We were sitting at the kitchen table, playing with the playdough. The playdough had become an afternoon ritual involving the following steps:
1. The second youngest arrives home
2. The playdough is set up
3. The little one comes home
4. They fight over the division of the playdough
5. For a brief period genuine attempts are made to create true to life objects: cars, spaghetti etc.
6. All playdoughs are mixed into one jumbo colour, usually vomity-purple-brown
7. Playdough is not-so-secretly taste tested.
8. Playdough fight begins
9. Culprits flee the scene
10. I am left to peel playdough off the ceiling.
Today, still in the 'attempts to create true to life objects' stage of the playdough session I got a bit of a surprise. I looked up from my own carefully crafted bowl of spaghetti complete with meatballs and find the little one has...well, unknowingly created a....male appendage.
For a moment I stared at it with disbelief, trying to pinpoint the moment when this afternoon's playdough session turned into a life drawing class. Or should I say life moulding class. Then I wondered What I should do? I mean what was I going to say when their mother inevitably entered the kitchen to check on us and found what appears to be my willing supervision of the construction of a playdough penis by a four year old?? But then if I apologised for it on behalf if the little one upon her arrival she might just think I have a really dirty mind! I could not let this happen. My reputation as au pair was at stake.
"Hey," I said leaning over to the little one and his...creation, "how about you make some spaghetti??" and offered him the garlic crusher hoping he might begin deconstructing his artwork. The answer was a resounding "NOH!"
Ok that tactic was just too obvious. I was going to have to apply more stealth.
I reached over hoping he might not notice me alter the shape, however this is a child used to competing with three bigger and stronger older brothers. His territorial instincts are finely honed, ready to kick in at even the slightest sign that what is his may be wanted and taken from him. He caught sight of my movement from the corner of a suspicious blue eye and let out a shriek that raised to an ear-splitting pitch until I backed up. "Scusa, Scusa!!"
He glared angrily at me for a few seconds then resumed refining the shape if his playdough...well you know what.
Footsteps were approaching, my hostess was returning. Panicking I mentally ran over the various ways I could explain how this rather inappropriate object came to be formed by her innocent four year old. I held my breath in anticipation.
My hostess noticed it straight away. She stopped, a look of shock on her face, but then to my relief she stifled a snort of laughter, clapping her hands to her mouth.
"Ohhh, mama mia... mama mia" She murmured a little alarmed, now closer and inspecting its uncannily realistic shape and dimensions. The scrotum, everything... She looked up, we made eye contact, then we both promptly burst into hysterical laughter.
Despite finding the situation funny my hostess clearly also felt some kind of obligation as did I, to assure invisible neighbours that never ever would she encourage nor allow her four year old boy to make playdough genitalia.
After also failing to inspire him to turn his creation into spaghetti she simply sighed. She gave in, acknowledged its existence and asked the little one what he had made. He replied in italian "a petrol station."
It is a tribute to her devotion to the role of eternally supportive mother that she nodded approvingly, only miming silent laughter to me behind his back.
"Well, it's a very...very nice petrol station" I offered, now relaxed enough about the whole thing to indulge in some double-entendre.
My hostess laughed, "Yes, a nice petrol station, especially for women!" She winked, then with her usual grace left the room giggling with a youthful cheekiness I had not seen in her before.
Thank goodness for progressive Italians!
No comments:
Post a Comment