Old MacDonald had a… place-where-animals-live, ee-eye, ee-eye, oh. And on that place-where-animals-live he had a giraffe, ee-eye, ee-eye… oh, arse…
In time, I will learn to only pick animals that make a sound. Believe it or not, one day Old MacDonald had a pineapple (I didn’t think that one through either). As for the word ‘farm’ – well, my sleep deprived little brain decided it was going to give me one of two things that day – language, or the ability to wipe my son’s bottom. I was one sleepless night away from hallucinating a giant pipe-smoking, flat cap wearing, monocled giraffe, so who was I to argue?
Those first few weeks with a newborn are utterly glorious in so many ways. My husband and I simply couldn’t stop staring at our son’s adorable little button nose, delicate fingers and teeny tiny toes –endlessly congratulating ourselves on the best thing we ever made. Our very own Sistine chapel.
I totally underestimated how magnificent motherhood would be. That said, I was also somewhat naive about the impact sleep deprivation might have on my ability to form a coherent sentence. Baby-brain has a lot to answer for. Namely the following questionable versions of nursery rhyme classics. Sorry son:
Incy wincy spider climbed up the water trout, down came chow mein and washed the cider out. Out came the sun, which cried all over the drain, so incy wincy Higgs boson collider climbed up the trout again.
Twinkle, twinkle little poopy machine, how I wonder what you ate…
Rock a-bye baby on the treetop, if you don’t go to sleep soon, mummy’s head might fall off…
One, two, buckle my poo. Three, four, wet wipes galore. Five, six, stick up picks. Seven, eight, lay them in Kuwait.
Red and yellow and drink and green, purple and porridge and fondue. I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing potato too.
We went to the flammable fair, lemon curd and John Cleese were there, a big buffoon by the right of the broom, was combing his prickly pear.
I kind of feel bad for his nursery school teachers.