They Are All Doomed

I have been acutely aware that I need an existence, and subsistence, that will run alongside our life, and hopefully, not allow me to become all too consumed in my son’s world.

He will always be priority number one, he has been pretty much since his arrival, but I believe there should be a two, three and so on.

At the moment I have a pretty active me-time schedule.

I get to the football regularly, amongst other ad hoc stuff, I even enjoy the more than occasional away trip, which means I get a few beers in with my football chums, and Max usually stays with a set of grandparents.

Since Samantha’s death I’ve thought, which is about the sum of all action, about what I may like to DO with my life.

I had a good job before, well a considerably paid one anyway.

But I didn’t really enjoy it or ever get a rewarding feeling doing it.

The very thought of going back to a job just for the spondoolies, makes me a bit sick.

So, I’ve been searching for something - while decently paid - that would give me some satisfaction other than pounds, shillings and pence.

Writing is something I enjoy, and it has always been an ambition of mine to do that professionally. I have had some works published. But I need to push, and pitch myself more.

In the meantime I’ve looked at other things, as perhaps a base to work from. And who knows if I get enough regular writing work that could become my base.

Every specialist or career advisor has pushed me down the teacher route. As I’m a single parent I suppose the benefits of only working term times are obvious.

However I’m no teacher.

My mother was.

I’m not a big fan of the profession.

I’ve seen it from all sides.

Instead I’ve looked at supporting roles within schools, even school management or administration.

I could walk into a classroom assistant job, but the financial rewards reflect that fact.

However there is a role I think could suit me, and ticks most of the boxes.

With our governmental obsession with targets, and schools striving to achieve them at all costs, they are looking at different ways to do that.

Learning Mentors are now being employed within all sorts of schools. The idea being that these mentors can help the under-achievers, erm, achieve.

Officially they are supposed to be removing barriers to learning, whatever they happen to be.

These can be kids with problems outside of the school walls, learning difficulties, or bright kids who can’t see the point of trying too hard.

As I fitted right into that last category as a school child, my thinking is I may be able to draw from my own experience.

I also hate the thought of the class room, which I’m sure is also something it would help to be able to relate to.

And there is the whole not really getting the whole teacher thing.

So, I’ve made a few contacts, and to avoid committing to anything to bearing, I’ve agreed to do a bit of volunteering.

With a less formal arrangement, it means the school only has to get me checked out and offer minimal training and guidance.

I get to pick and choose when I do it.

I get a chance to see if it is something I actually enjoy.

I get to prove that I can get results.

And it is experience to add to my CV if I ever choose to try and get a permanent remunerated position.

I’ve also chosen to work with a middle school, before kids get to the business end of their schooling. A less pressured environment.

My initial experience has been good, and so has the feedback from the school, and probably more importantly, the children.

It also appears that this is a job, that if I find the right place, could be tailored to really suit my lifestyle.

I wouldn’t necessarily have to work to a timetable. As the schools don’t like kids to be removed from classes for mentoring at the same times.

That said, they also don’t expect children to be mentored outside of the normal school hours.

Let’s face it, a reluctant child is unlikely to want to spend any more time than is absolutely necessary at their palace of torture school.

Another thing I may have in common with the little fellas.

Very much a suck-it-and-see situation, but if I live up to my son’s genius tag, one I hope that will yield a positive outcome.

You Are The Greatest

During the recent pre and post Ryder Cup media spat here in The UK. Several players got into the whole debate of self-praise being no praise indeed.

And I agree with that.

I think most Brits concur.

We don’t like trumpet blowers, though one of my friends from across the pond, thinks it is never too late to learn.

But is it the same when it is done by a somewhat unintentionally brain-washed three-year-old?

Kids, especially it seems of toddler age, will generally put their owners onto a pedestal; if not only to gain favour and, indeed, favours.

My little wordsmith is firmly from this school of thought.

There are some very quick tests to confirm authenticity of his often very temporary adulation, asking if he’ll share his sweets is probably the best of these.

His praise is sometimes just brought about as a simple reaction to acts of kindness, or purchases that have gone down well.

After our weekend apart in August we had a mixture of these.

I’d been thinking of some time of procuring a ride-on scooter, amongst other things to keep the journey to school interesting.

Therefore when I thought it may be wise to mark my return to the parenting controls with a gift for, a hopefully, well behaved young boy.

Multiple birds, one brick.

“You are the greatest daddy.” Was his simple, yet very well received thank you.

I’m not sure what he hugged more, me or the bike for the next hour.

I was totally in demand for the next couple of days, daddy had to do most things, even those tasks sometimes reserved for the easier manipulated.

When he tells me he loves me, and it is not preceded with a gift, or then loaded with a request, that really does make me feel good.

He’ll often say, you’ve been a good boy too, you should get a prize.

I love that mode.

Then this morning, a new status, a new title, some say one that is banded about too much.

But when I could locate my PSP, so Max could play Star Wars Lego - when he was struggling – who am I to argue with the opinion of my three-foot colossus.

“Genius.” He lovingly boomed in my direction.

Self -praise or not, I could not be heartened more by any others' words.

When does sarcasm kick-in?

Or has it already!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When Calming Environments Become Stressful.

I’ve never been a huge fan of the church.

Religion isn’t really my bag.

My folks, or more specifically, my mother has always been a church-goer.

I used to go along with her until I was old enough to acceptably say “Leave me in bed mom.”

I have also been confirmed into The Church Of England faith, but that was more out of a promise my late wife made, after she successfully carried our first born, following a failed attempt earlier.

That really is an aside.

The point I’m shortly to make, has nothing at all to do with god-bothering or bible bashing.

Well it actually does in this case, but not always.

All will make sense shortly.

Promise.

My experience of going into these beautiful religious buildings, tempered with mild irritation of having to go in the first place, has always been overridingly pleasant.

Having lived in towns and now a village that have picturesque and traditional churches, visits have always been quite charming, soothing and relaxing.

Now.

Add child.

My child.

The nearly-four year old version.

It is.

Stress. Stress. Stress.

One of Max’s nursery chums was being baptised along with his slightly older brother. We were lucky enough to warrant an invite.

A nice touch actually.

And looking back on today, my son’s behaviour within god’s four-walls was OK, not exemplary, but OK.

Getting him ready and remembering everything, hoping he doesn’t get dirty in the meantime, should not be allowed on Sunday mornings.

Even the big-man rested on the Sabbath, didn’t he?

Trying to get access to the vestry toilet seconds before the service should start via stuffy strangers, I definitely know, he did not.

There in followed just over an hour of me asking Max to be quiet, he whispering discontent and demanding reason, and also intermittent child-parent telling off for me ‘making noise’ when I’m trying to apply the you-must-be-quiet rule.

Oh, and the two kids got splashed a bit.

Not the worst hour and a half of my life.

But, an example, one of many, of how much life changes when children enter it.

Like taking them to the football.

Something I actually like doing, and get mildly excited by.

No wonder I’ve now got a few grey hairs.

He Has Even Got The Voice Now

After a few days of crap, we are on the other side.

I hate it when my lad is ill, even with just a minor cold, it really knocks the stuffing, and my sense of humour, right out of me.

It’s daft as I know he’s going to be ok, and all is being done that can be.

You just have to sit it out.

Well we have. The worse of it, we hope anyway.

And another positive junior found today, was that his Darth Vader impression just got more accurate.

Bonus.

And.

Phew.

I Hate Being Right

That headline is not strictly true.

And I do sometimes struggle to admit being wrong misguided.

However on this occasion I’m depressed to confirm my suspicions.

You’ll also note I’ve had a serious sense of humour bypass, which always seems to happen when my boy is ill.

Nearly two years ago, and in the early hours of one mid-week morning, I took my son to the A & E department of a local hospital.

His breathing had become troublesome, he hadn’t stopped or anything like that, but he just couldn’t settle to sleep, and there was a really harsh dry cough.

I’d also tried our NHS Direct and they’d tried to call a doctor out to him, but it was going to be morning by the time he arrived, and as I envisaged we’d neither be getting any sleep, it was better to go and get him fixed.

It turned out to be the worst single experience of lone parenting I have been through thus far.

Not because my son’s health deteriorated, far from it. It was so horrible due to the handling of the whole affair, the lack of information, sleep, but, probably worse of all, the attitude of staff to my, or our, situation.

“Where is his mother?”

A really important medical question I’m sure. But also one that demonstrated that the person asking the question hadn’t read page one of Max’s medical history and facts.

It got worse, as after I explained, rather delicately, that she’d passed away when he was just seven months old, I got;

“Oh, you’ll probably know MOST of his history.” From this pig-bigoted heath unprofessional.

She then proceeded to direct all questions towards my lovely sister, Max’s auntie, who had driven us to the hospital.

Now, I’m no angry man, I would say my temperament is very chilled, I’ve never really been angry in the wake of Sam’s death; I’ve never seen the point, or the positivity that could come from it. I guess I’ve just been me.

But, at this, I do strongly suspect if this person had been of the same sex to me, violence would have immediately ensued.

Instead, they got angry me at my very best, or worse. I explained, quite impolitely, that if there was anything I didn’t know about this poorly boy in front of her, then it wasn’t worth knowing.

I then asked if I could deal with a competent person, who read notes, and could most likely understand the word priority, rather than fanny around with matters, that are not only un-important at this point but irrelevant.

During which I think I woke most of the ward, and silenced it all in the same rant.

Perversely my child had settled down, his breathing much more controlled.

It was me going to need the treatment now, or the idiot my fury had been vented on.

We didn’t see that particular person again.

And I did get an apology from the Senior House Officer (sic), and thereafter very good attention.

Probably too good, as they kept Max in the hospital even though it was evident to me it was unnecessary.

Anyhow, the suspicion was just like his not-so-good dad, he may well develop asthma.

Too young to tell, but the drug I use to help with the condition, had been the one that settled his breathing.

It has never really thwarted my life.

I’ve had the odd horrible experience, but the worse ones were before I was properly diagnosed with the condition.

I’ve worried about a development of the condition in my little treasure ever since. And I really wanted to avoid a repeat performance.

Over the last couple of days junior has had a cough. Others around have had a cold, and the nursery is low on numbers because of a bug going round, but I suspected this time my son didn’t have what they have had.

See, he hasn’t had a temperature, has not been off his food, his drink intake has been normal and what goes in has been coming out in its standard forms.

I’ve been sleeping with him to keep an extra eye on him, and sneak a sleep cuddle or two, and he was instead showing signs of inconsistent breathing.

The coughing comes when his lungs are not getting all the air in they want, I guessed.

It’s a situation I’ve been through myself, so easier to identify and relate to.

This morning one of our local doctors has all but confirmed my thinking.

No evidence of any reason for a cough, and my observations were enough for her to conclude the most likely, however undesirable, scenario, is that my son does have asthma.

So now he’s been given the same prescription I get, albeit with an enormous spacer device, which has already doubled as a gun to encourage its use.

I’d hoped he pick up some things from me, but definitely not this.

Fingers crossed that the inhaler gun wonder does the trick and gives him his lungs back, and I hope he doesn’t suffer too much into the future.

Being a minor sufferer myself, it gives me a greater understanding, and also a good eye for early signs of deteriorating, which are good for quick correction, and continuing life as normal.

So back to normal for both of us, and as soon as possible please.

Clumsy Clot

I’ve written before about how, or how not, a child can be like their parents.

Without blowing a trumpet, I don’t actually own one, I don’t have to think very hard about the traits I hope to pass onto my son.

My sense of humour is probably top of the list.

Not because I think mine is brilliant, or the best, but because mine has helped me through so much.

I’d be a much lesser man without it.

If he gets some of my positivity, and a shim of the enormous amount my wife used to emanate, then that would be great too.

One thing I hope he manages to avoid is my somewhat clumsy nature.

My aforementioned wife used to laugh at my inability to perform minor tasks without the maximum disaster.

Forgetting oven gloves are a necessity, falling over when simply trying to stand still and making all sorts of mess when using a potato peeler or letter opener.

Yes, all very amusing.

Except for me, who should really be typing this post with a safety net.

She used to call me 'Cliffy', after a clumsy character from one of the programmes she used to watch that I wasn’t familiar with.

I’ve tried to find this fellow, but without success.

Perhaps she made it up.

However it isn’t something that has changed since her demise, and often in minor injury infliction there is part of me that is warmed to feel the laughter and amusement it would have brought about.

Only a week ago I had three incredible similar incidents spread over two lunch times.

I’d bought four ciabatta rolls from the supermarche which were planned for my next two days of mid-day sustenance.

I put the first in my left hand to cut through it with a bread knife within my right.

Not a great technique, as I caught my left hand in my effort to get all the way through my posh Italian bread.

The thing is a normal person would correct this method immeadiately.

Me?

Well, let’s just say by the fourth roll on the following day I managed to avoid any sort of injury.

I do hope my son is like his much more elegant mother, problem is I already suspect that he isn’t.

Shares in Band-Aid it is then.

Alright Sweetheart

It is cute to have nicknames for your children, and I like hearing others call their offspring by their own charming monikers.

Sausage, seems quite popular, I’ve even used a derivative myself for the boy who eats more tubed-pig than the dog employed by Walls.

That particular pet name seems to be unisex, I’ve heard it successfully applied to both little boys and girls.

Moms and dads seem to apply stereotypical varieties.

I’m not sure I’ve heard many ‘mommy’s little princess’ or ‘daddy’s little soldier’.

Except in our house.

I don’t know if I’m more comfortable with less masculine titles, or if I’m subconsciously trying to be a female substitute.

Perhaps it just comes more naturally to you, whatever your sex, if you are the primary or only carer.

Nature and nurture.

I often refer to my son as sweetheart, and I did used to notice others cringing a tad, now, while I’m sure they still do, I don’t even notice.

I’m very comfortable with it, and use it when he needs a little tender loving care, the softly-softly approach, or when he’s been kind to others.

Don’t get me wrong, I do use donkey-head and monkey-chops too.

And some stuff sterner than that if necessary.

But I suppose if I’m going to make people uncomfortable with terminology, there isn’t a finer way.

Damaged Goods

No not me.

I’m not broken, just scarred.

And we all know scars are cool.

But my boy, he of frequent physical blemish acquisition.

You know how I banged-on about walking to school, or nursery, and how important it is, and how everyone should do it?

Well.

We’ve been taking it up a few notches.

Over the summer, I’d thought investment in a scooter may be a good idea.

The thinking being it would encourage my child to use his own steam to get to the school gates, and it wouldn’t be as cumbersome as a push-bike for me to carry home.

I’m full of great ideas, me.

It has worked a treat.

We haven’t used it everyday, I do like to mix it up, and it just adds fresh breath to a non-inconsiderable walk for someone with only very short legs.

Today was a scooter day.

Did I mention that the deck flashes?

But only in the dark if my son asks.

Max has quickly become proficient in the art of scooting. He has actually been getting quicker and more confident, and it has cut the journey down by a couple of minutes.

Good for when we are a few late.

However today I think that confidence got too high, as did his speed.

This, in turn, meant he had a bit of a bang on the trek round today.

He sort-of realised he was going too fast and attempted to stop.

In fact his braking distance was actually minimised by a neighbour’s hedge.

When I realised he wasn’t really hurt, I made light of it, took the mickey, and offered him his scooter back.

Fair play to him, because he just got back on it, a bit gingerly at first, but he was soon back upto speed, if not quite the top speed of a few moments previous.

We arrived at nursery, and I noticed he had a little scratch under his eye, so did the nursery leader.

Now, there are only a maximum of 15 kids at the nursery at any one time, and Wednesday is one of the quieter days.

I, or we actually, explained what had happened, and Max confirmed that he was A-OK.

This wasn’t enough for the nursery.

I had to sign a sort-of affidavit that confirmed my son’s injury was incurred during my care, and not in the nursery’s.

I said it was totally unnecessary, based on the fact I’d verbally made a disclosure in front of at least three staff, and countless other parents.

And it was a scratch, a little one at that.

This ambulance chasing attitude gets on my wick.

Trees are chopped down to record this rubbish.

What a waste of everyone’s time.

In the end I did sign the form, as I could see the staff weren’t going to be comfortable if I didn’t and I wasn’t in the mood for a one-man crusade.

But I do think my attitude at least got them thinking, and I hope thinking along my lines.

Though I fear it much more likely that there will eventually be physical inspections of children prior to admission.

Sad, sad, sad stuff.

Inject A Little Sunshine

Last week saw my boy go for his final pre-school booster jabs.

In this country, if you don’t object, you are due a MMR and Diphtheria, Tetanus and Polio immunisation, between the age of three and five.

When you are actually given the shots varies from county to county, and I think almost, health practice to health practice.

Certainly seems a lot different to the protocol of the good olde USA, going by the comments left on this post.

The only time we could fit these jabs in, was when we regularly go swimming one night after nursery. It meant I explained our absence to some of the other parents, thus igniting two of the great playground debates.

1) Should you get the MMR, pay for separate injections or not take the immunisation at all?

I remember the whole not-so great scare in this country, when the guy the government was thinking of suing, released his controversial study and ‘findings’.

I’m not a big fan of numbers, facts based only statistical assumptions are, indeed, not facts to me, just assumptions.

And we all know what they do.

If the guy could have demonstrated that the juice in the MMR syringe mutates the part of the brain that controls, or allows, autism, then I would have taken note. And I’m certain other supportive studies would have quickly followed.

But as it happens, he didn’t, so I, err, didn’t either.

Sadly, it is my guess that a medley of all sorts of things, and the fact that diagnosis is getting better year-on-year, hence there has been an increase of cases.

This is not a view held across the great tarmac area that the kids play on, it divides some and some get very vocal on either side.

I was just taking Max for his top-up, no more explanation or argument needed really.

2) Don’t tell your kids about stuff they won't like.

This one was a more interesting debate, and one I’m more prepared to argue, or put my case forward.

After all, I’m no scientist, but I am a parent, hence more qualified in this field.

I’ve always attempted to tell Max the truth as close a possible. The idea being, that I want him to trust me 100%, and to know I mean what I say, except when we’re kidding around of course.

It’s the same with leaving him in the care of others, or going out while he is sat.

OK, to begin with it was tricky, but I stuck to my guns, and never pull the proverbial wool over his spy holes.

Now it means we have no problems at all, and I’m aware that others that have applied the sneak out when the kids aren’t looking approach, have come back to traumatised infants who were ‘confused’ when, say, they woke in the night to be tended by someone else.

I try to apply this rule with things like trips to the dentist and doctors.

Even though I know as a child I had great difficulty knowing that something like this was in my immediate future.

And I don’t want him to suffer the same, so I think my principle or protocol still applies.

When it actually came to it my child was a colossus in the nurses’ room

He had simultaneous injections in each arm while he sat on my lap.

After barely a flinch, he asked which sticker he could have, and then a lollypop produced from my well prepared coat pocket put any very recent pain firmly into the past.

I was delighted.

He then asked “Have I been good?” the normal prelude to present or surprise requests.

But I temporarily puzzled him with my reply.

“No, you’ve not been good”

Wait for it.

“You’ve been brilliant.”

And guess what?

That meant he got two little treats!

Clever so and so.

Like Father, Scratch That, Like Mother Like Son

I’ve often pondered how much a child is like his parents.

How much of their personality, behaviour and traits are indicative of their genes?

It was a point I raised in my relative youth, quite by accident, when on one of my first foreign business trips.

I was trying to be as sophisticated as possible, as I’d been seated next to the company owner’s wife, for an evening gala thingy with all the company’s top brass.

In those days I used alcohol exclusively to get smashed. Nothing less, sometimes a lot more.

So hobnobbing at snazzy dos when there were free drinks on the go was not one of my strengths.

It was a multi-national company, but it had been started by this single family in Denmark, so there was also rather a different culture to try and adapt to.

They basically like hunting and sailing.

Hunting was fine, I can eat the hind leg off most creatures, perhaps never shooting them, but I could sort-of make conversation, or at least appear interested.

At the time I was a keen jet-skier, which meant I was evil in the eyes of these sailors, who thought motors on the water should be reserved for moving Norwegian oil and gas.

I digress, a lot.

Thing is I was struggling for conversation with the generation above me, so I thought, what do my parents talk about.

Ah, kids.

So I asked about the boss’s children, what they were called, what they did, how much they got involved with the company, and, eventually, I asked who do they take after.

A perfectly genuine and innocent question.

“We adopted them, so I don’t know,” retorted the multi-millionaire’s most beautiful wife.

After my panic had subsided, I realised there was quite a lot lost in translation of my question. And there was a systematic approach by this woman, who had mothered them since they were babies, which meant she still couldn’t accept that the children could be like them because of genetics.

I didn’t argue much, as you can well imagine, but I didn’t agree.

You can’t spend that much time in a child’s life and not have them pick up any of you.

Humour is apparently learnt behaviour so that at least means they’ll laugh at the same things as you.

Much more must be taught rather than simply inherited.

That typed, I see a lot of my wife in my son.

It may be co-incidence, perhaps me looking for it, but I like to think that some of his mannerisms and attitudes come right from his wonderful mother.

He pulls exactly the same faces, sleeps in a similar fashion and knows exactly how to get round his daddy.

I hope he has got a lot more from his mom.

Not just because I love seeing glimpses of her through him, but mainly because she was such a belter.

Checkpoint 3.5

I recently received a letter from the community health visitor, who is charged with the welfare of all the pre-schoolers in the area.

‘Welcome to the area’ it read, ‘we learn that you have just moved here’

Well no, we’ve been under your jurisdiction for more like 15 months, but I’m not going to pick hairs.

I actually quite like the fact we’d escaped the system for a while, I’d prefer a world where I was more accountable for my child, on all aspects of his life.

It is my great belief that the increasing rules, regulations, initiatives and overall reliance on others, have a negative impact on parenting.

Perhaps they should set up a league table to disprove that.

What I mean is, the government or state implies by its action that it is accountable for the country's children, rather than the people from which they were spawned, or those that have taken parental responsibility for them.

That is probably too simple an analogy, but one effect of unnessary support is growing reliance upon it.

There was a case quite recently where a child starved to death, which was of course the government's fault, according to the absent father.

Again, a bad example and an extreme, and yes the state, or more appropriately in this case, the police, should have powers of intervention. A crime was being committed, not bad parenting.

I hate this finger-pointing blame culture, and I also dislike those that call for new rules and protocols for the masses after the latest virtually random child tragedy.

I’ll get off my box in a bit, promise.

But now I learn that the national guidelines I talked about with my child’s nursery staff last term, have actually come into place.

We have gone far enough with the nanny state nonsence.

Targets for toddlers, regular mandatory reports on progress?

Give me a break.

Guess what?

What?

If I parent with my eyes and ears open I can actually see for myself if my son can draw faces on walls, wipe his backside with his own fair hand or has expanded his vocabulary to include swear words.

It’s not even a legal requirement in this country for children to be receiving any form of formal education before their fifth birthday, it is parents’ choice.

Something doesn’t add up here.

I hope it’s not my son, he’ll be in trouble with the power brokers.

Anyway, after a successful three-and-a-half-year old check, which, quite frankly I could have lied my way through. (I know some parents do, that’s another post when I get my box out again!)

I get another letter from the same place, welcoming me to the area and giving me a proposed date for a three-and-half-year check!

Seriously guys, leave us to it.

We know what we are doing.

And if we don’t it is our problem to sort that out.

Be assured we’ll call you if we need your help.

Much, much, much, better system, and cheaper you’ll be pleased to know.


*Breath*


And…………………………


Dismount box.

Are You Having A Laugh? We Are

Apparently a sense of humour is learnt not genetic.

But surely if it is something you learn, most likely from those closest to you, then clearly it is genetic by osmosis, or default, to be more correct.

All I can say to that, is my folks must have been right perverse sickos during my formative years.

I laugh at a lot of things, finding humour in most stuff, that in turn make situations infinitely more manageable.

Making light of stuff is the future, the present, and most of my past.

I hope I’m instilling a sense of humour in my child, I deeply suspect I am, and a vicious one at that.

We laugh a lot.

A lot, a lot, a lot.

He actually already has a bit of a stand-up routine;

What do the donkeys on Blackpool beach get for lunch???

Half-an-hour.

Two Monkeys in a bath………….

You get his drift.

He makes me laugh, with just the way he is.

The answers he gives and the phrases he picks up from others.

When his grandmother asked about the football match I took him to yesterday, he replied “dreadful, dreadful grandma” much as his granddad had been spouting since our early exit of said non-spectacle.

His trademark ‘oh-bother’ brings a smile and laugh to most faces, not least of all when he watched the hero from The Snowman melt for the first time.

It’s all in the timing.

I’m not predicting a future on the stage, most kids, certainly of his age, are hilarious, most hilarious to their own parents.

I don’t think that would be a great future anyway, a lot of comedians seem to have a dark and moody existence when they aren’t on the well-lit raised platform.

I just want him to get through life with a whacking-great-big-smile on his face.

Year three has ticked that box big-time.

Tired And Un-Emotional

I’ve suddenly got very tired this week.

It is the first week back at nursery, which I suppose means the first week that we are actually against the clock.

Whether I need it or not, the alarm is set on my mobile phone to make sure we both get to the nursery door, washed, watered, fed and ready for what the day will bring, on time.

Funny how tired you get when you get up to the tune of an alarm, rather than getting up naturally at virtually the same time of the day.

Mornings are a little more squeezed.

Milk for Max – Shower for me

Breakfast for Max – Remains for me

Max gets dressed – I assist

Max busies himself – I pack his bag, and do any ad-hoc stuff

Then we set off on our walk, which should take five, but actually takes about 15 minutes.

Evenings have been back to a regimented routine as well this week, so Max wasn’t tired at nursery.

I took the added action of bringing everything forward 30 minutes.

Bath, and bed times have been earlier.

And it seems to have worked, for him.

I’m knackered.

He’s only been back at nursery two days.

Anyone know when half-term is?

4 x 4? No, We Just Need 4 x 4 Hands

Having moved into our self-build project just before the end of last year’s school term we got in a little practice walking to nursery.

See before we occupied our house we were renting in a neighbouring village. This meant we were driving, or more specifically, I was driving to and from Max’s nursery and future school.

Walking is something I really looked forward to; I think every child should enjoy walking to school where it is reasonably possible.

Our rental property was a stone’s throw from a nursery and first school, and it used to grate me slightly that I was driving past it to get Max to his. Not least because it was a nightmare to get past just before it opened its doors for trading.

My thinking though was to start him at the place I intend his longer-term education to continue.

And also when we purchased our land the village school was actually struggling for numbers.

That isn’t the case today, due to a between time Ofsted report being graded as outstanding, apparently, an all too rare feat.

One thing I’d not really thought about in a less populated area, is that people rely on personal transport even more than those in more urban areas.

With less in safe walking distance from your home, a car journey is often un-avoidable.

It also means that twice a day the road that leads to the school is a temporary and unofficial car park.

In the 12 months that my child has been attending nursery, I think I’ve received more single subject letters about parking and advice on approaching the school, than on any other.

It is definitely not an isolated problem as I recall at least two local paper front-page pieces concerning school parking and potential schemes to alleviate the problems, in the village we took up temporary residence in.

As far as I can tell though, none of these investigations have looked at why there are cars everywhere and where they are actually coming from.

Parents are often off to work straight after dropping children off, and we even get villagers driving a matter of feet to be nearer the school, to ‘save’ time.

But what alarms me a tad more, is that some parents seem to be sending kids to further afield schools, rather than walk to a closer one, because of perceived differences based on very little, and some times based on nothing tangible.

I’m of the opinion if a school is decently staffed, isn’t falling down and has most of the equipment it needs that I won’t be driving past it, to one that has a load of mythical bells and whistles.

If my child wants to learn he will, if he doesn’t it won’t really help if he’s at Eton, if anything it is more dangerous.

All that scribed, after junior’s first day back, I could have done with a 4 x 4 to stick all his doings in.

We have a dinosaur, a knight, a dragon - effectively a lot of boxes stuck together - three drawings, his spare clothes bag and a receipt for our last payment of the previous year.

Add to that it was raining so I had my big umbrella, Max’s refusal to carry anything other than himself, which I tell you I was grateful that at least he wasn’t adding to my payload.

All this made for an interesting jaunt home.

We managed to avoid being run down, so us and all our bits made it back, safe and sound.

Perhaps, tomorrow, I should get a personal tow bar fitted.

Nah, it's probably illegal to tow on the pavement.

Sneaky Snitch

Of the many different pseudonyms I use to address my son - sausage boy, monkey chops, donkey head - I think he likes sneaky snitch the most.

It also is one I’m using increasingly as his sneaking ability seems to be growing proportionally to his years.

Kids are cute, and by that, I don’t mean to look at, I mean in an incredible ingrained way of being able to get things past you, or working situations to their advantage.

As a parent I’m aware that I need to have my bluffing radar well tuned, and that from time-to-time I’m going to lose and get it wrong, and that I shouldn’t get too upset about it.

While a child may get one over on you, the bigger picture is that skill, well honed, will be of great advantage to them in the big wide world.

My radar is currently on full alert, as the holiday period and the being in the recent care of others who may choose to turn their particular radar off, has perhaps meant he’s got away with more than is usual, and now allowable in operation raise a well-rounded individual.

As mentioned above, I don’t want to rid him of this, I’d actually prefer him to improve his ability to do so.

It will be great for both of us when he can make fruitful calls and claims to customer services departments that I so hate.

But that said, you know the day is going to be a battle, when Max's first words are

“I’ve been a good boy haven’t I daddy?”

Guess what comes after my confirmation?

One of my favourite sneaks he does, which I may have alluded to yesterday, is when he light-foots his way into my bed when I’m elsewhere.

He actually did that for the first time when we were staying with friends. I’d bought an inflatable kids bed, as he was at the too-big-for-a-cot, yet too-small-for-a-proper-bed stage.

This was laid out right next to the bed temporarily allocated to me for the duration of our stay.

After I’d read a couple of bed-time stories, as is the norm at home, I was pleasantly surprised that he said good night and turned over for sleep.

I returned to my friends, who were also impressed that my child had settled straight away and without any fuss.

The smugness was somewhat subsided when one of my friends coupled a toilet break with a check on my child. He came back to inform me that I had a bed guest.

Sneaky snitch indeed.

And, perhaps cute in the other sense of the word.

And The Little One Said Roll Over

A king-sized bed can be a lonely place for a widower.

If that bed also happens to be the bed that was once the marital pit, and one that bore the only fruit of those vows, it can add a bit of bite to the feeling of being on your tod.

I type that, and as I read it back it sounds sadder than it actually is.

True, when I first lost Samantha the worst time of the day was definitely those hours of darkness.

Darkness being every sense of the word.

Back then, no matter how tired I was I didn’t look forward to hitting the pillow, because sleep was far from inevitable.

Immediately after I was widowed I would actually take Max to bed with me for comfort, and for easier night-time feeding and general baby-maintenance.

I know co-sleeping with your children can split opinion.

I’ve heard from both advocates and knockers of this practice.

I guess I’m somewhere in the middle.

There’s a time and a place for it.

Definitely if your child is ill and it comforts them.

Maybe if they wander across the landing when you’re too tired to carry them back.

Anytime early doors, if they get up and fancy a snuggle.

And add the odd ad hoc situation too that.

During our recent caravan holiday, I chose to share a double bed and bedroom with my son, rather than get out the put-up bed in the lounge.

My thinking was he is now old enough to appreciate this is not the norm, just the situation this week or for those few days.

Though I’m told he did roll out of said bed, when I’d come home early, asking for his dad.

He can be a bit of a poor bed-sharer; his mom would say he gets that from me.

He’s like a rash - all over you.

Touching, lying on you, kicking, snoring and generally being a bit of a nuisance.

All that typed; at times it’s a great comfort to have him there, asleep, beside me.

I love the fact that both of us seek comfort in one another, although one is a rather unwitting comforter.

But it’s not a regular occurrence that I hear those little steps in a doze, and sometimes I do just carry him back to bed, if I feel it is getting closer to the status quo.

Long may I be able to strike that balance.

Well long enough until he is repulsed by the idea of sharing his dad’s bed anyhow.