Myself and Lovely Liam have great conversations. Lovely and weird. Lovely and funny. Lovely and strange. And just pure Lovely Liam.
Sometimes when he is supposed to be sleeping but his little brain is flying and keeping him awake, he likes to come into my bedroom. This would be on the nights where I am drawn to the scratcher at the early o’clock of 8.
Perhaps that is why he comes in to have a chat – it is the only time he can get me to himself.
Our last encounter was very recently. I was in that delightful state of suspension; the one where you are a mere five seconds away from sleep when I felt a presence. A presence looking at me. From the side of the bed. Waiting for me to roll over.
I knew it was Lovely Liam without leaving the warmth and comfort of my duck down blanket thingy.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course you can.” I rolled over to look at him. He needed no further invitation and began to climb onto the bed and under the covers beside me.
“Actually it’s an ask thing. I have a question.”
“That’s okay. Ask me.”
“It’s a baby question.”
“Oh-kaaaaaay.” I was awake now.
“When’s your next baby coming?”
“It’s not. I think we’re done. I think we’ve enough now.”
“Oh. Okay. Just wondering. When did you lay Conor?”
“When did I…………………..? A long time ago. 8 years ago.”
“And you laid Iarla next.”
“Then me. And then Baba.”
“And when did you lay Daddy?”
(Holy mother of god. You couldn’t make this stuff up.) “I didn’t lay your daddy, Liam.”
“How come he’s here then if he never got laid?”
(Oh sweet baby Jesus) “Liam, your granny laid, had, your granny had your daddy.”
“Oh. And I came out of your hole, didn’t I?”
“Your hole. Like the story you told me when I had to be borned fast and the doctor cut you.”
“Oh, that hole!”
“Tell me that story again. Why did I have to be borned that way?”
“The doctor had to make a little cut in my tummy to lift you out because there was a problem and you needed to be born very fast. And you were perfect.”
And indeed he is perfect. Even if his hearing leaves a lot to be desired as this next conversation demonstrates.
“Mammy, did you know that Iarla is fucked?”
“What?????????????” this burst out of me as a splutter laugh hybrid. “No, he is not! That’s not a nice word. Where did you hear that?”
“It’s okay to say fucked Mammy. It’s a real word.”
“But it’s not a nice word, Liam. Where did you hear it?”
“Iarla said it. Iarla said his Múinteoir told him he was fucked.”
Sweet Jesus that didn’t sound right at all. I had to get to the bottom of it. And this is what I learned. Did you know that “bocht” is the Irish word for poor as in feeling poorly or ill?
Iarla had been feeling out of sorts in school that day and Múinteoir was laying on the sympathy.
It transpired the word Lovely Liam was supposed to say was “bocht” and not………………..not the other one.
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