Rosie Scribble

The one about the blow up doll

We have discovered this weekend that a trip to the city can quickly change from a family-oriented day out to the sort of trip you hadn’t quite planned on. In Nottingham the time this changes can be pin-pointed to 7.38pm precisely.

That was the time we wandered out of Pizza Express yesterday to find ourselves caught up in a lively hen party, which included the bride-to-be carrying a large blow-up doll under her arm, as you do.

This was quickly followed by a group of men who had chosen for the evening to wear the highest heels possible, an array of multi-coloured wigs, co-ordinated (for want of a better word) with head-to-toe sequin dresses.

It was all a world away from the quiet shopping trip followed by a relaxing family meal we had planned, but the spectacle certainly raised a smile on IJ’s face.

Sensing a fancy dress party was about to take place, she asked if we could join them. I advised that whatever type of party it was it was definitely not for children, to which she told me she was not a child.

Thankfully a passed a man carrying a whip walked past us at that point, which put her off the idea.

As we headed home the subject of the blow-up doll returned and IJ remarked: ‘It is good you can get dolls for adults isn’t it?’

I nodded vaguely in her direction, before she added: ‘But I think that doll needed to wear some clothes.’

I agreed that it did just as we walked past a group of girls wearing little more than a boob tube and I made the decision that IJ will not be going out partying until she is at least 37.

I am yet to break this news to her but I have made a mental note, although something tells me she is already planning her outfit.

Photo credit.

First (swear) words

Twenty years ago (on second thoughts, make that thirty), as a young primary school child I discovered that if you stick two fingers up in the air you get a huge reaction from adults. I’d learnt my first offensive gesture, so that made me a grown-up, aged seven, I believed.

My mother thought it was neither big nor clever but I thought it was hilarious. The gesture received a mixed reaction from adults but I loved the fact it got a reaction. Genius.

However …

Now I have my own seven-year-old daughter and she is doing exactly the same thing.

I have told her it is neither big nor clever. She thinks it’s hilarious, and I suspect she believes she is a grown-up now too.

So we have come full circle.

Except …

Today there has been another development. She has arrived home from school with ‘new knowledge’. She now knows there is a very naughty word that only very naughty people say. It is called the F-word.

She isn’t going to use it, she has reassured me. She is just letting me know that she knows it. So she is now even more grown-up than she was yesterday, still aged seven.

This is fine.

There is no major cause for concern.

All I will say is this: come back Disney fairy princesses, all is forgiven.

Photo credit.

In which I question my competencies as a parent

With IJ’s eighth birthday just four months away she has suddenly turned the corner from little girl to near adolescent, with the attitude to match at times.

The point is fast approaching when she’ll question what I am saying about her on this blog (as mentioned in my Mummy, don't blog that post) so this could be one of the last times that I reveal things like: yesterday I found her wearing one of my bras underneath a swimsuit whilst watching a Girls Aloud DVD.

I’m not sure where the Girls Aloud DVD came from *cough*, all I’m saying is that I have grown up too since I last wrote a birthday list.

The incident would not have come to my attention (I was banned from the sitting room for reasons unknown) had she not announced that she was having bra trouble, aged seven.

It seemed best to allow her to experiment so I neglected to comment on her outfit and continued as normal until she suddenly said,

“Mummy, what does sexy mean?”

I muttered something about it not being an appropriate word for her to be using, reminded her that the members of Girls Aloud were adults not children which is why they were using it in their song, repeatedly, and, truth be told, dealt with the situation rather incompetently.

Next time she asks that question I will have my answer prepared.

Although that situation may not arise as she has assured me she is not going to use the word sexy anymore.

She is just going to use the word sex.

I'm sensing trouble.

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The end of the world?

Look closely.

Very closely.

You may need to look even more closely than that.

It reads: It's the end of the world.

Does one seven-year-old girl know something we don't?

This week's Gallery theme is expressions.

Mine is one of slight concern although suppressing the need to giggle.

How not to impress your child's teacher

I’m not too sure what IJ’s teacher thinks of me after I sent her school with a weapon.

After today’s events, probably not a lot, although I am hoping that teachers don’t believe everything that seven year olds say, or write when away from the watchful eye of their parents.

It turns out that IJ has been writing about me today at school. She has described her prose to me with great excitement.

The class were required simply to write about themselves and their past. In particular they had to list all the happy times they could remember and all the sad times.

So IJ wrote about all the times I had made her laugh and all the photographs I had taken of her from her baby years up until now. They are pictured around the house as happy reminders. Top parenting marks for me.

Then it came to remembering the sad times, and with a look of slight mischief IJ announced:

“I couldn’t remember any sad times so I made one up!”

Oh dear.

*feeling of impending doom *

So IJ explained: “I wrote about the time when you had bright blue hair and decided to wear a dress so you could look like princess, but walking down the road your dress slipped down in front of a crowd of people and that made you sad.”

So to top everything off, I am now an exhibitionist.

Buy them books, feed their imagination and look what happens!

And I have never had bright blue hair, for the record.

Photo credit.