Why am I the default bin?

There is one thing I can pretty much guarantee when I give my son a packet of something, a carton of juice or generally anything that has any packaging.

That is, when they are empty, or he has consumed enough of the aforementioned items to therefore make them now useless to him, the remnants will be handed to me, accompanied with his best ‘well-what-else-do-you-expect-me-to-with-it’ face.

This phenomenon is not limited to any one place, or any one time, it is the default no matter the circumstance, what I am doing, what he is doing.

I can be driving the car, cooking the tea, or probably a few miles past several thousand bins that perhaps, just perhaps are where these items are headed anyway.

It also is not limited to waste, drinks are given to me rather than put down safely on a hard surface, as if they may magically disappear, and toys no longer desired, or books recently done with.

This means I always have a pocket full of crap, even though, especially at the moment, I am not the one who has consumed these snacky items.

I am being a tad unfair, as I am really pleased that Max does this rather than ‘litters’. I really do not like littering.

And also he does take some stuff to the bin, and will generally do so too when prompted. A bit like the look, or extended ‘eeerrrmm’ you have to give sometimes before you get a ‘thank you’.

This condition my son suffers from, seems to be an epidemic and may in fact be a genetic condition.

It was my mother who gave me this insight.

Not through her incisive teachings, heaven forbid, the World might never be the same again should that happen (cue email from HQ), but through her very presence.

A presence, that whenever I walk past, I tend to hand her anything I no longer have the need for.

Signing the homework diary

Mine was a pain in the backside throughout my schooling. I was generally pretty good, only ever doing the minimum, but it would be rare that I would rebel to the extent of not completing work set for outside school at all.

But getting it signed, was just a robotic act I forgot to get round to. We were so busy with other stuff as a family, that it was never on my mind, that is until they asked for them first thing Monday morning.

I find the fact that my 4 year-old son has a homework diary a tad ridiculous.

I am not an exponent of bringing school work home. I am happy to be involved in what he has learnt at school, and reaffirm it should the right opportunities arise, but I fear that regular homework, and thus me moaning about getting it done, will have a negative effect on his education overall.

At this age the diary was billed as more of a record keeper, and also a way for parent and school staff to communicate with each other, writing messages in it for non-urgent issues.

It transpires it will usually detail the book currently in his bag, and have comments from his teacher, or classroom assistants about his phonics.

As parents we are free to detail what we do too, and also add comments, or highlight any issues we may have.

I know a lot of the parents have used stickers, and different coloured pens as ‘well done’ messages for their children.

However, instead, I have opted for sarcasm.

My recent entries;

‘Goldilocks – Max read the story, as it is traditionally told. Perhaps the nicest breaking and entering tale of all time.’

‘Get the fruit – Max read this tale, albeit without the same enthusiasm as when reading the others. Inept monkeys not really floating his boat.’

In reply to; Max confident with s, a, t, p, i, n, m, g, o, c, k, e, r, b. If you could go over his other sounds that would be great.

‘As would peace in the Middle East, but not entirely sure I am qualified to help out with that either’.

Ok, the last one did not go in, but sarcasm is the only way I can deal with quips like that. That, or ignoring them altogether.

I do give Max great encouragement and praise when he is doing schoolwork, as I like to think I do when he demonstrates any positive behaviour, but it would feel a tad odd to me to write ‘well done’ in his diary.

Whereas glib, sarky sentences, ARE my comfort zone.

What is value for money?

We have had an awesome week, and absolutely awesome half-term week.

These last seven days were something I was so looking forward to, having lost my son to the misery of school since September.

To the surprise of some (one), I did not compile a spreadsheet, nevertheless each day had an outline plan, and was jam packed with activities.

We had various days out, varying in degrees of complexity and cost.

The part wondrous Hughes family even came to visit, bringing pumpkins amongst their charms.

For Halloween, an event I have pretty much ignored for the last 31 years, we got tickets for a Halloween spectacular event at RAF Cosford.

I use the verb ‘got’ as technically my folks bought them, and they are unlikely to ever see the money for them, and ‘got’ is so much more polite than ‘stole’ or ‘feltched’.

The museum at RAF Cosford is one of our favourite go-to visits. It is all undercover, there is no charge for the museum - although there is now a parking charge – the exhibits are great, and their Fun ‘n’ Flight Interactive corner is good fun AAAANNNNDDDD educational.

We thought supporting an event there would be a good thing, and would most likely represent excellent value for money.

They certainly made an effort, two of the museums hangers were decorated to a Halloween theme.

Scary tunnels linking it all together, with a few activities, like lantern making, sticking a witch on a broomstick and face painting scattered around.

But essentially it was a glorified fair.

And to call these things a fair is a gross misuse of the word.

I estimate you can spend around £20 an hour, per child, while frequenting one.

The boy went on the dodgems, a merry-go-round, hooked a duck – or two – with his grandma, convinced his granddad to fire an air rifle and also got me to make a rather embarrassing effort of knocking tins from a shelf with wooden balls.

Thing is, while I felt a smidge aggrieved at the horrendous profitability of such stalls, I realised my son was really enjoying himself, and thus me watching him.

There were also fireworks, and the display on its own was worth a few pounds, but still, without a child I would have felt totally ripped off, yet with one, I was happy to be ripped off.

And I type ‘I’, when ‘I’ really mean, happy to watch the grandparents get ripped off.

Most ridiculous urination award

I am creating this ‘honour’, and also claiming it.

If there are any parents that can better, or in fact, worsen any of the situations I am about to detail, I will gladly pass on this decoration, and take huge comfort in the fact that I am not the only person raising a child who likes to make toilets out of all sorts of things.

It falls at my door, or teaching really, my toilet stop planning has often been a smidge laxed, not really instilling a protocol in the boy of using the toilet when it is convenient rather than at the very moment it becomes absolutely necessary.

This has led to a few ‘choice’ moments. Not exclusively for this reason, sometimes, it has just been because there were not the facilities available for a good time. But today’s emergency relief, really was something else.

I give you my most ludicrous five;

5 – Around the village’s iconic Christmas tree.

Late for school, or thinking we were late, my son did not go and use the water closet before leaving the house. We had got to the end of the road when he announced it was now or new trousers. Just at the point where the village’s giant fir tree is planted. As it masked my son from the road, I sent him to ‘do his business near it’. But obviously the sight of me alone prompted the passing parents, and best kept village dignitaries to ask where Max was. They often did not get to the end of their question, before the answer was plain to see.

4 – On the underground.

This was a semi-planned event. I knew that we were going to be on the tube for a while. Getting across, or under London can be quite a long process, especially when you are not 100% sure where you are going, what line you should be on or if you are going to get shouted at. For that reason I included an empty water bottle in my bag, a holdall ironically scrawled with the words ‘No Fear’ because it was the cheapest rucksack available I am that cool. So when my son declared he desperately needed to go, I was ready. Well, I had to rid myself of any shame as I knelt and held a plastic container to my son’s penis on a packed London Tube, but that was not a big issue.

3 – On Safari.

This was a similar situation to the underground incident. At West Midlands Safari Park, one of our favourite visits, you take your car around their safari under strict instructions to stay within the vehicle. Since it can also take up to two hours on busy summer days, when drinking is also advised to keep the kids hydrated, there spells a recipe for disaster. Again the plastic bottle came to my aid, this time having to empty its original contents out of the window, before I then emptied a much warmer, yet fresher liquid out if not long afterwards.

2 – Not so grate.

One I thought we had got away with. When my son was still at nursery, he finished one lunchtime and we were instantly in a rush to be somewhere else, which was going to require a decent car journey. But as I am an idiot, I forgot to ask Max to go and use the nursery’s toilet before we left for our journey. Instead I reminded him at the car, and he then relieved himself in to a storm drain. Just at the point that one of the school’s parent governors strolled passed, coolly saying; “I knew there was a reason I did not pull further forward.” They had been in the car parked right by the drain to see the whole performance.

1 – In Willy Wonka’s Factory.

We spent today at Alton Towers, a great, yet exhaustive day out. The boy has insisted on only a few things from the day, but going on the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was top of the insisting. It was obviously popular with a lot of the children there today, and as such the queue was substantial. Max had not long gone to the toilet so I thought we would be safe, and as the queue was growing, we joined it, with fingers, and legs crossed. We must have been in the queue for over 30 minutes, but I could see my son getting a little twitchy, which I put down to boredom. There were signs up everywhere to say we could not rejoin the queue if we left it, and when we entered the snaking part inside, there really was no way back. At this point, and as a video instruction of a cartooned Willy Wonka is annoying played on a loop, the boy declared a bladder fit to burst. Luckily, and equally unluckily this part of the queuing system is very dark. So I prepared the receptacle, and advised my son it was safe to go - just as the queue started moving again. Thus, I had my son, walking backwards, peeing in to a Fruit Shoot bottle, in the dark. My hand was getting warmer, and it was only a guess if this was because the bottle had become dislodged, or indeed if it was just the bottle getting warmer. Great times. A whole new low.

So, I think we totally deserve this award, but I do hold on to the faintest of hopes that there are others who can share stories even more absurd.

Please don’t disappoint me.

Doing things by halves

No, I do not have a new job as an Easter egg puttogetherrer.

I am typing about the school holidays.

It is half-term week for us, which means my son is off, and we get to plan, and act out a load of joyous activities.

I have just re-read a post I wrote at the end of this week last year, and discovered some fabulous similarities with it.

Our relationship is really on a high at the moment, my son has been incredibly affectionate of late, and his behaviour has prompted a lot of positive tears from me over the last week or so.

I find him great fun most of the time in all honesty, but at the moment, his company is something I really crave and enjoy. So a whole week with him, however tiring it may end up being and however much I may end up regret saying it has come at the right time.

This is something I also noted this time last year.

We have yet to mutilate a pumpkin, but we are actually planning on doing a job on one grown by Mr Hughes later in the week.

The week has kicked off at one of Max’s nursery friends this morning.

Thanks to those who reassured me about being exposed to chickenpox again on Twitter last night. I eventually found some chickenpox information on the NHS website, it offered no concrete reason to rob my son of a play date he was very much looking forward to.

On top of the pumpkin carving, we also have visits planned to Alton Towers, West Midlands Safari Park, the grandparents, a Halloween extravaganza, fireworks and a birthday party.

Some of which we shall do in the company of the wonderful aforementioned Hughes family.

I have some work to fit in around all that, which means for a fun, yet even more tiring than usual, seven day period.

There is some downtime for me before the weekend, as I am going to a Pink concert – I hope I get to tickle her, or her me.

Thus I hope a happy balance has been struck.

But my main hope is that my smile is still as wide by the end of it all.

Toy Story Mania

We were sent a copy of Toy Story Mania, a new game for the Nintendo Wii, for review.

I do not actually own a Wii console, but my sister does, and I thought this game, being more child friendly, would be a handy addition for our visits – rather than my four year-old clambering to play non-age appropriate games every time we go.

Essentially it is a shoot-em-up game, based on the very popular Toy Story characters.

Play is based around a fairground type environment, playing all sorts of games, or stalls, where the physical style of the Wii controls give a feel for you actually being stood at the stall, and bashing things that come out of holes, or shooting them, as necessary.

The only problem I had with the game was actually getting my son to play it. While he is a big fan of the Toy Story films, this game certainly was not grabbing his attention in the same way.

Disney provides a huge library of things to perhaps encourage interaction with this game. There are things to colour in, you can make a Toy Story Mania door hanger and there are the obligatory wallpapers and screensavers.

Perhaps if I had got hold of an official Toy Story gun, that may have encouraged him a bit too.

The game is also playable in 3-D, if you can bear wearing the funny glasses, or indeed get your offspring to wear them.

Overall the game is good fun, like many on Nintendo’s newest console, but it also quickly becomes tiresome for me, hence we do not own this machine ourselves.

There is enough dust on my Playstation 2 as it is.

My mother is totally boiling my beetroot man

No need to call the cops, not like she was twisting my melon.

In fact, she was physically boiling my home grown beetroot as part of their pickling process.

It was my expectation, that when we moved to our self-built house, that the garden would be as important, as the structure we were to occupy.

I put quite a lot of effort into designing our surrounds, carefully considering maintenance and practicality versus beauty and usefulness.

A vegetable patch was considered absolutely essential, and while I have not got it quite right, the original design was such that I can make alterations in the spring at very little extra cost.

The slog of gardening, maintaining one, cutting grass, weeding, hedge trimming and watering, have never been activities that I have enjoyed, more endured. But the thought of successfully growing our own crops was a truly scrumptious one.

Something we can enjoy doing together, and a process that would hopefully help my son understand how certain things grow.

We both have really enjoyed the process this first year, and have been reasonably successful in striking a balance of not stretching ourselves too much, but yielding enough to make it a worthwhile process.

Firstly we grew potatoes in three quarters of our patch, while strawberry plants were planted in the remainder.

As the spuds chosen were early varieties we were able to lift them, and still have time to sow carrot and beetroot seeds in the void from which they came.

Our carrots were more successful in number, but growing beetroot has actually encouraged my boy to eat them, so it is arguable that the beetroot growth was more worthwhile.

I have now dug in some leaves, and in the spring I plan to raise my vegetable bed by another railway sleeper, adding a mixture of top soil, fertiliser and manure before moving my strawberry plants, and their off-shoots, then we will be having another blast with potatoes.

Space, given a bit of shifting, has also been identified for a couple of fruit trees, which I think will be a great addition to our garden, and hopefully our learning.

I was recently contacted by representatives of McCain, who were kind enough to send Max a new gardening set and activity pack.

They are keen to promote their Potato Story initiative, aimed at raising awareness amongst children on how the humble potato finds its way to their dinner table, presumably in the form of McCain’s over chips.

They have kitted out an unbranded doube-decker bus and yes saying unbranded enough is like letting people know of all the secret charity work you do, great PR idea which is the focal part of their roadshow that has visited over 130 UK primary schools, reaching out to over 17,000 pupils.

Reading through their website, it does appear to be a genuine initiative, and one that could aid those that are not getting this information by other means.