NO, says this internet source. Wow. Of all the internet pages that have ever made me feel like a bad mother (we're into tens of thousands by now), that one is the worst. Thank you, Rachel Arguelles, head teacher at the Greenhills Learning Center in San Juan for showing me the error of my ways. I am obviously raising a violent, aggressive meathead.
Lavatorial humour has recently made an early and unwelcome appearance in the Disgrace household. Bums are deemed hilarious. Pants even more so. Any form of bodily fluid practically gets a standing ovation from my son. This worries me. He's only two and a half. If he's cracking poo jokes now, what's he going to be sniggering about in the playground once he starts school? Fisting?
It's already turning heads (and not in a good way). On a recent bus journey, I was the proud parent of a delightful little boy who chattered constantly the whole way home, giving an intelligent running commentary on everything he could see out of the window and making full and impressive use of his excellent vocabulary. two old ladies a couple of seats in front of us kept turning round to look at the angelic child prodigy and were cooing to each other about how lovely he was and how well behaved and how good his language was. God, I felt smug.
Sensing that Mummy was relaxing into the acceptance that she might actually be a fairly good parent, Rory launched into a recitation of Incy Wincy Spider in a nice clear voice so all the passengers could hear:
"Incy Wincy Spider climbed up water spout
Down came rain and washed spider out.
Out came sun and dried up all rain
And Incy Wincy Spider climbed up Rory's pants. And I did a trump on him. And he died."
I know how Incy Wincy Spider felt. The pensioners were then treated to renditions of "Old MacDonald had a poo" and "The Grand Old Duke of York" (who, allegedly, had ten thousand poos). The bus stop couldn't come fast enough.
I instantly blamed his father. He always made a comedy drama out of doing nappy changes, which is probably why Rory finds bodily functions so hilarious. Because of this, I felt vindicated when they returned home after going out for a walk the other day, Richard looking like he wanted to throttle our son because he'd spent the last 10 minutes shouting "OUT OF THE WAY. My Daddy keeps trumping. He needs to get home and sit on the toilet." Ha.
But I was forced to confess after hearing him put on what he calls "Mummy's posh voice" and call someone "an insufferable B-A-S-T..." (fortunately his recollection of the word I had spelled out came to a halt at that point because I am 100% sure that it ended in "A-R-D") that although I may not be responsible for bringing toilet humour into Rory's life, I need to keep a tight rein on myself. Master of inappropriate humour, the over-share and the very silly, I am going to have to keep a lid on the knob jokes from now on. Not to mention the silliness: A couple of days ago, Rory was running at full pelt down the street away from me and looking as though he was going to continue across the road, into the path of oncoming traffic.
"STOP!" I shouted.
"HAMMER TIME!" replied my son, before launching into MC Hammer's scuttling crab dance.
Between us both, we've created a monster: A silly, poo obsessed, articulate monster. Maybe we should embrace it. Maybe we should all take a trip to Greenhills Learning Center in San Juan and crap on Rachel Arguelles' doorstep.
Linking up with Actually Mummy for Wot So Funee?