:10, 4 replies)

Happily for me,
and the world at large, I was sterilised last year so with any luck, no-one will ever have to suffer whatever I may have spawned.

It's safe to say I'm not a fan of kids, generally and I have lots of fun winding them up....

Kid 1 - gobshite son of a chav. I was calling him a girl. He was not impressed. Told him he was a girl cos he liked pink. He got proper angry at this, and I pointed out that he liked red. He agreed. I asked him if he liked the colour white. He said yes. 'There you go then,' says I, 'red and white make pink, you like pink!'
He promptly burst into tears.
I laughed my arse off.

Kid 2 was at the same chavs wedding and thought it would be a hoot to go around kicking all the guests in the shins. For some reason the parents and plenty of others thought this was cute. I thought said spawn was a nasty little shit.
He started kicking me hard in the shins, because he (and I quote) 'thought it was funny to hurt girls'
Unfortunately for said brat, I was wearing New Rocks - huge thick cowhide boots with big lumps of metal on them, including on the toes.
I lifted my skirt to my knees, looked down, smiled sweetly and said 'my turn'
Kid shat himself and ran back to his parents screaming.
I laughed my arse off.

Not that I was any better. I recall in infants school, the teacher had written a maths problem in my book. My answer?
'Why should I tell you, pig-face?'
I got a bollocking from the headmistress, then she sent me back to class with a packet of Fruit Gums. Most odd.
(Beklet is inexplicably angry, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:59, 2 replies)

My brother's gift to the old ladies
Picture the scene:

A beautiful summer's evening in the late 80s. Two charming old ladies stop by our garden gate to coo over my 3 year old brother, who, being only 3, is wearing very little in terms of trousers, and indeed undergarments.

The old ladies spend a good few minutes ooing and arring, and issuing old lady noises at the delightful toddler tottering around before them.

Whereupon, as if in reply, and thereyby proving that he has been brought up by a pack of wolves, my delightful brother proceeds to lay a brown cable on our driveway.

Length? It was about four inches long.
(don't eat yellow snow, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:55, Reply)

Please stop making me talk to your kids on the telephone.
They can't hold a decent conversation.

Uncle Smurf: Hi Smurf Niece. How are you?

Smurf Niece: We went to Tescos today!

Uncle Smurf: Did you? What did you buy?

Smurf Niece: We went to Tescos today!

Uncle Smurf: And what did you do there?

Smurf Niece: We went to Tescos today!

ad infinitum

She's only two. It gets worse when it's my one year old nephew. It's just absolute gibberish and I can hear the baby saliva dribbling in to the mouthpiece of the phone.

Don't get me wrong, I love seeing them (as long as there is no poo involved), but I really don't want to speak to them on the phone.

And as someone mentioned previously, that whole parent thing. "Oh Smurf Nephew moved straight from baby milk to cows milk the other day". So?! I thought that was normal? "And they've stopped wearing nappies" I don't care!

Give me cats any day.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:55, 1 reply)

But you've won!
One grey, drizzly April morning, I've dragged myself out of bed and, mildly hung over, managed to make my way to London Zoo for a friend's birthday excursion. We have cunningly picked a weekend between two bank holidays in the hope of minimizing the number of children present, and to an extent this has worked, but because of the rain everyone's gone for the indoor exhibits and we're trapped in the aquarium with a pack of screeching little bastards. We try to avoid them as much as possible, but eventually they surround us as reach the tank with clownfish in.

"Nemo, Nemo!" they announce. Yes, very good, it looks like Nemo. Now hush.
"Nemo, Nemo!"
"Shhhhhh, don't let them know you've found him!"
"What?"
"When you find Nemo, you've won the zoo! That means it's finished, and it's time to go home."
"Sniff, sniff, WAAAAAAAAAAH!"

As their parents rounded the corner we beat a swift retreat and went to look at some ducks.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:52, 1 reply)

I was emo before the feckin lot of you!
My mother told me that as a toddler I would only use the black crayons or pencil crayons. I would never use the coloured ones.

May give an insight into my teenage years!
( girlinthehole, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:46, Reply)

Balls!
I took my little brother, Bradley, swimming when he was around 4 years of age and naturally I took him into the ladies changing rooms with me. After our swim we went into a cubicle to dry off and get dressed.
After a short while I asked him if he was fully dry to which he replied (in a VERY loud voice):
"NO - JUST GOT TO DO MY BALLS!"
Much to the hyserics of the other people in the changing area!
I exclaimed that he wasn't to say that and he just looked wide eyed and replied "But that's what they are!". I couldn't argue really.


Sometimes when I took him I used to say he was under the age of 4 to get him in free of charge (he was very small for his age so this was easy to pull off). This always worked until one time the cashir asked me how old he was and I said 3 and my lovely little bro piped up "NO I'M NOT - I'M 4!" (I had stupidly forgotton how proud little kids are of their age). I went bright red and had to sheepishly tell the cashier that he'd just turned 4 and I had forgotton.

Kids - you gotta love 'em! ;o)
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:41, 4 replies)

I had a favorite put-down between the ages of about 4 and 7
Whenever I took leave of anyone I didn't like they'd get "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" shouted at them. I still use it occasionally.
(lost, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:40, Reply)

baaaaah
As a child I had a tendency to speak my mind a little too much, always caused no end of trouble for my parents. I was about 3 at the time and I got in a lift with my mum, the next floor up a woman wearing a big woolen coat got in and I pointed at her and shouted *Baaaah Baaaah* - I was convinced that she was a sheep

its safe to say my mum was fairly embaressed for the rest of the ride
( screech, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:35, Reply)

#4 Shameless Pearoast


All Cocks are Rapists!

Some of you may be aware that one of the reasons I’m called Chickenlady is because I used to live on a farm and have pet chickens. My chickens were a great source of amusement and also education….

I have twin boys who are now 9 10, but when they were a few years younger I got hold of some fertile eggs because one of my hens (Ethel) was broody. She duly sat on them and produced four cockerels and only two hens. The chicks were lovely but within a few weeks the young cocks had become just that and were harassing all of the hens…several times a day to the point that the favoured hens had no feathers on the tops of their heads and many of them had now got bloody scabs from the over enthusiastic males holding them with their beaks.

When your young children have seen hens being given a good seeing to on a regular basis sex education is pretty easy, or so I’d thought. The following conversation is etched on my memory…

Son #1 “Mummy, what is Hector [Hector was the biggest cockerel and therefore it was his house...] doing to all the hens?”

Me “He wants to give them chicks”

The kids were already well aware that hens lay eggs regardless of whether there’s a cockerel about or not (some adults are unaware of this, and more than once I’ve heard an egg referred to as a ‘Chicken abortion’ erm….no it’s unfertilised…and will never ever become a chick, you idiot).

Son #1“But how?”

Me“Ah…well….you know how you have a winkle?”

He nods, interested now (typical male…any mention of genitalia and they’re all ears…as it were…)

Me“Well…Hector has one too”

Son #1“Where?”

Me“Under his feathers. Anyway, he jumps on the hen’s back and he puts his winkle into the hen”

Son #1“Where?”

Me“Erm…where the eggs come out”

Son #1“UP HER BUM!!??”

Me“Yes…but it’s called a Vent in chickens”
(Can you tell I used to be a primary school teacher?)

*Boy thinks*

Son #1“Mummy….”

Me“Yes darling?”

Son #1 “Is that how people get babies?”

Me“Pretty much, yes, but they always ask first and they always should like each other a lot”

Son #1“So…Daddy…and you…..”

Me“Yes”

Boy looks slightly shocked…

Me“It’s alright you know, when you get older you’ll understand that it’s okay and nice too.”

Boy begins to cry…

Son #1“But Mummy….I’ll never be able to do that!”

At that point I’m afraid I had to stifle my giggles, gave him a hug, told him it would be okay, he *would* be able to do it and would want to do it, then I sent him outside to play.

Ten minutes later I went out to see what the kids were up to….and I see my son chasing the cockerel around the garden shouting at him, “You git! You didn’t ask her if she wanted chicks! Leave her alone!”
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:28, 6 replies)

Aaaawwww isn't she... what the fuck...?
Prompted by BobFossil’s earlier entry (can I say that?), I’m reminded of when I was in London with the ex a few years ago. We’d gone into some posh department store that wasn’t owned by a deluded Egyptian greengrocer, and were in the lift travelling from the 6th floor food hall, to the ground floor exit. At the fourth floor, the lift stopped, and in came a young mother and her toddler, who was seated in a pushchair (or stroller, if you prefer).

The tot was a girlish mass of blonde curls, all sweetness and light, and beaming in that way that only very young children can. Me and the ex looked at each other, with a ‘isn’t she quite sweet’ look, and looked again at the little girl in the pushchair…

…Who fixed us both with a hard stare and addressed us with a throaty “Ggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”.

“Erm, yes”, the girl’s mother exclaimed matter-of-factly, “She growls. She does that sometimes”.

At that point the lift doors opened, mother and child exited, and me and the ex’s collective knees buckled under us as we almost-but-not-quite pissed ourselves laughing.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:27, 7 replies)

Nursery Rhyme
There was an old woman that lived in a shoe
She had so many kids that she hid one under a relatives bed while cooking up a phony missing child scam

(I know their chav dwelling didn't look like a shoe but thats what they put on their benefits form, just so they could get more money from the social services)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:24, 3 replies)

A compendium of short, kid, stories
1) I was happily playing in my garden when I was about 1ish and my mum was doing something in the kitchen. There is a knock at the front door and my mum answers it to find a man holding out her daughter saying "is this yours?". No-one knows how I did it but the theory is that I squeezed between the fence and the garage (apparently impassable with brambles) and crawled out into the road where a drive stopped and brought me home.

2) The beardedwife took apart his parents telephone with a screwdriver when he was between 1 and 2 years old. His parents come in to find him doing this and struggle (and fail) to put the phone back together. Beardedwife returns to the phone when his parents aren't looking and puts it back together successfully. It even worked!

He also rolled off the bed and hit his head when his mum was changing him, which probably explains why he is the way he is.

3) I went missing one day. Nobody could find me. There were search parties sent out all through the neighbourhood. They were a gnats bollock away from calling the police when someone looked in my toybox where they found me... asleep on top of all my toys.
( Joliet, Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:23, Reply)

‘Ice’ to see you…


The year was 1997, and at that time I happened to be the proud uncle of my sister’s 9 year old son. He was my first nephew, a great kid and I used to enjoy babysitting him whilst my sister and brother-in-law went out and got arseholed in their local pub every now and again.

On one occasion I decided to treat the boy with a trip to the cinema to watch the latest 'Batman' movie (The god-awful one with Uma Thurman and Arnie in).
If anybody cares to remembers the plot, Arnie played a mad scientist who required a refrigerated “ice suit” and loads of fucking awful, cold & ice related one-liners to survive (see title).

However, he had also invented the cure to a disease that had struck down Bruce Wayne’s faithful butler, Alfred.

As my nephew is munching away at his popcorn, we watch a scene where Alfred is in his bed, gasping his apparent last breaths as he is dying in a haze of shoddy acting. As George Clooney leans over his trusty old assistant with a proud, smouldering smile, he whispers:

“I love you, old man”

The kindly old Afred manages a smile and splutters with poignant grace: “And I love you”.

At this point my nephew innocently looks up at me..and bellows in that “Why can’t kids say anything quietly” voice …

“ARE THEY GAY?”

Suddenly this moving cinematic moment is instantly punctured by the sound of 100 or so moviegoers pissing their respective gussets with laughter…as I try to crawl up my own poo-chute to escape the embarrasment; whilst whispering to a 9 year old boy in an attempt to explain platonic, dutiful love between two men.

I never took him to the cinema again.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 18 Apr 2008, 13:23, 1 reply)