Expat tales: Tattoo ob Wibberly

When I was in New York I wrote a blog that few people read. It was for a lovely magazine that few people bought, called Wondertime. I stumbled across some of my blog posts while clearing stuff off an old laptop. Since I’ve recently become addicted to blogging twice a day, I thought I’d share the occasional one with you. They tend to have a traditional “mummy blogger” tone, as I was on my best behaviour. People bored by kiddie tales should stop reading now. (Fortunately the site has already recorded your visit, thanks!)

“I’m going to miss my two-year-old’s pidgen English. It’s so adorable to hear her call flowers “wallers” , her backpack a “pack-pack” and the Statue of Liberty the “Tattoo ob Wibberly”.

But Sprog 2 is remarkably expressive for someone with so few words. Like when I took her to Mars 2112, an alien-themed restaurant at Times Square, where humans dressed as Martians roamed the room. She was a bit ruffled by these weird creatures, but obligingly held out her hand to touch one when it reached towards her. As their fingers met, however, she let out a blood-curdling scream and howled the place down for the next five minutes.

The rest of the meal was spent with her curled on my lap, anxiously surveying the room. “Where da aliens gone? No like da aliens,” she kept repeating.

The aliens, thankfully, were not keen to repeat the noisy experiment and left us pretty much alone after that.

I suppose I find Sprog 2’s language such a novelty because it’s a stark contrast to her sister’s. Four-year-old Sprog 1 has been a big talker from an early age. At 12 months old, she was startling strangers by saying “Hello!” from her pram. At 18 months old, she was already stringing sentences together. By age two she was grammatically correct and extremely eloquent.

I initially seized upon Sprog 1’s refined verbal skills as a sign of great genius, but it appears she’s just exceedingly fond of talking.

There is much for Sprog 1 to talk – and ask – about in New York. “We looked at acorns in show and tell today”, “Why is there steam coming out of holes in the road?”, “Why is that man asleep on the bus?”, “Why does that lady look sad?”, “Why is that boy wearing that funny hat?”, “Why does that lady have pink hair?”, “Can I have pink hair like the lady?”, “When is the train coming?”, “Can I get a bat costume for Halloween?”, “When is my cousin coming to visit?”, “Why can’t I touch the squirrels?”, “Why is that girl wearing a white scarf on her head?”, “Why is the sky so blue today?”, “Why do you have your cranky face on?”

My patience slowly drains away as the bombardment of questions continues. Eventually I start barking curt, “I don’t know”s and fantasise about escaping to a place where I can get some peace and quiet.

There is no peace and quiet in my new life. I can’t even shut the door to the bathroom without being harassed by my little one. “Mumma, why you shut door? Mumma, want to come in. Mumma, let me in!!!!! I want Mumma. WAAAAAAHHHHHH.”

At home in Australia, I had an ensuite bathroom upstairs that I could sneak off and hide in. It would take them ages to realise I was gone and find me. It was lovely.

Here, the bathroom is two short steps from the kitchen and two short steps from the living room. It’s no haven anymore. I can’t even have a relaxing soak – I shaved my legs the other night while two little faces watched intently over the side of the bath. They were fascinated by the process … and full of inevitable questions. Then they clambered into the water and joined me.

Sure, it was a great moment for family bonding, but not my idea of bathing bliss. So I’ve decided to save future soaks until the kids have gone to sleep. Unfortunately, that means I’ll be doing my tub time rather late at night, as “I need to do a wee” has become the newest catch-cry for delaying sleep in our household. It starts getting a bit tired after the third piddle per child, especially when one of them is wearing a nappy. I know I’m probably setting the toilet training back by months, but sometimes I find myself hissing through gritted teeth, “Can’t you just do it in the nappy?”

“No, want to wee-wee on the toilet.”

Sigh.

In fact, I can hear their bedroom door rattling again now …

Must. Stay. Calm.

ARRRRRGGGHHHHHH!