‘Look mum,’ my four [almost five] year old told me. ‘It
looks like a peacot.’
‘A what?, I asked distractedly.
‘She means a peacock,’ the seven year said pointedly.
‘Yes. A peacot,’ Curly Mop said pointing at the fan she had
splayed out in front of her and was now swivelling in her hand. Yes, it did look
like a peacock, I had to admit, but what the hell was with her pronunciation, I
thought.
‘Peacock,’ I said clearly.
‘Peacot,’ she replied.
‘Peacock,’ I said louder, because everyone knows that will work.
‘Peacot,’ she replied.
‘K’ I said, getting my crankypants on. ‘Say k’.
‘K’, she responded.
‘Peacock.’
‘Peacot.’
Grrrrrr.
‘Say sock,’ I beg.
‘Sock.’
‘Dock.’
‘Dock.’
‘Good,’ I respond. ‘Say lock.’
‘Lock,’ she replies.
‘Cock.’
‘Cot.’
‘Cock, say cock! It’s
cock,’ I practically shout in her face, not thinking all about what I am
yelling at the top of my lungs.
‘Cot,’ she yells back.
Grrrr
‘It’s cock. Why can’t you say cock? It’s just COCK.’
Then that part of my brain – which should have been functioning
long before now – wakes up and tells me to stop shouting obscene words in my
daughter’s face.
‘Don’t you think it looks like a Peacot Mummy?’
‘Yes. Yes I do. Now put it away please.’
