Tagged: Attila the Hun
Honey
There are various terms of affection that I have for Moo. She may not thank me for ‘em later in life. After all, she is The Moo cos I started out calling her Mrs Monkey Moo, which turned into Monkey Moo, and eventually, without much surprise or a great deal of fanfare, into Moo. And – in point of actual fact – I don’t very often call her ‘Moo’ in real life, it is just a handy pseudonym to have online, like MoVo. Innit.
Currently, for The Moo, I am favouring the cutesy little epithet ‘chick’ or ‘chicken’, also sometimes ‘baby’ (obvious) and ‘gorgeous’ (also obvious), while if I am in a more cantankerous mood it can switch to the less salubrious ‘monster’, ‘little bugger’ or ‘you tiny enervating minxy-pants’. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t yet understand the complexities of the English language. I could call her WHATEVER I WANTED and she’d still either come over for a cuddle, or throw pasta at my face.
However, there is one thing I know I will never call her. Without a shadow of a doubt. Never in a gazillion years, ever ever EVER.
Honey.
And variations of.
I hate it.
Can’t stand it.
I’m sorry. I know it’s popular. I see it all the time, on Twitter, on Facebook. I hear people call each other it.
Honey. Hon. Hun. Hunnie. And, one time, even, honie. FFS.
PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF THE SWEET HOLY JEEZUS DON’T CALL ME HONEY (AND VARIATIONS OF).
I really detest it. I don’t know why. For some reason, makes my skin crawl. I imagine the person saying it, in my head, and they’re all sort of, dunno, insincere and patronising. And I know that’s NOT how most people mean it – but that’s just how it sounds/reads IN MY STUPID HEAD.
So – SORRY – but if you have ever called me ‘honey’ (and variations of) in the past, then I have inwardly boaked each time.
That is why I will not call Moo ‘honey’ (and variations of) for as long as I breathe.
And ‘hun’ is the absolute WORST. Ack! ‘Hun’! Do you know who the hun were? Like, Attila the Hun? And, slang for the Germans during the World Wars? AND, in these modern times, it is the name of the biggest website for free links to adult material i.e. pornographic dirty dirty icky stuff?? Hardly sweet’n'lovely, is it? No. NO.
Everything else is acceptable, though you might get some stern glares if you called me ‘babes’.
Am I the only one who hates ‘honey’? What do you hate being called, and why?
Mayhem
It’s like the farking end of days round here. The Moo is causing mayhem. She has suddenly morphed from a sweet, mild-mannered little angel *cough* into a rabid puppy. With personal problems. And a thirst for blood.
Today was exceptional. Momentous even for her. Aftershocks were felt as far away as Mongolia. Which is fitting: Moo has a Mongolian blue spot birth mark, which I’m pretty sure means she is distantly related to Attila the Hun. No furniture was left unscathed. The nuns and orphans were traumatised, again. My unicorn has gone into a witness protection program. Even the flying monkeys have forsaken a life of crime, horrified by her devilish antics.
You think I’m exaggerating? This morning she head-butted me. And danced violently to an array of traditional rhymes in our Toddler Tunes session. This afternoon – when her escapades seem to intensify – she threw The Very Hungry Caterpillar at my face, scratched my arms with her talons, and near-throttled me with her reins. The customary game of peekaboo behind the curtain escalated into a full-blown riot, with horses and flaming dumpster bins. I’m almost certain she is responsible for a localised thunderstorm, followed by a plague of locusts, which rapidly descended into bestial anarchy and, yeah, go on then, fark it, she can be blamed for the recent spate of zombie attacks too. The tiny minx.
Is there some switch which gets flipped when they reach a certain age? Does a minuscule synapse in their cerebral cortex suddenly blink into action and turn all toddlers into raging wee beasties? Or is it just The Moo? At one point this afternoon she was rolling on the carpet, in her nappy, laughing like a loon and kicking her legs against the sofa. I happened to catch sight of her eyes. WILD. Like a sphinx. Like she could farking TURN ME TO STONE if she had a mind to. I feared for my life. I hid. She found me. ‘AH HA HA HA,’ she cried, just before using my boobs as handholds with which to haul herself onto my lap. I tried to stay as still as possible but this only seemed to aggravate her. How do I manage this tempestuous child? How do I control this unexpected rage?
In my current mood – which, FYI newcomers, is doom-laden – I have not the energy nor the inclination to implement any methods or plans or farking schemes of behaviour. I want QUICK FIXES. I want spells and voodoo. Gimme some of that parenting mojo in pithy little anecdotes which I can use tomorrow and get results.
Help me tame my toddler. Now. Before I lose an eye.
