A few months back we experienced an incident.
Chippie referred to me as a “stupid little brat”.
Not a term I use often. So I’m fairly sure it wasn’t from me.
(I prefer “bloody little shit” myself. Just saying.)
In fact, I do know exactly where it came from.
His 11 year old brother.
I did get some unsolicited advice about how to deal with this. Over Twitter, of course, whereby a flippant update is just asking for people to respond telling me how to deal with it.
140 characters also gives a load of information as to what the issue is.
Needless to say, the “Call your 11 year old that and see how he likes it!”
All well and good, had the situation been my eldest calling my youngest a “stupid little brat”. Sadly, the actual situation was my eldest teaching my youngest to say it.
We dealt with it. Back then. We thought.
Tonight, we were out at dinner. It was terrible service. They forgot our soup. The banquet dishes took forever to come. We were doing out best to entertain the children.
This took various forms, not the least being Monkey Boy responding to me “It will come when it comes, I can’t change that. You whinging about it will not make it come faster. In fact, the only result will be me getting stabbier!” with “But you’re a mum. You can do anything! Unless … unless you’re not a very good one!”
We made it to dessert without any significant dramas. Chippie was sitting on Grumpy’s lap, annoying him. We were grasping at straws now, for entertainment.
Outside had now got quite dark, affording us a distraction via the reflection we now had of ourselves on the window behind us. Grumpy, in a bid to distract Chippie from clawing Grumpy’s face off, pointed to the window and Chippie’s reflection and said “Look! Who’s that?”
“A little brat!” Chippie answers excitedly.
And we had no cause to