Flashbacks, Both Dreadful, And Wonderful

I think it is probably fair to estimate that I will be haunted by the grim realities of my wife’s death for the remainder of my days.

The impact of her actual passing is much more telling and important, and I prefer to look at the physical events as they happened to be mere details, not really worth more than a footnote in my beautiful lady’s life.

While I like to think that way, it often takes me a moment to get to that point, if those horrific scenes from my past, flash their way into my present.

It has become far less frequent than a daily occurrence, but for whatever reason, I do seem to have spells when it is brought into my conscious perhaps a bit more regularly than that.

I do not often talk about, or describe the physical events, the who-did-what, and the last few minutes of my wife’s being. And I am not about to start now, well, not this sentence anyway.

But, in short, it was not pleasant, and a trauma in itself, not only because of the horrific outcome.

I wish I could understand what triggers these memories, as I could then control or eradicate them from my life.

With a limited capacity upstairs, I need all the space possible for the good stuff, so cluttering it with terrible matter, is something I could do without.

Particularly as I have a little treasure, that gives me so much new stuff to store up, and even acts as a little trigger to wonderful memories past, that I do so desperately want to remember.

It is so warming, and heartening, to be reminded of little gems of my past, by the fruits of the beautiful relationship I had with my wife, especially as they usually bear association to it.

I have a lovely memory of the first night Samantha and I spent in the first, and what turned out to be our last, house we bought together.

We purchased a property that, while it did not NEED a lot of work doing to it, we were planning on doing a lot, and set about ripping out stuff we disliked from the very moment we got the keys.

It meant the house was a complete mess at the beginning, and the plan was not to stay there, especially for the first few nights.

But we were so excited to be there, and armed with a fresh nothing-can-stop-us attitude we ended up staying, living amongst the mess on the very first day we could.

We were also keen on getting into good habits, as we were both of the nature to become dangerously lackadaisical without any encouragement.

One of those habits was setting the house alarm, yeah, like we could have worked out if we had been burgled amongst all the self generated mess.

But still, early protocol and all that.

We trotted off to bed, and eventually to sleep.

Sam, got up before me, and tried to sneak downstairs, to make us a cup of tea, a small yet massive gesture.

Her creeping was not brilliant, as I had heard her get up, especially when she set, said alarm, off.

I quickly got up and made my way to help try to reverse the early morning work we were doing of letting the neighbours know we had moved in.

The lady of the house was stood at the alarm key pad frantically hitting numbers into it, but as it was quite a primitive system, if it did not like your first attempt, you had to hit another sequence of buttons to have another go.

Something we had not picked up by only reading the how-to-set-sticker, rather than the instructions the previous owners had thoughtfully left on top of the control pad.

Anyway, I worked it out pretty sharpish, and all the time I was hugging my then girlfriend with my free arm.

She got a bit upset, and was having a bit of a feeling vulnerable-and-useless moment. But as well as reassuring her, I fixed it, just like the man of the house is supposed to do.

It was actually a very lovely moment for us both, realising that we were really in it together and that we were so well matched.

OK, we got all that from setting an alarm off? Might seem ridiculous, but it was a sort of a symbolic start.

And the first night that Max and I stayed here, when it was far from finished, a mess akin to that at our first house, guess who wandered down the stairs in the morning setting the alarm off?

Yes. My boy did.

And this time it was the bigger man of the house to the rescue.

He too was a little startled, and soon under that arm un-required for household alarm defusal.

A nice moment for us both, a very poignant, and happy reminder of another beautiful one from my past.

So the moral of the story, apart from expect an early morning call the day after we move in next to you?

The past can be so wonderfully embraced by the present, but I am not living it.

Morals For Minors

I am not sure my friends, or observers, would consider me to be a person with high moral fibre content.

Saturated fat for sure, but maybe not the high-road stuff.

If I was guessing, I would say that most folks think I have an appreciation of right and wrong, and can acknowledge that sometimes, a wrong, can be a right.

However when it comes to morals for children, the message conveyed by a book, film or person’s actions, my lights well and truly switch on.

I do tend to find myself coming up with opinions, that while getting agreement, I also get the how-the-hell-did-you-get-there face.

Like many things, I had not really paid attention to the ‘message’ of child orientated media. As they were not directly affecting me, why waste the calories?

Oh, to get rid of the saturated fat, I get it now.

But since these hidden messages have started to affect me, or my son, I have thought about them more.

The first time I had thoughts of any reasonable note was when I started reading regularly to my offspring.

I had read things to him as a really young baby, even to him in the womb, but I do not suppose it became a daily occurrence until he was 12 months old or so.

We got given a gratis starter pack from our local library of specially selected kids’ books, including one by Emily Bolam.

This was great as it gave me an idea of the type of book to be reading to my child at the appropriate age, for my favourite price, free.

As any normal person would expect, these books were very short picture stories, with just a brief sentence explaining what was going on in the scene they were scrawled on.

The Bolam book included in our bounty was the imaginatively titled ‘Enormous Elephant’.

And it is basically a tale of an unruly elephant going about the jungle, in a hedonistic like way, that includes trumpeting, squirting water, and knocking down trees.

He is largely ignored by his ‘chums’, until he knocks a tree down, and somewhat expectantly, that pisses them right off.

However, after a quick apology and a ride on his back, all is good again.

Now, what is the morale there?

Apologise for your mistakes?

More like, do whatever you want, worst case scenario is you have to give a half-baked apology and creep for a bit, to get away with it.

So, I amended the story slightly.

To give the reprimand for unacceptable behaviour its proper gravitas, in my humble opinion.

It also made me giggle a bit when I re-told the story.

And it is not just simple story books that have got on my wick on the child ethics front.

The movie, Cars, is another example.

I really liked the film, after a few times of watching it, but I think they got the ending, on the competitive front, wrong.

Even though the message it gives is probably more accurate, for budding sports stars.

If you have not seen the film, look away now, and I will see you later in the week.

But basically at the end, in the three way championship decider, Chick Hicks – the win at all costs bad-ass – decides he can not face the indignity of finishing third in the cartoon version of NASCAR, and thus wipes our ‘The King’, or Strip Weathers.

Now the hero, Lighting McQueen, having very recently discovered that the world may be a better place if you have friends to share it with, and filled with flashbacks of his newly acquired friend, who incredibly fortuitously just happens to be an ex-stock car racer that was dumped by his race team after a similar accident, stops to help the stricken ‘King’, and thus gifting the race to the deplorable Hicks.

The crowd is stunned by his actions, but quickly warmed by the fact ‘that sport is about more than just winning’.

Which, I suppose is all good.

However, I was left feeling, for the sake of an even better message for a children’s film, that Hicks should have been disqualified after due scrutinization by the stewards, the win therefore re-gifted back to the new morally strung McQueen.

Win, win, win.

As my editing ability is limited to writing on a sticker and sticking it to stuff, I did not do anything to amend our copy of the film, but did, or do, stress to my child how I feel that film should have ended.

It probably does not make a blind bit of difference, but I can not help myself analysing and looking at things this way.

And I do have more examples of my takes, but I have already taken up too much of your time. Assuming you got this far.

Not Here, There

I made my virgin guest posting yesterday.

This is the first time I have been able to take up a request for guesting, not that I have had many, but an internet first for me, all the same.

I have been slowly attempting to educate the lovely Kat on football – yeah the real stuff played with a round thing – and trying to convince her that she should also be considering cricket as a spectator sport.

Anyhow, she is posted here from America with her Air Force husband, and there two little princesses. And this week they have parents visiting, and will be off enjoying the best of England, so obviously will have no time to spare, thus blogging is out the window.

So her entertaining writing at 3 Bedroom Bungalow is temporarily suspended.

That is where I come in.

Or here more specifically.

Pop over and take a peek, and add her blog to your reader, if you haven’t already, so you can enjoy the real stuff upon her virtual return.

Phantom Toddlers

This last week has been very, very enjoyable, as I had hoped it would be at the beginning of it.

I am sure to bore you with the details blog about it, in the not too distant.

The school holidays, or in Max’s case, the nursery breaks, have become the times when we get to spend consecutive daytimes, and therefore, days out together.

A time much like before he actually started attending nursery.

I had forgotten how exhausting our existence back then was.

It is no walk in the park; it is like, a thousand of them.

While I type I had forgotten, I actually was expecting to be tired at the end of this week, and being more accurate, I always expect to be weary, just a little more than usually this time.

This is going to sound, or read, ridiculous, but I think one of the reasons I am more worn-out than usual is that I have spent extra time in bed.

We have been out everyday, but as we were setting when our day was to start I have been a bit more lax with our morning routine.

Waking as usual, but switching the television on upstairs, playing PSP in bed, or not joining Max immediately downstairs. Generally slumming for a bit, before getting going.

I believe that by not getting up-and-at-them straightaway, you set a heavy legged approach to the day at its very dawn.

Plus, I have probably been going to bed later, as a perceived benefit of not having to be against the clock, or someone else’s, in the mornings.

Not so smart.

But at the end of the week I have been given a bit of a claw-back opportunity.

The boy will be with grandparents for the majority of tomorrow, my regular day of shopping, cleaning, mentoring and other ad-hoc duty-like tasks.

My wonderful sister, having accommodated us for Saturday night, cooked a late Sunday lunch, and also invited said grandparents.

It was she who actually muted the idea of my son going back with them, rather than with me, so I could catch a break, and hopefully a genuine lie in.

An idea that gathered pace, and multiple fans, very quickly.

I speedily packed up all our things, including a covering-all-bases-clean-set-of-clothes for the boy, and dropped everyone, bar my sister, off at my folks’ house.

It was important for me to explain to my son that I had enjoyed the non-nursery week in his company, and barring the odd little blemish, was delighted with his behaviour.

However it was not as high on Max’s list of priorities to receive such information, he was more interested in seeing me off, and in, bath, play and story time at his grandparents’.

So after a brief explanation, a warm embrace and kiss, we were parted.

Me, heading off for some, err, ‘me time’, at home.

The thing is, I have become so used to being here with my son that I still ‘hear’ him and actually find it difficult to relax on my own.

Any house makes noises, and I am unsure if a new self-build should make more or less than a more established property, but it does not need to make any at all for me to simply just ‘forget’ and ‘remember’ there is only myself to look after.

I twittered about this parenting phenomenon the last time this happened, and it seems I am not alone. Well technically I am, but I hope you get my drift.

We do get a healthy amount of time apart, but generally we are then both with company, him without exception – I hope.

I will miss my possible night time visit from my mini-colossus, but will welcome the anticipated extended sleep.

That is if I do not get up to check on ‘him’ of course.

This Time, Racing For Chocolate

Yet more pre-bath fun.

The prize is still chocolate, this time in the form of Milky Bar Mini Eggs.

And my son's competitiveness is evident in abundance.

But we both end up winning in the end.

Grip And Determination

Yesterday we returned to the scene of one of my son’s great triumphs.

Probably not very significant to him, or to anyone else, but one of the things that really pleased me to see.

No one else would have actually noticed, and he did not even know that I was watching him - which makes it even better – he only discovered that later through the heaping-of-praise-process.

It was actually during the last of his half-term holidays, when we were off on a day out with friends, and other children, from our village.

We did not go far, to a local park, that has a multitude of play areas, for all the different age groups, and can mean gaining extended attention from young ones, as they simply move on to the next area when fed up.

Even Granddad was impressed with it yesterday.

“This is the best park I have ever been to.” He said, sounding more six than sixty.

Back in October, not that it seems to make much difference here, and there had been a lot of rainfall. So I had put my son in his wellies, packing his shoes just in case we went inside anywhere that muddy plastics were not welcome.

True to form the children, Max being the youngest, were intrigued by one set of play equipment for ten minutes, then wanted to get off to explore the next collective.

That meant the three of us accompanying parents also became a team, trying to keep an eye on all of them, and shepherd them, and their equipment, safely to the next area.

It was interesting for me to see how, even with older kids, that you need to keep your wits about you.

But I had a gold star as Max was wearing his luminous jacket, making him easier to pick out quickly.

These different play areas are built on a hill, meaning they are split over different levels, linked by paths, ramps and the odd slide.

And we know how much my boy loves slides.

One of these slides is built into, and flanked by, that spongy, plasticy, safe-fall stuff they have in playgrounds. This means there is a steep slippy surface each side of the one that the children are actually supposed to use for sliding on.

They also try and use these slopes to get back to the top of the slide, or indeed, back to the different play area.

Well, it is like a five metre walk to the steps for this thing.

Anyway the lower level fun zone had served its time, the kids were bored of it, and wanted to return to the previous. In turn this meant they went off bounding right up, yes, you have guessed it, the slippery not-intended-for-walking-on surface.

Max was at the back, a combination of age, size and footwear making him the slowest.

The others were quickly up the slope, and off playing elsewhere, without much concern for being a man down.

I thought about going to his aid, as I was not very far away, but hesitated, instead choosing to see what he did, knowing he was extremely unlikely to come to any harm under my gaze.

Plastic on wet plastic did not make for good grip, and my boy was not making great progress.

He was shouting for the others, without panic, but they did not return to his aid. The spider-like climbing frame they had attached themselves to was far more interesting.

I slowly made my way over to my son, I could see he was not panicking, but expected to be helping him up the surface or directing him to use the appropriate steps upon arrival.

However, before I got close enough for him to notice me, he had actually adjusted his feet, and technique, and was making headway up to the top of the small but steep incline.

So, instead of offering help, or encouragement, I took the proper steps with the intention of meeting him at the top.

We arrived at the same time, him ready to run off and join his friends, me ready to cry, overcome with proudness. The compromise was a huge hug, a well done, and an explanation from me as to why I was so proud of him.

A relatively small accomplishment, yet signifying so much more.

I was glad to be reminded of it yesterday.

But not to be reminded that I have a list of blog topics as old as that, which I have done nothing with.

I might need to borrow some of my boy’s resolve, meaning I get to the end of the list, eventually.

School's Out

Or in Max’s case, the nursery that forms part of the school is closed, for half-term. The week long holidays sandwiched in the middle of each of our three school terms, hence, referred to as half-terms.

It means Max will be at home this week, and we shall be reverting to the days, as they were pre-nursery.

I find it strange that I, or we, now rely on the nursery, and that we both enjoy the fact that Junior goes to it.

It is strange as we had such an enjoyable routine before it, which is really not all that long ago.

I would say we had a fairly regular routine, and day-by-day activity itinerary.

There was even habitual ‘Gay Tuesdays’.

Our regularly schedule was blissfully, and wilfully, interrupted by ad-hoc days out, and longer trips away.

And while I was treasuring every day that went on, I knew it was best for both of us that it did not continue forever.

His assimilation into a new normal was crafted with both of us in mind.

He has always gone in the middle of the week, so we can still take extended weekend breaks, without having to take time off and waste money on an unused nursery place.

We are lucky that his nursery accommodates days, rather than the more usual morning or afternoon sessions.

Going five times a week, for 150 minute sessions does not seem the best way to do it for me, and certainly not us.

So instead Max uses up his free nursery sessions together, coupled with a chargeable lunch hour, to produce six hour sessions.

Better for me, him, and us as a collective.

Nursery has proved to be fabulous for my boy’s development, has also been the place that many friendships have been formed, and from where our whole integration within the village has centred.

I am really looking forward to this week off, and we shall be getting up to similar things, and with similar folks, as we did in October.

This in itself is a complete 180, as before they were a ‘holiday’ they were an inconvenience, many of our regular activities were cancelled due to half-term, or were made less enjoyable by an abundance of bigger children.

However, as enjoyable as I am sure this week turns out to be, I am also certain, by the end of it, I will be ready for us to return to our current normal.

And therefore, will be deleting this post in about seven days from now.

Then issuing a firm rebuttal.

Overnighters

We are lucky enough that our best friends are on a similar life plan to us.

Our marriages were only about three months apart, and their daughter was born about two months after my wife had died, and was therefore, only nine months behind Max.

It may sound ridiculous, but being selfish, that was actually really good timing for me.

I was still very numb, but was getting myself out and about with Max to all sorts of places.

Just in time for my friend’s maternity leave, and interest in all things baby group, to start.

Their situation further suited me, as they each took time with their child, as their work lives and educational pursuits boded well to a very healthy family balance.

It would mean that there would be guy days, nicknamed ‘Gay Tuesdays’, as people would often assume we were a couple, and we would play to it, if the admission price of our chosen venue suddenly got cheaper because of it. And I hope the 'Tuesdays' part is self explanatory.

I would also get to spend time with the girls, and with their family as a unit.

And as we worth both suddenly limited socially, as in, going out at night becoming a very difficult, and unattractive pastime, with young children, coupled with recent widowhood not exactly being a great motivator for venturing out, we took to overnight stays at each others’ places pretty quickly.

The children would interact, there would be cross family bonding, then the kids would be settled down, and the adults could enjoy some nice food, a chat, a game or whatever took our fancy.

As long as we did not leave the house, or make too much noise, of course.

This practise has continued regularly for three-and-a-half years now.

Others even get involved.

My sister, their family, other friends, and even other, to-be-baby-sat, children.

Last night they were hosting (again) as they were on cousin baby sitting duties.

After our haircuts, we set off with a couple of toys, tooth brushes and respective changes of clothes.

As time has gone on, we seem to need to take less stuff, and leave some items at each others’ homes. Like we have some formula milk here, and I have left a night-time bed-nappy-sheet-thing at theirs’, for the boy.

It dawned on me en-route, how much I was actually looking forward to seeing their youngest.

Because the cousins would be there, this usually means the ‘big’ kids only need servicing with food, drinks, and the odd direction, leaving me a little more time than usual to continue my bonding process.

We all had a great few hours, the children played, I giggled with the baby.

I had forgotten just how much fun the I’ll-throw-this-thing-on-the-floor-the-moment-I-get-hold-of-it-but-cry-for-the-exact-same-thing-every-moment-it-is-not-in-my-possession game is.

The baby went to bed, and we played monsters-in-the-dark, quietly, while she settled down.

After the others had gone to bed, we, as in my male mate and me, popped to pick up a take-away, sneaking a cheeky pint in while we waited.

The food was lovely, and then we sat, caught up, generally ridiculed each other, and flaked out ourselves a few hours later.

My friends are such good hosts.

They have even planned their house around to make entertaining easier. Their girls will eventually share a room, and bunk beds, meaning that they have more space to accommodate us and the others for nights such as these.

Stopping in, has definitely become my new going out.

I really enjoy nights like these, and hope for many, many more.

Must get round to inviting them back to our place, for the next time.

Solutions, Read, New Problems, Or Is That Opportunities?

The speed of child development has often left me astounded, mind you, I am also usually left dumb-struck if given a surprise pick ‘n’ mix, so draw want you want from that.

My least favourite part of the parenting protocol has undoubtedly been toilet training.

Getting my boy out of nappies, and performing his bodily functions in to more suitable receptacles has driven me slightly mad.

I have growled and everything.

Through my own ineptitude, caressed with a smidgen of my lad’s lazy attitude, it was a long process, not without its problems, and Vanish pre-wash treatment.

It started way back, November 2007 according to my blog research.

Throughout the whole process, and right from the start, Max would prove his ability to control his bodily functions, only to have occasions where he would get his priorities a tad wrong.

Like, watching a particularly enthralling segment of Cbeebies trumping a W/C visit.

Trumping being an appropriate word on a couple of levels.

Eventual, regular triumph, in the pee-pee and doo-doo departments were much more relief, than accomplishment, for me.

Again. Relief. Meanings. Many.

Praise was heaped on Junior in as big a measure as I could muster. And I hope his overriding sense was the opposite of mine.

At the time I, or we, stopped short of going through the night without absorbent genital shrouds.

There were a couple of failed attempts, after he showed some form.

But after consultation with some of the parents I respect around these parts, I decided that it may be a while before this was going to be possible for my son, and that was by no means a problem at three years of age.

Instead, I have waited patiently, and continued to buy sleep shorts, or night nappies, and have been astounded by the age group they go up to, but a little appalled that they did go as far as a size 31.

They are not cheap either, even thought I would buy on price rather than brand, and look out for any offers on alternative products.

So I was looking forward to night time advancement from a financial perspective too.

Towards the end of last year, and, well right at the end of last year, I put my child to bed in no more than his PJs.

I was only part conscious of it at the time, so it was collective of good luck and judgement.

I became very aware of it, when I heard my boy make his way for my room and bed.

He actually got up, ignored his own toilet/en-suite, made for the main bathroom, and then on to my bedroom, rather than returning to his own.

As I was delighted with this, I let him settle in my bed, deciding to allow this as a necessary by-product, that could be corrected, if not naturally, in the future.

It might sound a little weird, and a strange path for someone to take, rather than just use the facility only a few feet/metres/yards (delete as appropriate) from your bed.

But I think I know why he took this action.

I leave the light on in his toilet, as it is an energy saver, and it doubles as a very good night light for his bedroom.

No one likes a bright light when they just get up, heck, Gizmo does not like them at any time.

So, he sauntered off in search of somewhere, or something, more appropriately lit, and as he was half-way there, why not swing a visit to his dad?

Except, I was yet to make it to my pit, so he acted as a novelty bed warmer.

Thing is, he has been doing it, albeit not consistently, ever since.

But, we have not had a single wet bed, instead we only get drizzled tiles, accuracy is a bit of a problem in the dark. Perhaps Avitable’s night vision goggles would have a use here.

I am glad I type these situations out, as it helps my limited thought process through to conclusion.

We have had a couple of nights since the new year, where he was in with me anyway, so I could keep a close eye on him, for whatever reason.

And if he had not made his way across two Sundays back, I would have been too far away from him to have limited the fall out from his latest bout of vomiting.

Thus, my conclusion, is not to worry about it too much.

Just keep cleaning the floor, for now, and encourage better precision.
I could even lead by example.

A Little Less Like Me Please

There are aspects to myself, and particularly, my parenting facets that I would like to improve.

I was about to type the words acutely aware, but on quick reflection I do not think that necessarily be true.

If I was to appraise myself, or attempt to describe my qualities, attributes and potential weaknesses, I believe I would get reasonably close to an impartial opinion.

That typed, I can remember getting some pretty surprising results from my subordinates and peers in some management consulting malarkey.

It was all good. Well, good for me.

Some of the results suggested I was viewed as a figure that liked confrontation, and was feared by some in the office politics merry-go-round.

I could see how they had concluded that, yet I do not feel that was an accurate description of myself.

I just have a reasonable quarrel knack, can see things from different perspectives, sometimes, and would struggle to turn a blind-eye to things I knew I needed to sort, or tackle.

The results also highlighted some points I agreed with in full.

Like, I am not really a completer/finisher yet would strive for results, and want them achieved via the best, and optimum means.

A lazy perfectionist.

Lazy should probably have a capital L, oh, that last one did.

It is an inherent part of me, that has sometimes translated its way to clumsy.

I have often been granted that tag, and have even encouraged it at times, but, it is now my belief, that clumsy is just a by-product of my indolent self.

Physically I would blame my lack of agility for some accidents I may have, falls, or dropped catches. But I have learned that rather than blame it, it is better acknowledged and I just need to give more time, and thought, to where my next step, or movement should be.

Which brings me back to being aware, but still not really doing much about it.

And in our house, children or child seem, to follow example.

Max was having another not paying enough attention to his direction of travel spells clumsy period at the end of last week, and for the weekend.

There was a real heart stopping moment on Friday, when he took the fastest, yet risky, route down the stairs.

I was following him out of my bedroom, and I heard a collective of horrible sounds that I have feared since the stair gate went.

And, yes, my boy had fallen from top to bottom of our staircase.

After very nearly following suit, I was quickly at the bottom myself, and took my son’s crying as a good sign.

And the fact that he would not lie still, insisting I cuddle and kiss everything better with immediate effect.

He quickly forgot about his injuries, and was very lucky to just have a couple of slightly bruised knees.

My lecturing quickly followed, how he should always use the banister, and take his time rather than rush and run an increased risk of another bounce.

But I think lecturing is only really part of it.

Later that day, he was off to a party at a local play centre. His grandparents took him, as I was booked in to help my sister celebrate her own birthday.

The boy loves those sorts of places, running around like a nutter, up and down tubes and slides, then getting fed cake is just a ridiculous bonus.

He had been gone about an hour, when I got a call.

“Don’t worry, but…………….”

Max had paired up with a couple of chums and was haring round the place on a sort of toddler circuit training regime.

On one of his trips down the biggest slide there, he had slipped at the bottom, and wacked his face on the side of the plastic slope of joy.

Ice pack applied, and the call was just to warn me he would be returned with a bruise he did not leave with.

I spoke with him later to check he was OK, and to see if I was required, which I was not. But his granddad informed me that he had gone back on to the slide soon after, and done the same again, this time striking his forehead rather than his cheek.

When he did return home, after giving the obligatory tickle check, performed to ensure the identity of the boy returned, I got to asking him how the party had been.

“Fine.” He said.

No mention of the new colouration of his head, none at all.

I asked him what had happened, and already had my own suspicions.

See, he was slightly behind his friends on those particular goes around, and decided to attempt to stand up before he had come to a rest.

And I suppose the first time, and bump, was just practice.

I should have expanded my stairs lecture to include all forms of travelling downwards.

Heaven help us on the escalator.

I hope this is behaviour that I can influence in a positive way, and would very much welcome any ideas of how to do so, and also hear about the experience of others.

Softer Side

I wrote about my son’s adaptability to traditionally more feminine pursuits last week.

Very much a ‘when in Rome’ situation, allowing himself to get lost in a very different world to his usual.

But why shouldn’t a boy play with dolls as opposed to storm troopers, and vice versa?

If there are any child physiologists reading this, do not actually answer that.

I was intrigued, and warmed, by the comments left on that post, and found the general consensus amongst those leaving their two penneth was that this sort of behaviour is to be heralded rather than resisted.

Which is where my opinion actually lies.

Quite the opposite has actually been one of my concerns. I have worried that my son is a bit too boisterous, and as he is not the smallest – 90+ percentile for his age – that someone may come a cropper for one of his ‘friendly’ blows.

We have always messed about, as in, play fought.

I am still the daily wrestling champ, for now.

Lightsabers have taken many forms, and been put into action until destruction, sometimes by being struck upon another person, repeatedly.

And there is my concern.

We are a bit lively together, and up to this point I have allowed my boy to strike me with all the might he can muster.

I have only copped for a minimal number of blows that have actually hurt, and they have generally been because I was not looking the right way, or I have been double-teamed.

My instruction has always been not to do this with anyone else, or certainly not with someone any smaller than me.

This means the grandparents, particularly the granddads have been on the receiving end.

My sister gets grappled quite a lot, as does his other Uncle and a couple of our close friends.

My best friend has always been impressed with how Max changes his savagery dependant upon recipient.

I mean he gets treated like me, and enjoys it, as his two daughters are not quite as robust as my little treasure is.

But he says that he is always very gentle when he plays with the girls.

Which is all pleasing, but I have never really seen the two very different behaviours demonstrated in close proximity to one another.

That toddler adrenaline burst is a tormenting thing, on several levels.

I was concerned that if he went too far, then it was almost inevitable that someone would get hurt.

Yet, when we were out at the soft play centre, with the girls - and the dolls.

Max was in the ‘little kid’ part with the two girls and my best mate.

He was building blocks, knocking them down on my pal, and generally giving him a bit of a bash around.

And while he included the girls in his game, he drastically changed the velocity and ferociousness of his swings whenever they were around.

The first time I had witnessed such impeccable dual conduct, and long may it continue.

He even apologised profusely tonight for the right hook I took to the mush pre-wrestle.

I’ll make a gent of him yet.

Baby Bonding

I mentioned my best friends, on my last post, and the fact that they have two daughters.

Their first is less than a year younger than Max, and due to that she has spent an awful lot in our, or my, company.

We have a very good relationship, as does my boy with her parents, and it is important, to allow our two families to continue to enjoy each other into the future.

My chums' second bundle of joy has been more of a challenge. Partly because she is a tad reluctant with adults other than her folks, but mostly, I hoped, because we have not spent as much time together as I have with her big sister.

Then, last Friday, during our latest visit to them, our relationship blossomed.



I was absolutely delighted, she is a real pleasure, just learning to walk and has an interest in everything. Keeps the older two on their toes, and they do not even realise.

There is something quite dizzying in the approval of a child, a great feeling, made greater by this wonderful girl's importance to me.

Everyone was happy, even an ever-so-slightly-jealous Max - after I agreed to have a picture taken with him too.


We are ALL good friends, and long may it continue.

And while we are at, I would not advise messing with, or getting in the way of, this innocent looking trio.


And if you look closely, you can see Max is still clutching his choice of doll.

Embracing My, Or His, Other Side

My boy has very much grown up to be exactly that, a boy.

He loves getting stuck in, enjoys messing about with boys’ toys, likes to kick a football, and to throw himself about like a mini Bruce Willis.

That does not mean his life is overly brutal, he has a very sweet and sensitive side, just he generally prefers quite masculine pursuits.

Making fairly cakes is butch, right?

It has not always been that way, and I think all boys grow up with a pink fascination, and he would cry like a girl if he did not get a go at pushing the pram at playgroup.

Takes after his dad.

The friends that he has chosen, rather than the ones that started primarily as offspring of my chums, have generally been male, although that seems to be wavering of late.

It is all about balance to me, and without trying to force or influence his mind too much, I do not shy away from more feminine activities.

You know, like vacuuming and stuff. *dons tin-hat*

My best friends have a daughter, well, they have two, but one is still a baby, and has yet to really become of great interest to Max, although their relationship is growing.

The other is nine months younger than him, and they have spent a lot of time together.

We had regular weekly days while they were both pre-nursery place age, and weekends, birthdays and simple ad-hoc days out on top of that.

They have a real tight and ever developing bond, and long may it continue.

Do they argue? Of course. And it is a brave person, let alone toddler, that gets in-between them.

But, they look after each other too. And when they play, and share nicely, it is an absolute delight to be around them.

They have also got to ages where they travel with less.

I mean, if we visit them, or they visit us, we take, and they bring less stuff, especially play things.

The kids just have to play with each others’ toys.

This means boys stuff here, and girls stuff there.

There is some common stuff, like games, play dough and some toys of unisex appeal, Peppa Pig for example. But generally the overtone of each of the respective vast toy collectives is different.

Last Friday it was our turn to visit these wonderful friends, and to stay over. Max decided to take a few Transformers for entertainment, but they soon lost their appeal, instead he chose to like whatever his friend wanted.

You know, that not-so-cute arguing they do.

Mediation was fairly successful between the pair, agreement, and, where necessary, substitute items were used.

We went out to a soft play area, and the children insisted on taking a toy each with them.

While they were advised theses items would have to be surrendered once we were out of the car at this place, they were still undeterred.

OK, not a problem.

Then the items they chose, were dolls.

Yes, dolls.

My boy, he of the long hair and lovely eye lashes, wished to take a doll out in public.

OK.

Initial grimace subsided, and quick big-picture thinking returned.

Samanatha would have thought it funny, and so did I, eventually.

Not funny that I should ridicule my boy about it, and perhaps give him a complex, thus making him reluctantly choose to take a firearm next time, but funny to laugh at amongst the adults.

Pictures taken for future reference, that sort of thing.

My mini-colossus continued exploring this part of his being upon the return to our friends’ house.

Dressing up has become a popular activity at home, and it seems, at our mates’.

He makes quite a beautiful princess.

More photos stored for future use.

And while we may have joked about it, I actually really enjoyed seeing Junior try these things out and adapt to his surroundings.

The kids did not care, and nor should they have.

Poorly Boys

I hate the word ‘hate’, and it is used far too frequently for my liking, and therefore, as I type this, I have decided to go a different way.

Being unwell is not one of my favourite things.

I would go as far as saying I have a significant dislike of it.

This grows further when it gets in the way of stuff, exponentially, when that something, is celebrating a 60th birthday of someone very important to me, and us.

We should have spent Sunday, with around 25 others, celebrating my mother-in-law’s 60th, over a lunch in a private room at a very nice local hotel.

Something we have done for other grandparents’ birthdays.

But, instead, we spent this one exiting what our bodies decided they no longer needed, from opposite ends of our beings.

Max was ill on Saturday night, several times.

Vomiting followed by a very sweet, but sadly accurate, ‘I’m poorly Daddy.’

Luckily, or unlikely, he was already in bed with me, so I actually heard it coming.

And as he has had a runny nose for the last few days, I hoped it was just phlegm, which while foul, would hopefully mean once-up-and-out, he would be better.

But what I had on my hand, and eventually on my torso, was more a concoction of all things recently consumed.

A vile, yet very accurate description.

I decided to get in on the act in the early hours, but from the lower of the body's orifices.

Terrible timing.

But I am actually glad that we were both ill at the same time.

I hate loathe finding my child unwell, and have similar feelings towards attempting to parent when you, yourself, are under-the-weather.

We were both feeling terrible, and both of us more so, as we were going to miss the shindig.

But even the boy knew we were going nowhere.

We moved from bed, to our chair-and-half, and back again.

In-between watching various DVDs and kids TV, texting our latest health updates to those that wanted them.

After what seemed like the most energy consuming bath of all time, Junior was in bed well before normal time, and I was about an hour behind him.

Then this morning we both feel fine.

Well enough to eat breakfast, recovered enough to build a snowman, improved sufficiently to walk to the pub for lunch and return later to cook a casserole.

He would also be ready to return to nursery, if it was open, which it is not, so further behind we both shall fall.

But we are planning on having much more fun doing so.