Knives, guns and smashing glasses.

Knives, guns and smashing glasses. Turns out that’s just a regular Thursday night out for my two year old. I thought I was out for a wander in the evening sunshine to make the most of the street performers and live music put on in Perpignan to entertain the crowds of tourists. My son, it seems thought we were out to ensure someone reported me to some sort of child protection unit. Twice the people at the neighbouring table rolled their eyes, once they actually came over and told me how dangerous it was that my son was playing with a knife. 

Obviously he wasn’t ‘playing’ with a knife, I’m not totally stupid. The waiter set down a relatively blunt knife on the table, my son picked it up and as I reached for the toy dinosaur to do the inevitable distraction dance the guy sat next to me jumped up and starting giving me a lecture. Thus prolonging the time my son had the knife, causing me to grab it, meaning he snatched, the whole thing became twice as dangerous, I felt terrible, my little boy had a melt down and before I knew it half the restaurant was looking. Don’t worry, just to make sure my neighbouring diner really thinks I am a terrible parent two minutes later as I lifted the baby out of the pram and on to my lap Ernie reached over and grabbed my glass, of course it smashed, of course he was covered in water. All in all you could consider this night out an epic fail, but, and I may be deliriously sleep deprived but at least I was out of the house, hubby is away in England with work, as he is every other weekend and I got some quality time with my boys. Sort of. The knife and the glass were an accident, but the toy gun he insisted on buying from a stall on the way home, now what was no accident. My two year old screamed for it, begged for it and just when he knew he was at the threshold of a telling off or me giving in to him to keep him quiet he did what I suspect little boys do the world over to their doting mummies. He cuddled in, told me I was pretty and blinked those bambi eyes while he said in his lisp toddler language: “pwwweeeeeeaaaaaassssseeeee mummy, wove you.” (He’s TWO for crying out loud. What will he be like aged 18). With my heart aching to give in to my small being with cuteness oozing from every pore I held my nerve: “No Ernie, we don’t play with guns. They aren’t nice.” At which point the stall holder said. “Cadeau.” Great. The gift of a gun. She clearly has a son too smiling as she handedly over the neon flashing plastic pink pistol. That’s right, it’s pink and flashes. I can’t even pretend it’s a sporting gun that may be used for sport.  Not sure I’ll attempt the street festival single handily again. Damn sure that pistol will get lost on the way home.