Whatever, my boy could do that in his sleep

Being the ridiculously observant and acutely aware parent that I am, I have discovered that my son sleepwalks - about a year after he may have actually started doing so.

365 is a reasonable reaction time for me.

Ask my mom, she is still awaiting replies to texts sent in 2005.

And that is not even a joke.

Well, it is, but it is also fact.

My son has long since had night-time saunters, my theory was that he needed the toilet, and instead of opting for his illuminated en-suite – doubling as a night light – he seeks out a relief point that is less evil on his eyes.

I was misguided.

Finding him sometimes confused, I always put that down to the hour, but I did actually consider it could be sleepwalking, but having never experiencing it before, and usually finding him communicative, I was not so sure.

Then one night last week, I put the boy to bed, and a few hours later heard what could have been footsteps upstairs.

Sometimes this noise is followed by a whimpered ‘daddy’. This time there was no such gentle mutter, and as it had been really windy, and thus noisy, I left it a few minutes before I went to check it out.

I know, more kudos to my parenting excellence.

The noises persisted so I went all Scooby-do to find out what was going on, if anything.

My son was stood, clearly confused, in our hallway.

I knelt to talk to him, and offer some reassurance, but I did not get any verbal engagement, yet he did nestle himself onto my thigh and cuddle in.

So, I picked him up, took him to stand at the toilet, at which he performed, then virtually walked back passed me and back into bed.

In the morning he had absolutely no recollection of any of these events, nor did I alert them to him, I did not want to worry him about something that may not be worth concerning himself with.

This is a sure sign of sleepwalking according to the officially authorised and qualified health professional I contacted Google.

It seems, by default, I have created a safe haven for him, which I found recommended for the night trekkers.

Also my stairs have a really good 80/20 carpet on them, so they should be well protected should he take a tumble.

I am joking.

It is not 80/20 at all.

It would seem, by my exhaustive research, that sleepwalking is another thing to add to the shouldgrowoutof list.

And like the other things on that list, should be confronted if it persists or gets worse.

Boysterous

I am currently a tad confused by my son’s boisterous behaviour.

Now I could have ‘my-child-couldn’t-possibly-be naughty’ parenting goggles on, however I could equally be donning the ‘overreacting-and-expecting-too-much’ shades.

Being a single parent, it is at times that I have conflicting ideas, or am not entirely sure on an aspect of parenting, that I most miss not being part of a parenting conglomerate.

Rather conflictingly though, I think at times where I may waver on my opinion, or how to proceed with dealing with a particular issue, the added dynamic of another parent – whom may be equally undecided – may actually create more issues, and stresses, which ultimately can take the focus from the matter that you originally starting dealing with.

Anyway, what I am dealing with, or thinking of dealing with, is my son’s rather brash nature with other boys, and, for that matter, adult men.

We have always bashed each other around, and I think my tolerance level has always been high, perhaps too high, compared to other people he has ‘playfully’ fought with.

Thus there are some inconsistencies, he may get told off for something by one person, that another would let ride.

It has never really been a big issue with other children, but, I fear, it may become one.

We have had a couple of instances, where even though I have thought my son has understood why he should not act in a certain way, he has returned to it, and someone has ended up upset, whether than be him or his partners in crime.

And this has got me thinking.

While I try to lead him to tell me why I am perhaps chastising, and suggesting alternative play, that I am being too naive in my parenting, and that perhaps I need to consider other methodology.

Because, in spite of knowing that certain behaviour may lead to temporary pain for someone, if it is fun, and might not actually lead to ills, children find it hard to stop, and perhaps being good risk awareness managers is not something we should be constantly asking them to be.

So instead of a repetitive dialogue, I am considering an amnesty of all items that induce behaviour of mass destruction.

I may need a mandate from NATO – Parenting Division. Hans Blix has nowt on my boy.

Anything considered, or possibly resembling a weapon, such as lightsabers, toy guns, shields, cricket bats, may be put into my own Room 101.

In the past I have not deliberately taken things from my son, preferring, and therefore relying on, talking things out, and explaining how things should be, and should not be used. Conversation that may also have involved the naughty step/corner/wall/a raised tone to emphasise how serious I consider things to be.

My theory has always been if I can get him to understand, it is better than simply making bad behaviour impossible, as when it is possible it may be feasted upon.

But that is a theory that may be shot, or doomed to fail.

I am still undecided, wavering, and would welcome any similar experiences and thoughts.

Who do you think you are talking to?

I joked earlier this week with a fellow blogger that I am not in fact, who I say I am.

However, Bigamist Camel Dad just did not have the same ring to it.

And I could so be a camel, always complaining of a bad back and often caught typing tripe that could easily have been hammered out with hooves.

I was not actually making a serious revelation, more trying to be funny (or should I just stop that at ‘trying’?).

But it has crossed my mind that the words on these pages need not be a reflection of reality, and indeed, my identity, or persona ‘could’ be entirely different to the one, ‘I’ am portraying.

And just as my spiel could be a huge web of nonsense, so it could anywhere else on the interweb.

For instance, it is well known that Dan Hughes is actually the semi-waxed Abominable Snowman.

Obviously there is little sinister in all of this, it is great that a camel addicted to marriage and a hypothetical creature have managed to fool a few.

Yet(i), what else is out there?

My son is not of an age to be using a computer regularly, apart from navigating the Lego website and playing the odd game, but I read a report this morning about the concerns of children using social networking sites, ‘unprotected’.

The BBC report is, I believe, based on an interview with someone from the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre talking about networking sites, such as Facebook and Myspace, not adopting their help button, when there was ‘no legitimate’ reason for not doing so.

I have been through the article twice, and also listened to the excerpt from The Today Programme within it, and I am still confused.

To me - the simpleton - this button provides a quick and simply way for someone to report another for suspect behaviour. Which is great, but ultimately does not ‘protect’ anyone.

There seems to be an argument that if the button is there it will put off the perverts, bullies and stalkers. Likened to how a burglar alarm would deter a would-be burglar.

I still do not get it.

The internet is a dangerous place, and while I mildly see the benefit of being able to report dodgy activity easily, isn’t this just an admin thing? When the realities of keeping safe while browsing are down to the individual, and creating environments that are perceived to be ‘safe’ is actually going to make the problem worse?

Star struck

My boy has an incredibly ability to put me on my backside.

Both figuratively, and literally.

One of his favourite tricks – cannot think where he learnt it – is to catch me unawares, when I am in a bent down position, tying shoelaces, picking up toys, or whatever, he then proceeds to knock me off balance with all his might.

He calls it wrestling and hilarious, I call it unnecessary violence and mildly irritating, but I am guilty of the same.

If he is ever stood near a bean bag, or other cushioning medium, he often finds himself forcefully buried in them shortly afterwards.

His other ability is to catch me emotionally.

I find his brutish charm endearing - most of the time - but he also has a very soft side, a kind side, a side that is sometimes aware of his actions, a side able to eloquently state fact and situation, he is basically a dodecahedron.

And he can go from beast to beauty in 0.5 seconds.

Even quicker the other way around.

This ability is not limited to me, and bouts of breathlessness can be induced from gaggles of people, even beer gardens are not safe places.

Yet a few weeks ago he left me utterly speechless. No mean feat, that I am sure several will vouch for.

Well, I was not so much speechless, more in a state that I knew if I attempted to talk I would have turned into a man-sized-mound of blarting.

We had had school guests for tea, they had played nicely, no issues, which is always welcome, and I was pleased that he had shared, and offered things to his chums without the need for any serious prompting.

But it was when they came to leave that he got me.

With the recent time change, and the season, it was inevitably dark when we opened the door to show out our visitors.

It was a clear evening, the moon was in view, as where many stars.

Max focused only on one.

‘Oh look, Mommy’s star is shining tonight.’

Cue figurative backside position for me.

And our guests were also a little tilted.

It really caught me off-guard, it gets talked about quite a lot, but for some reason, this mention had me a little overwhelmed.

Shortly afterwards, with composure restored, together we explained that we had arranged the naming of a star in honour of Max’s late mother. And that it is part of the Andromeda Galaxy, also known as The Princess, hence why we chose it.

I know he is aware of the star, and why it carries his mother’s name, but it was pleasing to watch him, in a matter-of-fact manner, be comfortable enough to explain to his friends, or rather, in front of them.

I do not want his grieving to be stunted, nor do I want fiction to get in the way of fact, neither do I wish to alienate friends too fearful to mention the obvious reality of our situation.

Thus, the boy done good.

And I, just needed a moment.

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.