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Adults have a funny relationship with words from what I can see. Or hear.
Parents and their tall tales, eh, often used to save cash, time or effort somehow. But now I have become a parent, I have learned of various other motives for such small-child deception.
As a waitress, I thought children were the pits. Now, as karma would have it, I am often that parent. My two-year-old son is not that quiet in cafes. He does not eat tidily and he gets ants in his pants within two minutes of sitting down. Our pram takes up more space than I would like. How times have changed.
The day before Good Friday, my vaguely productive afternoon was cut short by a phone call from my son's daycare: he is coughing wildly; please come and take him home. Sure enough, my son's coughing fits sounded like a hurried conversation between a walrus and an old donkey.
What's a mum to do when dealing with a crying wee one? Are nursery rhymes the answer? Well, maybe not. Some of these rhymes are a bit bloody odd, to say the least
I remember being struck, even as a kid, by how rude I thought it was that anyone would openly feel the need to disapprove of your choice, whether that same name belonged to some imbecile they once knew or whether it just wasn't their cup of tea.