BMF does not like Monifa
Monifa, the baby pygmy hippo is much in the minds of my corner of the internets at the moment. Damn, I love that hippo. I am hatching a plan with Persephone to kidnap it. However, in a moment of inattention I mentioned it to BMF. BMF hates animals.
BMF to E: That sounds, erm, interesting. Send me the link.
E to BMF: By "interesting", you mean hideous, right? Here you go. I will be fascinated to see if you find her repugnant. I can't actually believe it is possible.
BMF to E: OH MY GOD I haven't even started the video but even the still shot is JUST SO REVOLTING. It just looks so, sooo BIOLOGICAL. I was honestly nearly sick. Disgusting.
E to BMF: Jesus, man. I really didn't believe you could hate Monifa. Once more you amaze me. Do watch it though.
BMF to E: Ok. So it is a hippo. That bit where in nibbles the woman's arm, eurk. And I bet it must smell HORRIBLE. But other than that, not so repugnant. I would not touch it though.
E to BMF: This conversation is the best thing to happen to me all day. I had forgotten how much fun it is to show you animals. I really must remember to do it more often.
I am the worst mother in the world
Later, the CFO and I were really really really bad parents. I can barely write this down because I am genuinely ashamed. If I hadn't taken the precaution of ensuring there are several plants in the house (my friend the family law barrister has told me that having green stuff in your house is a Cast. Iron. Guarantee. that you won't get your children taken into care, I pass this on in case it is of use to any of you as it clearly is to me), I would be waiting for the knock to take him away. I am being flippant, but it was actually bad. Properly bad.
So, I put dinner on the table and call the boys in. I have succumbed to the secret tv channel of Francophone ghastly Japanese anime I had been keeping in reserve for a rainy day, so bad has the squabbling been, so wrenching Lashes away from the tv is even harder than usual. He sees the dinner and starts weeping and moaning hystrionically about how DISGUSTING it is. He holds his nose, and says it stinks. It is cannelloni (does the canneloni take one or two 'l's?). I did not make it, so it is actually quite nice. Not out of a supermarket box, handmade by someone who knows their stuff (they raise their own chickens and make them into tasty meals for lazy, guilt-ridden city dwellers like me who would rather their food came cuboid and microwaveable and not looking like it was made from something sentient). Last week everyone ate it without complaint. Tonight, Lashes looks at it with the most piteous expression imaginable, like he is being tortured. Fingers goes the other route and doesn't eat any of it, but discreetly, while eating the other stuff on his plate. He, however, is also driving us crazy by refusing to speak, but gesturing imperiously at things he wants. It's presumably a parrot thing. The CFO and I are feeling oddly giggly at our children's bad behaviour, especially Lashes' pained grimaces. Little broken sobs keep escaping from his throat as he pushes the canneloni around like it is a pile of cat sick.
"You know what our parents said to US when we were like that?" says the CFO.
"If the wind changes you'll stay like that?" I suggest.
"No, il y a des gens plus malheureux que toi dans le monde" (there are people worse off than you).
"Though you would never guess to look at you, Lashes" I add. Lashes is separating each individual cube of carrot out of the canneloni with pained repulsion, holding his fork between his thumb and index finger. Sometimes he dry retches when he sees a bit he particularly hates. "Oh! And they said 'think of the starving in Africa'"
"Yes!" says the CFO enthusiastically, warming to his theme "'There are children in Africa who would be glad of that food!'"
"But you know what the response to that is, right?" I whisper to him over the boys' heads "'Then give it to the African children! They can have it!'"
Then the conversation takes a darker turn.
"Is it true there are children in African with no food?" says Lashes, mournfully.
"Yes" says the CFO "And they would be SO GLAD to get your dinner. They have no food at all"
"Some of them have to eat boring porridge or rice EVERY DAY, with no sweets or ketchup or anything nice at all"
"And some of them have nothing to eat at all"
"But, but what happens to them?"
"I'm afraid sometimes some of them die".
I nod solemnly in agreement. (I cannot pretend I did not participate in this. I did and I really feel like crap), as Lashes bursts into tears, proper sad ones, and runs away.
"Don't tell me choses tristes!" (sad things) he cries inconsolably, his voice catching as he sags halfway up the stairs. I run after him and hug him and feel like the lowest lowest worm. He spends the rest of the evening drawing the saddest little pictures ever. Most of them incorporate his initial (T) in sad faces.
He asks me to add the text to the picture below:
It reads "There should only be friends in the world. If there were only enemies, the world would be a much sadder place. We must put friends in the world." Argh.
Poor Lashes. He is garrulous, and argumentative and a bit of a smart arse, and sometimes we forget he is only six and actually a total softie, with a weakness for babies, small reptilian things and sad stories. I should have remembered he cried and refused to eat lamb only last month "because it's only a baby!" He is small and raw and even if he wasn't, we were being cynical, black hearted gits.
So, I was a bitch to my six year old yesterday. I am not proud.