Your Life Starts Here, Today, Or Maybe Friday.

For three years now, we’ve not had our own home.

Well, what I mean is, while we've not been living on the streets, we haven’t lived anywhere we’ve expected to be long-term.

For the last 13 months we have lived on our own in a small rented property, and we’ve called it home, but it’s been more of a base for all our activities, which included being closer to the building site, which will shortly become our new, and proper, gaff.

Our lives have changed significantly over this time.

Not least because we live in very different surroundings. Surroundings, I felt, and have proved to be, much better for our not-so-new circumstances.

We shall tweak our backdrop again later this week, as we make the short trip to our shiny new house. Permanently.

I shall miss our elderly neighbour, who has meticulously put out our bins since we’ve been here. He will be getting a crate of Boddingtons for his trouble, and from the one time I put out his recycling bin, I expect it will go down well.

It will also be more difficult to buy anything, as our much smaller village doesn’t have any shops.

But neither of these things is going to stop me looking forward to moving. Well not moving, I hate moving, but from the prospect of being in our own, pristine dwelling.

I expect it to be a tad, or totally, chaotic for a while, and there will be lots to still do and chalk off.

At the moment, it looks like the actual final fitting out works won’t be totally complete until the end of August. But the place is much more than liveable.

There's the small, yet titanic tasks of changing my address everywhere, and getting an internet connection sorted.

But all these, however annoying, are minute details against, what I hope will be a great family home and the base setting on our all-new tapestry of life, for a good long while.

Wish us luck.

I Wuv You

You can’t beat a bit of toddler mispronunciation.

I don’t think mine is any different to a lot of kids around his age. Lots of them have a cute way of talking.

In my son’s case I think I’m rearing a mini Jonathon Ross rather than a tiny Roy Hattersley.

Words starting with ‘L’ sound like he is substituting that letter with a ‘W’.

I love hearing;

“Wook, daddy, wook.”

And especially;

“I wov you this much.” With his arms splayed as far as possible.

As well as adorable twangs they also pick up traits and sayings from all sorts of people and places.

There are times you can really tell where he has got sayings from, and people often observe and say, “He’s got that from you.”

These will often get a laugh, but witnessing these sayings and expressions used in context is marvellous.

I still remember watching Raymond Briggs’ The Snowman over Christmas last year. Max was really enjoying it, but about half way through I started worrying about how he might react to the end.

I need not have worried.

When the pool of water replaced the magical man of snow, he simply looked at me and said;

“Oh bother.”

Straight out of his grandma’s, swear-word-friendly, vocabulary.

Future Happiness

Because of this, I’ve been spending a lot of time at our house build project.

Not that I wasn’t before, but now I’ve literally been spending time there just to keep on top of everyone coming and going, and personally ensuring the site is well protected, alarmed, and there is nothing left there worth steeling.

Initially after the weekend, I will admit to some feelings of anxiety and visiting the site late at night, has been a bit Blair Witch.

But having spent extra time there over the last few days, with sometimes little to actually do, I’ve been visualizing and pondering our future existence there.

Max joined me for a good couple of hours this afternoon, and it gave a great insight into how our lives may run on a daily basis.

We watered the vegetable patch, a few plants, and a little bit of each other.

Our favourite sitting stair was chosen.

I lost the race around the railway sleepers in the garden.

Tunnels out of left-over soil pipe were made for Ben 10 characters.

And units in the kitchen have been allocated to store or hide Max’s most cherished plastic figures.

All this before the fitting out has really got underway.

I’m determined that this place will be a very happy one. OK, I’m sure there will be tears, trials and tantrums down the way. But I want this to be our place, full of love, smiles, laughter, family and friends.

LIVID!

Well, I’ve calmed down a bit now, but I’m still very, very angry.

I’m angry because some scallywags have broken into our self-build project, and helped themselves to our shiny new boiler and a couple of top-notch showers.

These items were plumbed in, so the scumbag thieves went to great lengths to take them, I’m still flabbergasted.

Items like these should really be unsellable. The boiler has a serial number, and all oil fired systems should be commissioned and registered with OFTEC.

Add to that, NO ONE SHOULD EVER BUY STOLEN STUFF. But sadly people obviously do.

I got the call this morning from my brother-in-law electrician, who was over at site, ironically putting the finishing touches to the electrics, which would have allowed for the burglar alarm to be switched on.

It actually highlighted my inflexibility as a single parent. As I hadn’t seen the damage, I really didn’t want to risk subjecting my child to it.

I had visions of him getting a complex and not feeling safe enough to move in, I really don’t want that.

Luckily a friend was due over, to amongst other things, have a look at the house, so it gave me enough time to contact the police, my parents and the plumber.

The damage was relatively minor, one patio door will have to be replaced, and obviously what they took.

I need to do a full inventory, with all the people with stock on site, to count that cost tomorrow. I don’t really want to think too much about that right now.

The police were extremely efficient, and the forensic expert, who I must say, was the prettiest police officer I’ve ever met, did get a few prints from the things damaged and moved by society’s dross.

My only hope is that the inbreeding was such that these particular mongrels weren’t wise enough to not leave a trail.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

The Longest Day Of The Year

On this date, five years ago, I, or we, were getting spliced.

I can still remember that day vividly, or the bits I was sober for anyway.

My beautiful bride had meticulously planned every last detail of our picture-perfect white wedding.

It was a time in my life where my opinion was valued and listened to, but most definitely not final.

Probably for the best, as the service and celebrations were truly wonderful.

I had a huge feeling of awakening throughout that weekend. Feeling really alive and, I suppose, complete.

In truth it was probably mixed with some feeling of relief and reassurance. Part of me still couldn’t believe that a woman as marvellous as Sam had really chosen to marry me.

As tragic as my wife’s early passing was, I still, and I believe will always, feel blessed that I even met Samantha, let alone that we spent five years together, two of them blissfully married.

Anniversaries since her death have really been no more difficult for me, than days that didn’t commemorate anything.

I’ve not really got the significance, and I also can’t recall a day when I haven't thought about Sam, so I really don’t need any reminders.

Others have found her birthday, or the actual anniversary of her passing difficult, but I suppose my pragmatic approach doesn’t add any extra consequence.

Basically, it smarts everyday, some more, some less, but the pain will always be around.

But hopefully, so will the happy memories, and an amazing little wonder who goes by the name of Max.

You can never feel too sorry for yourself when he’s around, no matter the date, event or day of the week.

More Carrots Than You Can Shake A Stick At

I’ve always been impressed by my child’s nursery and its staff.

It is part of the school in the heart of the village we shall soon be living in.

From talking to parents, the school and nursery are what it is all about. The centre which just about everything else revolves.

That brings both good and bad, but mostly good, I think.

The staff really caring and being able to make a difference, is top of the plus column for me.

As a relatively small nursery, they have a maximum of 18 children, they work hard to constantly change and improve the care and instruction they are providing.

I trust them to look after, entertain, and encourage my child’s development. I don’t think they really need to be governed by all the standards and goals that appear to be ever growing.

This week they have introduced a certificate scheme, on top of the sticker system already in place.

Max is often coming home with a sticker for good behaviour, and for things like being first to sit down for lunch or story-time.

Good ideas that work both ways.

But, today was the first day he has received a lovely certificate/note thingy.

‘Dear Parent/Carer,

Something fantastic happened today!

MAX,

Was totally brilliant at:- JOINING IN WITH A CHAT ABOUT NEXT WEEK – MAX WOULD LIKE TO MAKE CAKES,

We wanted you to know.

Well done,

Sincerely - signed by all the nursery staff and Bramble, the nursery mascot.’

This will go straight in his nursery pile of things, and he shall be rewarded at home too. No big deal, but plenty of interest from his dad.

It will be interesting to see how long this practice lasts, because I would be surprised if the regulars will be motivated by this for very long.

But I’m sure those in charge won't let the kids get bored with it, they will have come up with something long before then!

The Good Life

As our own self-build project edges painfully close to being habitable, we are bearing, quite literally, the first fruits of our labours.

I’d like to think that I’ve, um, thought, a lot about this house, or place where we will reside while our lives continue.

That includes thinking about the garden.

Part of my planning conditions stipulated that I must have an approved landscaping scheme, and that all gardening works must be complete within 12 months of the dwelling being erected.

Apparently a lot of house builders, including the big ones, generally leave the garden as a pile of dirt, probably sold as a field of dreams to potential house buyers.

Anyway, I consulted a landscape gardener, a guy that also runs a soft play centre that I’ve been to a lot with junior.

We came up with a scheme that would be both functional and attractive while still only require minimal maintenance.

I insisted on a raised vegetable patch, and the border hedge be retained by railway sleepers, so there is plenty of low-level seating for little bums.

The vegetable plot is something I think both myself and my son will enjoy nurturing. We’ve already played at it, and have planted beans, calabrese, carrots, parsnips and strawberries.

My thoughts were that it can’t do the ground any harm, even if we don’t have much of a harvest this autumn.

As we’re not living there yet, and it is not always easy to visit at a good watering time, that harvest may in fact not even be much of a muchness.

But, today, on a visit after nursery, we inspected our growing food stocks to find one juicy red strawberry.

Not sure who was more excited out of the pair of us.

I do know, however, who ate the strawberry, and it wasn’t me.

I just had to get the plumber to stop what he was doing, so I could turn the back water on, just to wash this lovely little blighter off.

It went down a treat, and apparently it tasted really nice.

Let’s hope many more beautiful things grow out of our well designed sustenance zone.

Getting Presents From Your Kids

At what point do those presents that have your kid's name on the tag, actually start to be from them?

I mean, I’m in my thirties and my parents still put my name on birthday cards and gift tags for certain relatives, and friends of the family

I’m not involved in the decision making process for getting these gifts, mainly because my idea would be to buy nothing.

Buying a present, in my opinion, merely means that the recipient is guilty bound to return the favour, hence Newton could have applied his laws of motion here too.

My attitude means I’ve never really got excited about the whole getting presents mechanism, and I do generally struggle to convince others of my gratitude.

‘You’ll change when you start getting presents off your own kids.’ I was informed.

And maybe I was for the short period that those gifts were actually bought by my late wife.

Any maybe I will be again, once my child can actually choose, make or get hold of a present that he knows I will like, due to him knowing me, knowing you, Aha.

I do treasure the couple of gifts I got, on behalf of my son, sourced by my wonderful wife.

They may have become more precious now, for sentimental reasons. But they are presents obviously bought by the person who knew me best.

Which I hope, one day, will be the little big man himself.

I also hope he gets a decent job, so he can then get me the life-size stormtropper I've always pined for.

On Your Bike, Off Your Head.

What a way to spend Father’s Day.

I can’t decide what hurts more.

My backside, my chest, my quads, my hands, or my brain - for making such a rash and daft decision.

I’ve never really got down with whole fundraising thang.

I know a lot are spurred on to do great works for relevant charities when they lose someone close to them.

I’m not one of those people.

When asked by a very good friend of mine, and Sam’s, to do this charity bike ride. The fact that it is arranged by, and raises monies for, The British Heart foundation, was more of a small bonus than an overriding motive.

The team was called Pink Fluffy Fluffy, in honour of my late wife, and she would have loved that fact.

She probably wouldn’t have believed that I could actually complete a 54 mile bike ride. Which was probably about 60 miles in total, if you take into consideration cycling to and from the event.

I mean I’m fairly athletic and enjoy playing all sorts of sports, but generally team games, that I can massage a decent involvement in, without being super-fit or make super effort.

I’m easily bored and distracted so I generally enjoy a pastime where a lot is going on, and when there are others involved, I’m encouraged to simply, not let them down.

That got me through yesterday I suppose.

We were in a team, a team that included two of my favourite women, my sister and our great friend that arranged it all.

I both love them and loathe them today, in very unequal measure.

Taste Bud

As part of a calorie controlled diet, and driven by a desire to ensure my child developed a healthy appetite, I restricted his intake of all things sugary, to zilch, during his first 12 months of life.

There was also an ulterior motive in my decision making process, which I admitted later.

I didn’t want him to steal from my sweet stash as he got older.

One lesson I teach and profess to all those close to me, is, always, but always, keep your sweets in your pocket.

I’m also very proud of the letter and compensation package that Swizzles Matlow sent to me, in response to my complaint about empty packets in one of my variety packs.

Ignoring the fact that they wrote addressing a child and I was actually 23.

Add to that list my membership of The Haribo Club.

My sweet tooth library extends to ginger bread, brandy snaps and mint chocolate.

Due to genetics, or toddler I-want-what-you've-got syndrome, I can’t even enjoy a cup of tea without my ginger nuts being pilfered, and duly dunked by tiny fingers.

He even stole my battenburg cake yesterday.

But tonight I found solace. Solace in the form of an After Eight ice-cream.

After a well behaved day, and consumption of all put in front of him, I thought we both deserved a treat during a post tea-time stroll.

Max chose a Fruit Pastilles lolly.

As usual, I expected to have to swop on our walk, if I was lucky, before he'd finished his.

That call duly came, and we swopped.

However, to my immense surprise, I quickly got my excellent choice back, accompanied with words I usually hate, but, tonight, I loved them.

‘Daddy...............I don’t like it.’

Do As I Say, But Don't Repeat It.

As ignorant as the super-toddler appears to be, they are always listening.

Even when they have the attention of others, and are having every single want and whim catered for, they are still listening.

I was reminded of this fact yesterday.

We were having diner with Max’s grandparents, which usually means I can have a bit of a relax, while I watch them mess about.

Last night was my chance to take in some of the breath-taking spectacle that is Euro 2008.

I like football, and I’ve always followed the mighty reds. But I have become increasingly frustrated, much as many others, with the whole image of football and those that play it.

I mean, they are groomed and glazed before the game, the bigger the game the more care taken.

So when one too many of the marvellous talents on display threw themselves to the ground, like an extra from Platoon, I took out my frustration verbally.

“Bloody, ponsy footballers.” I enthused.

This was repeated about three seconds later by my offspring.

Then again, and again.

Now why do they listen to calm, well thought out, instruction, so reluctantly? Don’t answer that, I think I know why that is.

Perhaps, I should throw in the odd expletive to our general dialogue, that would at least get his attention.

But it’s not just juicy language, it is dialogue not meant for others’ ears.

My friend’s child recently dropped his mother in some tepid water with the in-laws.

When his daddy explained her absence at a recent family meal, as a simple case of double-booking, oh-so-clever child popped up with;

“No daddy, she’s at home. She said she couldn’t be done with the drama.”

Bless. Or should that be, condemn.

Can You Be Both Parents?

I’m sure this is a subject that many single parents think about and discuss.

In fact I’ve conversed with a few about it myself.

Generally the difference between my own, and the more ‘usual’ single parent situation is that there is, in that case, another parent, it is just the parents don’t live together anymore.

That is simplifying a bit, I know. And I’m not saying I’ve got it tougher, in many ways I actually think I have it easier, as I set all the boundaries and have complete control over who is in my child’s life and what he gets up to.

My genuine concern is whether I do a good enough job of being a mom. Or provide my child with what, ideally, his mother would have given him.

I’m not alone with these concerns.

I read this article with interest the other week, as it is written by a man who is raising children alone.

A similar yet very different situation to my own.

But, the article reassured me to some extent, just because the weaknesses he talks about, and what he thinks the female part of child raising is, I think I’m quite good at.

Routine has always ruled in my parenting style.

I mean, daily routine – eating times, bathing, stories and bed-time. And the ongoing routine – activities, days out, in, hair cuts, shoes, dentist, visits, and short breaks.

What I think I’m beginning to learn, and believe, is that each of us is different, and that is not necessarily about what is, or is not, hanging between our legs.

We have strengths and weaknesses, we have a nature, and we listen or not, depending on what state of mind we are in.

No single parenting situation is ever going to be ideal, but we just have to make the most of it. Much as we do in any parenting situation

I hope I’m doing that, with bells on.

Hair Today, Still Hair Tomorrow.

How many kids, particularly boys, enjoy or look forward to getting hair cuts?

Not nearly as many as hate them, I bet.

My child is no exception.

It may be down to the fact that I left his first hair cut for a good while.

I liked the way it was growing and I thought it really suited him longer.

That was tempered with an irritation of people guessing that he was a little she, just because he didn’t have a crew cut I suppose.

I mean even when we’d go swimming, people would say “What a lovely little girl.” He would have a boy’s swimming costume on, so I presume people would also assume that I was a terrible parent.

Anyway, I was typing about hair cuts.

For the first few I took him to hairdressers specifically set-up for children.

Good idea.

They get to sit in a choice of seat – race car, train or boat. DVDs play in front of them, you can even take your own. There are toys and a nice area for the children to entertain themselves prior to their hairdresser being ready, and while their carers pay up.

Children who sit through their ordeal with the minimum of fuss get a goody bag and balloon when done.

Only draw backs, it is fairly expensive and the novelty wears off very, very quickly.

So, nowadays we pop along to our local hairdressers, Max has found a favourite hairdresser, and she goes a great job on his barnet.

We do have to take a multitude of items with us, but not for Max’s entertainment, more as props to aid his conversations or teachings to his mullet maintainer.

I think, in fact, he positively looks forward to them now.

What Did He Say Daddy?

I love my son.

I love bath-time with my son.

I do not love having to talk to my child via inanimate toys, complete with funny voices.

Ok, I do.

This is hilarious. It’s a trait in my son I’ve found amusing for a good time.

And it’s one I’m not on my own with. I know the grandparents enjoy this particular facet too.

Sometimes, he pays so much attention to a character that I give a voice to, you can see he is absolutely lost in their world.

Oh, the mind of a child, what a wonderful thing.

Tonight it was his Power Rangers who came to life.

“I think these need a bath as well Daddy. Will you do THEIR voices?”

As it happens, while green ranger was more than happy to join my son in his bath, red ranger was less agreeable.

Max found dunking him against his will very amusing, as did I. He particularly laughed as I did my best interpretation of what an underwater and distressed Power Ranger would sound like.

The green ranger also wanted his hair, or head, washed, and wanted it done at the same time as Max. That emerald fellow has been a handy tool tonight.

It did however mean three bed-time stories tonight, one each, for child and his two chums.

But as I was doing the voices, guess what?

They chose very short books!

A Kid Needs A Father, Probably.

Due to half-term and building commitments, I’ve not been online quite as much as I’d liked to have been.

But I have been flicking on and was very interested in the series of articles and blogs prompted by this news.

Looks like Parliament has been warbling on quite a bit, well what else would you expect from the custodians of our future, about the whole influence and effect of fathers on their children.

Others have taken it further and got into the whole how much does a father have to play in a child’s development.

Fathers must now also be named on birth certificates, which just sounds like more unenforceable law and I can almost see the order for extra red tape being made out.

This Alpha Mummy post, by Jennifer Howze, hits the sharp metal thing on its bonce.

Children do ideally need fathers, similarly to them ideally needing mothers.

But we don’t live in an ideal world, and I’m guessing, just guessing, that those disputing or involved in birth certificate drama are especially unlikely to be from the 2.4 children set.

Kids just need to be put first, regardless of biological parenting.

Ok, parents should take full responsibility for their offspring, but that also includes being big enough to provide the best possible environment for them, even if that is to the detriment to their own existence or participation.

Now they should make another pointless, yet well intentioned, law about that!

Forget About Him Being Gay, I’m Turning Into A Woman.

Stay-at-home dad has never been very butch.

My penchant for pink t-shirts and sweaters, doesn’t say Rambo either.

Floppy hair, well I suppose is better than the Communards’ look, marginally.

It’s no bad thing really. I’ve often worried about being able to fill the role that tradition reserves for our mothers.

The nurturing part of being a parent I suppose.

It’s also being the domestic goddess, or in my case god, I hope.

Since I left home I helped with the cleaning and tidying away, but I’m sure if truth be known I’d always been more of a hindrance.

Cooking has been different, I quite enjoy it. I’m not too experimental or exotic, but I have a half-decent repertoire of meals, which I hope to expand with age.

We’ve been living on our own for a year now, so I’ve had no one to rely on to help with the essential daily house and person maintenance.

Actual, Max did promise to tidy the DVDs away once, but it never materialised, I’m sure his mom would say he was just like me.

That’s unfair, he does help out. He knows his toys must go back in their respective boxes before another can be emptied. A rule I implemented with my mother head on.

I ironed an absolute mountain of clothes last night in under an hour, and I was quite pleased with myself, as well as the usual temporary relief of knowing that it would be five days or so before the board would be out again.

And today’s confirmation of my unwanted transformation was made by me, wait for it……………….

Licking a tissue to wipe my child’s face with.