brown means poo, green means goo


Cricket’s story continues…

I heard Mum crying last night. She’s a private crier. She doesn’t even let the co-manger hear her crying. She only cries when there’s no answer. If there was an answer she wouldn’t be crying, she’d be fixing the problem. That’s why she’s the Manager, because she fixes things. And that’s why Dad’s the co-manager, because he helps fix things. But when things can’t be fixed, Mum doesn’t want people trying to find the solution because it annoys her, she just wants to cry alone.

Mum was crying because she’s worried I’m not going to have a brother or sister and she feels bad for me. Thing is, I don’t know what it’s like to have a brother or sister, I only know what it’s like not to have one, and I like it just fine. And really, a brother or sister might be more trouble than they’re worth, I mean, look at Tony Soprano, his sister was CRAZY and Meadow Soprano and Anthony Jr Soprano hated each other. So really, I think she was crying because of guilt. Guilt is like cauliflower. It’s truly awful and pointless and leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Guilt – like cauliflower – should be spat out in great, gooping gobs. Guilt and cauliflower have no godly business being on this earth.

Iris loves cauliflower. I don’t get it but I don’t hold it against her because she’s fabulous. Iris is coming over today and I’m going to play my xylophone and she’s going to play my drums and we’re going to put on a Frozen concert for Mum and Mrs. Iris. They’re not going to believe their ears!

Before Iris arrives Mum said we have to clean up the kitchen and cut my nails. I’m not sure why she says ‘we’ because we both know my helping just makes things messier. I don’t even know why she bothers. When Mum puts everything away I can’t see anything and I have no idea what I want and so my limbs just flail about and do nothing, which isn’t healthy.
‘Come on Cricket, let’s clean up.’
Mum picks me up and puts me on her hip and starts moving dishes around the kitchen. There is no rhyme or reason to this and I try very hard to tell her this.’
‘Yes darling! That’s right! We’re going to do the dishes!’
I tell her I don’t want to do dishes and that I don’t believe she really does either, so why don’t we just put the dishes down and practice our music for our Frozen concert.
‘And now we’re going to do the dishes, do the dishes, do the dishes.’
Mum’s singing about doing the dishes. I think she thinks if she sings everything she’s doing it makes her a better mother. It doesn’t. I worked out ages ago that she’s doing it because of guilt. Mum thinks if she’s not stimulating me I won’t know my colours and will never learn to read. This is dumb for several reasons:

  1. I already know my colours. Brown means poo, green means goo, pink means me and yellow means wee. Black means sad, blue means Dad, white means nappy and orange means happy. See?
  2. Mum singing all the chores she’s doing in the same tuneless tune every single day is about as stimulating as a house with no cats in it.
  3. Guilt never gets you anywhere, ever.

I tell Mum I don’t want to sing the dishes song anymore.
‘Yes darling! And now we’re going to do the dishes, do the dishes, do the dishes.’
Please, someone, kill me now.
But then there’s a knock on the door! Saved! Iris has come to do the concert early! I kick my legs as furiously as I can and almost fall off Mum’s hip.
‘Cricket, wait! Why are they here so early? The house is a mess. God damn.’
And then she does the thing that annoys me the most – she puts me down instead of TAKING ME TO THE INTERESTING THING. If she wants to stimulate me, this is definitely not the way to go.

She’s striding down the hall now, hands flying all over, fixing her hair, pulling at her clothes. I’ll never understand this pulling and picking and fixing. There is seriously no-one beautifuller in this entire world than my Mum. Her hair looks like honey and spider webs and her skin looks like milk and she has amazing ridges around her eyes that look like the veins on leaves, and her tummy is squishy like a soft cushion, and her legs have freckles on them that look like chocolate drops, and her arms are so chunky and strong that even when I’m too tired to hold my head up she can carry me anywhere I need to be.



Filed under Baby, blogging, Family, Fiction, Friends, Humour, Inspirational, IVF, Love, Motherhood, My Book, Women/Feminist, Writing

12 responses to “brown means poo, green means goo

  1. chellebelle42

    The rhyme about colours is inspired and the description of the mum made me cry. Why are women so hard on themselves?


  2. Sally

    Bloody brilliant. My new favourite after the birthing ones! I like cauliflower but am with Crickets Mum on everything else xxxx

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Dawn

    This is poignant, very funny, heartwarming and wonderful.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Yvonne Gale

    Love it Simonne, looking forward to what happens next.


  5. Robyne Cresswell

    Love the colour rhyme
    and mums need time
    to make things fine
    and all power to cauliflower
    It can be turned into the best comfort food ever
    Grandma Rose’s cauliflower cheese.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. CJ

    Amazing how you can turn from funny to poignant on a dime (last paragraph).


  7. Pingback: Neck Skin is Detachable | into the quiet

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