Telling Tales

Sitting at the tea table post-nursery, T swings his legs with gusto and gives us a running commentary on his day.

'Sam Smith* did a poo in his pants ... that's silly Mummy, poo poo goes in the toilet'

'Mmmm darling?'

'And Sally Sausage snatched my pink scissors and the ladies made her sit out'

'Mmmm?' I'm not really listening. 'Do you ever have to sit out darling?'

Ignoring the question he ploughs on regardless.

'And Tommy Jones bit Billy Stone on the leg ... that's naughty Mummy, we don't bite people'.

I love the selective pre-school memory. It's not so long ago that T was the one in the early stages of toilet training, and he's bitten me in frustration on more than one occasion. I steel myself and launch into a gentle reminder that although I love to hear about his friends, it's not nice to tell tales.

T takes it remarkably well, and nods along. The conversation turns to more important matters, like the bugs he found during a digging session in the nursery vegetable patch. I start to tune out again after the fourth rendition of 'There's a Worm at the Bottom of the Garden'.

As I retrieve the baby's corn on the cob from underneath the table T starts again.

'Mummy, he's delicious'

'Who darling?'

'Billy Stone, he's deeeelicious'

'What darling?'

'That's why Tommy Jones bit him. Because he tastes so nice. This nectarine tastes nice so I'm going to bite it too. We can bite nectarines. We don't bite Billy'.

I'm not sure that little chat did quite do the trick after all actually.

*Names changed to protect the (possibly) guilty