Over the last few weeks, Eoin has been talking more and more. While this is lovely for us, it’s also rather entertaining, as he has developed a vein of rather surreal humour. Over the weekend, he has claimed, with deadly seriousness, that his dad is inside the baby-monitor, that he is hiding behind the kitchen light and, most bizarrely, that he (daddy) left his bottom downstairs when he went to bed. Today, on a rather eventful walk in which Eoin fell hat-first into a large muddy puddle, we had a particularly odd conversation.
I was looking in the hedgerows for anything interesting to forage, and Eoin was poking around in the various patches of mud by the path, presumably reasoning that, if it’s good enough for his heroine, Peppa, it’s good enough for him. I heard a small voice exclaiming, “Ice cream, Mammy, ice cream!”, and was all ready to explain that we didn’t have any ice-cream at home, but that he could have a piece of cake if he wanted, when I realised he was wielding a large stick, topped with a lump of mud. “Mud ice-cream, Mammy!”. Nooooo! There was a slow-motion moment as he raised the stick to his mouth: I lunged to stop him, but didn’t get there quickly enough. I grabbed the stick and urged him to spit the muddy mouthful out. He looked me dead in the eye, chewed, and then announced defiantly, “Mud ice-cream yummy”.