Daddy, I Have A Problem

Do you remember this?

Unfortunately for me, it is still not consigned to memory.

All was good, the number 2’s were, without fail, dropping where they should, and the only mistakes we were getting at the front, were more wardrobe-failure than anything else.

Anyway, the quack warned that the antibiotics Max recently had to take, may have side effects - one being a rash and patches of dried skin.

Sadly for junior, this seemed to be concentrated around his derrier. In fact, think the opening credits to Bonanza, and you get the picture, literally.

I can understand how this might add to the inconvenience of taking a trip to the throne, but surely it’s going to smart however and wherever you perform.

Max has taken to performing in situ. That said, he has developed a way of communicating via the medium of dance.

So, if he starts doing his Michael Flatley impression, you get him on the karsey!

I’m going back to bribery.

This may well be Max’s first lesson of No Pain – No Gain

Wedding Bashers

Recently I’ve been in negotiations about my son and heir’s appearance at a friend's wedding.

Although a boy of such standing and charm should be demanding a fee for semi-public engagements, I’ve actually been trying to limit his appearance at this event to the minimum.

Weddings and children has always been a sticky subject for some.

My first experience of people having contrasting views was actually at my own wedding. I think I’d been too tired-and-emotional at all the previous ones to notice sprogs, or the very lack of them.

“Does our invite extend to our children?” I was asked a couple of times.

My stock answer should have been; ‘Why, oh, why, would you even want it to?’ but I generally stuck to “No, as much as I like your spawn, it doesn’t.”

I appreciate that there are people that don’t have the help I’m blessed with, so offspring can come as even more of package sometimes. And if the question was genuinely a case of; we can’t come without, or would have to leave early if they don’t come - then that is a different matter.

But, for me, weddings aren’t really a place for young children. My Wife agreed. And even when we’d hatched Max, he was only pimped out for an appearance in the church, and on the lovely photos for his Auntie’s wedding (he made them actually, see above, I should definitely charge!).

For me they just limit the participation of others and, in my experience, don’t particularly get enthused by what the top table have to say, or really enjoy waiting an age for silver service.

So, I've lined up an itinerary so fantastic Max will go off to enjoy himself with grandparents, I'll have a great time at the wedding, and the photos will be fantastic. Done, well apart from invoicing for his appearance and image rights.

Give The Kid A Break

I remember fondly my sub-four foot sporting career.

Many-a-time was spent on the football field, cricket pitch and at any other sports venue I could pass as a contributor to.

As I grew some of sports dropped away, most notably football. One of the reasons was that I was never going to be particularly good at it. I had no, and still lack any, pace.

I don’t think the mighty reds have missed out, unless they ever needed someone for the other players to point and laugh at, they always seemed blessed with an abundance of people like that.

The decision to quit playing for a local boys’ side was hurried by the general attitude of parents and coaching staff. They seemed so desperate for their children to succeed, and the coach, the team to win, that enjoyment was largely out of the window. Instead replaced with heckling abuse and encouraging simulation, the posh word for cheating.

My own parents were a very good benchmark for this. They always showed enough interest in what I wanted to do. Enough to pay for the various equipment each sport required anyway. They would also come and watch me play, when I wanted them to, but they soon stopped wanting to come to football matches once I was in my early teenage years.

I’ve seen it again in generations after mine. 7-year-olds, where they don’t rotate all the players in the team, they leave the ‘best’ ones on the pitch, some sort of endurance test for the local scouts probably - sort out the real men.

Then this week, I read all about Christiano Ronaldo. A player now revered as one of the best, if not the best, in some circles, on the planet.

As pleased as his Mother/advisor is, HER real dream is to see him play for Real Madrid before she dies. I kid you not.

Now I know that this may have been interpreted across languages in the media and spun a little, but I can’t help feel that this is missing-the-point-mentality at the highest level.

My dream is to see my child happy, and his dreams are, well, his, and not mine to mess with.

Will This Put Him Off Jelly And Ice Cream?

It’s not been a great week for my mini-colossus.

He’s been ill again, this time with a nasty bout of tonsillitis. I thought he’d have a healthy start to the year, based on the law of averages.

What I mean is; he was ill over Christmas and the New Year, so he wasn’t really due.

But, never mind, as I’m getting used to expecting from him, he’s dealt with it with his usual gusto.

No bother at the doctors, with various things being stuck into various holes. Taking his antibiotics without problem and still eating and drinking enough for me not to be alarmed.

It does, however, debilitate our, his and my movement and plans.

I’m glad that I only had to call Max’s nursery to explain unplanned absence. Weeks like this one reassure me I am pursuing the right career, or right style of career.

I’ve still managed to get some work done this week, and, probably more importantly, I’ve let no one down.

Sadly I’ve missed a friend’s over-the-hill birthday celebrations, and Max missed out on an adventure with his Grandparents. Still, these things can’t be helped.

Let’s see what the week commencing the 21st of January brings.

Return To Sender, This Person Has Moved - Their Birthday

So the Queen has like, five different birthdays. There are two in this country and several other official celebrations, within her realm.

Why is this relevant information? Well it isn’t unless she’s on your birthday card list, must be quite a dilemma for the po-osh.

I’m toying with the prospect of moving my Son’s birthday. I half did it last year, half being the operative word. Half-hearted and on the day we partied he was actually two-and-a-half.

He was born just three days before Christmas, which some may consider to be not as bad as being born on the same day as Jesus, or indeed, Chris Kamara.

I think it’s a lot worse, especially at Max’s tender age. This year he was like a bottle of pop that had been in a paint shaking machine for a fortnight, which was then cured with a concoction of Lyle’s Golden Syrup and nitrogen.

A tad over-excited you might say.

This state of self may also have contributed to him picking up a horrible virus. It took him the rest of Christmas and into the New Year to shift it.

I know children will always be highly sprung at this time of year, but adding a birthday in, to rev them up, really doesn't help.

So, my plan. Well, a mirror of last year, but with much more conviction.

I think a half birthday party is a great idea. It will be in June, which will coincide with the much longer days of the year, and even possibly his parents’ wedding anniversary. That would be a nice touch.

Kids should also be better available, as they won’t be off on their summer holidays yet and, basically, it’s not three days before Christmas.

I can also balance the presents out. He can get summery ones for his birthday and indoorsey ones for Christmas.

Also with a toddlers rate of growth, it will be good for wearable presents, he might actually get through his wardrobe before he outgrows it.

The problems I foresee are; getting others to buy into my thinking, and not believe I’m just milking his birthday, and thus them.

And, secondly, what to do on his actual birthday. Flags on all family properties at full-mast, might not cut the mustard with junior.

Those aside I still think it’s better than a repeat of last year, with whatever upgrades a fourth birthday brings.

Come Alone Or The Bunny Gets It

The nursery that my Son goes to is absolutely fantastic.

Very personable, friendly, but still provides effective childcare and development with a ruthless enjoyment.

Apparently there is a nursery mascot. His name is Brambles and he’s a stuffed rabbit.

Well ok, it’s not actually a stuffed carcass, it’s a cuddly version of Bugs Bunny.

For all of the children’s birthdays he, or she, I’m not sure, sends a birthday card with a little treat inside.

Lovely.

But when Max opened this belated gesture, included in his going home bag, I though it looked more like a ransom note!

Have a look at the picture and see if you agree. Is it just me?

I was expecting to read inside ‘bring 3 jam sandwiches tomorrow or the bunny gets it.’

It didn’t and Max certainly enjoyed getting a card from Brambles, although he would have preferred to have found a Transformer rather than a chocolate inside.

Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em

But in this case it is most definitely their fault!

Such is the power of my Mother’s clumsy gene it has not only been passed onto my good self, it seems to have filtered down to my offspring.

Her collective of calamities include numerous trips, cuts and bruises. She’s notorious for falling off non-existent chairs, and finding the stool that shouldn’t have been put out that evening.

My personal favourite, up until this week anyway, was when she managed to shut my tailgate onto her own head. A feat, so breathtaking, I thought impossible.

We were on a crabbing expedition during last year’s non-existent summer, and as we finished getting the kit from the car my Mother then proceeded to bring the boot of my car down on her own head with such force a bleed from said barnet soon followed.

So there I was carrying tiring child in one arm, inspecting a cut scalp with the other, trying to work out if I’d just witnessed a never before seen event, obviously ridiculing my Mother as she bled from her bonce, and sending text messages to the usual suspects to inform them of the latest unintentional self-harming incident

As mentioned Max has not escaped this imperfection. His particular trait; and I don’t think he’s the only toddler, is to not look in his direction of travel.

What I mean is, if he sets off on a certain direction and then if I ask him a question, he turns to answer me but continues using the same trajectory. This has resulted in a nasty bump this week, as he met head-on with a half-open door. Ouch.

He pretty much laughed it off straight away, but it was one of those real slo-mo moments when you can see what’s going to happen before it does. Horrible, but these things happen.

Anyway from the picture above you can probably tell I’ve had a dose of daftness.

It’s my Mom’s fault, but I’m not going to tell her. The reason for that graze/bruise slightly above my left moob (man-boob), is…………………

I shut my car boot on myself!

(My sincere apologies for that horrible photo)

Trading Places

Over the festive period I’m sure there were thousands of parents, particularly male ones, that would have wanted to trade places with their offspring.

The abundance of Scalextric, Piczoo helicopters and Nintendo wotsits would have been great motivation for many to attempt a switch that would have Tom Hanks jealous.

That coupled with the children’s holiday dwarfing the naff amount your scrooge-like employer handed out. Sending your children out to pay the bills would look more attractive than ever.

Indeed, I desperately wanted to swap shoes with my child these last ten days or so. However my motivation was to tackle my son’s horrible cough and cold on his behalf. Take a hit for the team, so-to-type.

Never do I find myself in a worse state than when my child is clearly struggling. I hate it, I guess as much as he does.

Not only is it physically exhausting, as neither of you can get any sleep; I find it very stressful and mentally challenging.

It looks and sounds like there have been many in our boat. Speaking to friends and even in the news, there does seem to be a monstrous epidemic spreading across the nation.

An estimated 100,000 people per week are getting the norovirus bug. A delightful vomit inducing ailment.

Being a single/lone/bloke parent makes it worse. At these times I am really indebted to my immediate support group, mainly my parents. Without them helping out, I would be even more of a zombie than I have been.

There's extremities of feelings when a little one is suffering with something they don’t understand. I couldn’t be prouder of the way he dealt with the inconveneince and the lack of drama generated when he was constantly vomiting.

And at the same time I become very serious about everything and nothing else seems to matter while my child is getting over, what really is only a minor episode.

Godspeed to everyone at Nurofen and Calpol. And a little tip here if you didn’t know it. You can administer both these forms of temperature control, as long as you don't exceed the recommended dosages. It’s best to stagger them, which is great as it means your child is getting relief every couple of hours rather than every four.

Wishing the world the best of health, but especially in the postal codes we frequent.