Karate Kid

It is all about the balance.

That of having enough of this-and-that in your diet, your daily routine, your life, your disciplining protocol, and all your general decision making.

There is also the ability to stand upright for a prolong period of time without falling over. Seems simple enough, but sometimes, for me – and the boy – it is a challenge.

I have an amazing ability to fall from a standing position, which also applies, sometimes disastrously, when I am in motion.

Clumsy, awkward and maladroit are words often used in association, OK, maladroit is not used all that often, but it could be.

These traits are things that I hoped, and still hope, my son would avoid. Where I would like him to be a little less like me.

My dreams have so far been unfulfilled, and Max is shaping up, literally by taking chunks out of himself, to be just like his daddy.

This is something I have pondered, and typed about before. Thinking this is perhaps something I can help him with, rather than just accept it.

Not thinking huge remedy is necessary, and accepting there is only a limited effect I can have on my boy’s physique and agility. However I think there may be activities that could assist in his early years.

A few people commented before about state of mind, and almost an unconscious acceptance of just ‘being called clumsy’, believing means that you actually just will be.

My thoughts are about preparation, cutting corners, and generally a lazy approach to everything. I can walk into things, fall over and break things easily at home, but if I was to do a Health and Safety investigation on myself, and all these incidents, I think the most common finding would be negligence, or lack of attention to detail. Rather than their being a material or system failure anywhere.

I could so be a HSE badass.

Sport would be the same, a lot of injuries I got could put down to cutting corners, turning too sharply, changing direction without accepting one’s limits, or simply not paying attention to the hard round thing making its way to my head.

I think this, as when I concentrate, things like catching a ball, not a feat normally associated with an all-thumbs-person, would could naturally to me.

Naturally, being totally the wrong word.

So my thought process has been stretched to include ways in which I could perhaps influence my lad’s ability to concentrate in his early years.

Gymnastics, dancing and trampoline classes are all activities to hit the grey matter appraisal zone, but as yet remain un-acted upon, and perhaps are nearing towards a definite no.

He has to enjoy these things, to not rebel against them, and for them to be worthwhile, and I am not convinced that he would these.

Then I got led down a martial arts path.

As it stands my son will start school in a small class dominated by boys, and some of the parents have been discussing this, and if there is any problems we perceive, or more so, any opportunities we could exploit for the good of the children.

One of the dads suggested Karate, he had been in a club himself as a child, and was highlighting its merits.

I have always just had it pegged as organised violence, and I have always preferred team sport activities rather than those for the individual.

But his argument, and clear enjoyment of learning Karate, was one I really listened to.

Balance is important, and practised, as is learning to control aggression, and to use skills learnt only in self-preservation.

So it could certainly tick, or kick, a few boxes.

It may also help the boys to regularly develop their relationships outside of school, and perhaps how they can help each other.

And as a community thing it may bring a little extra income to our village hall revenue.

This is very much a work in progress, and I do not think it will be under serious consideration until they physically start school at the very earliest.

But it is closer to getting the green light, than the chop.

Hiya.

Bolt Blu-ray Review

When I was asked by the Think Parents network if I would be willing to do reviews of Disney films in return for a Blu-ray player and some discs, it was not a question I answered quickly.

However when I looked at the prospective titles I could be getting, I was swayed a little closer to selling my soul answering in the affirmative.

Bolt was one that stuck out. One I thought the boy and I would enjoy. Admittedly based on advertising, and paying only a limited attention to such promotion at that.

Like with many things, I should pay more attention.

This film absolutely disappointed.

In fact it irritates.

Irritates me in any case, and the boy has, at best, not been keen.

Perhaps it is aimed at a market somewhere between our four and 30-something brackets, and I strongly suspect that to be true.

Hence a PG rating, and a few scenes that my son wanted to skip through.

The premise of the film, or overriding message, seems to be how film makers can be cruel, and that people, or indeed talking dogs, within the industry may not be treated with their well beings at the top of the thought process.

Irony I really have trouble swallowing, from a filmmaker.

Similarly I would not enjoy a House of Commons public service video on how to design and operate an expense system effectively.

Most of the characters got on my nerves too. Bolt seems intellectually challenged, and his agent, blimey, he most guilty of carrying the film’s message, delivers with an annoyance that Timmy Mallet would be proud of. His recurring gags were not funny the first time.

The Blu-ray format is again impressive. Animated films are simply better delivered in this derivative. However the player does seem to take an eternity to get started, compared to its supposed neanderthal DVD cousin. And it does not pick-up-where-you-left-off, as most DVD players seem to do if you knock them on and off.

How grumpy am I?

Well, I will be far less grumpy in July if I get sent a copy of Monsters Inc, possibly my favourite cartoon for children of the modern age.

Still love you Walt.

I Don't Like You Anymore

I have got used to hearing “I don’t like you anymore,” and the even harsher “I don’t love you now.”

When used in comedy context, I have absolutely no problem with them, you know, when we are messing around, switching sides in role playing games of Transformers or Star Wars, I think they are probably fair.

And they are always said with a smile, or at least, a cheeky smirk.

I do not use them myself, but I have regularly become a recipient.

My standard retort is usually “that’s fine” or “join the club”, they regularly work, in so much that they usually encourage my son to retract his earlier, ill thought, claims.

Thing is, the use of such glib and cruel lines has been extended to other situations, and to other people.

‘We’ had an incident recently when on a day out I refused his random request ‘for something – anything – from the shop’.

It was clear he just wanted to buy something, or get something, for the sake of it, so I saw refusal as my only option. Well, not only option, but the right one.

Tantrum on the car park ensued, tears flowed, and then I got a blarty ‘I don’t like you’.

As the waterworks were already on, I felt there was really no risk in making the situation worse, and instead of doing my best to ignore and correct this behaviour, I chose to explain why he really should not be saying such things, especially if he does not mean them.

My diatribe included ‘you are only affirming I took the right decision, I am glad I didn’t buy you anything from the shop’ and if you ever want to give tears a second wind, wield those words, they work a treat.

There was gentle reaffirmation of my thoughts once calm had returned, but I am unsure if he understood, or would even want to understand.

His use of such nastiness has not gone away, and he has also taken to use these to get what he wants in other situations, almost a bribe for his love.

I am impressed by his ability to negotiate, hard line negotiations at that, but I would like him to understand the context of what he is saying, and grasp how mean it can be interpreted.

Yeah, he is four not forty, I get that, just. But grasp it he should.

Will this come, or is this, sadly, a long haul thang?

Bonkers

The wonderful innocence of childhood, and the way I am sledge-hammering it away, by subjecting my supplier of it, to the relative vulgarities of music television.

Bless.

I have written before about how I do not watch many television programmes, yet our television is pretty much on while we are in situ, normally tuned to a music channel, after the déjà vu feeling of watching Sky Sports News has gotten too much.

This does not mean I am a great music buff, nor does it translate to me having a ‘cool’ taste in music, and therefore a hip collection of it. Far from it. My music collection is probably akin to that of a ten year old girl – they like The Prodigy don’t they?

My philosophy on means of entertainment also extends to the radio, or music systems, especially that in our mode of transport.

I can remember my mother not being particularly strict with this, which meant she was subject to all kinds of crap, kids’ crap, like nursery rhymes, and the Bart Rap.

She probably deserved it actually, as she was the one person that bought Russ Abott’s album, yes, paid good money for.

Loser.

However, this is something I am keen to avoid for myself, and thus decide that the controls to such devices are my firm remit.

It probably accounts for my son’s Killers obsession, and how I have to explain I shall be going to see them without him this summer.

These I count as positives.

As do I, when he says; “Is this Daniel Merriweather dad?”

There are negatives though, I am not entirely comfortable with the way we seem to have become desensitised to the general ‘sex sells’ of music videos.

Music videos broadcast at any time of the day.

Easy on the eye for the pervy 32-year-old widowers amongst us, but a bit dodgy for the nippers I reckon.

Yet, I am powerless to get the feelings of the latter to suppress, and certainly not surpass, those of the former.

Then there is the dancing, I enjoy watching my boy strut his stuff. His mother was a decent dancer, she always thought she was very good, I would only say proficient, but what would I know, I dance like a reluctant-arthritis-ridden-brittle-boned-epilepsy-sufferer.

I had not really considered the impact of the lyrics of songs. Sure, I do tend to rush to the volume, or skip, button if parental advisory script is on its way, but my censorship does not extend any further.

Max will sing along to some songs, and I have never considered that he is really processing what he is saying, just thinking he is making a row, not dissimilar to how I would myself, if having a yodel along.

But he proved last week, that he does occasionally listen to the warblings of the pop star.

That of Dizzy Rascal no less, he who only cares for ‘sex and violence’ – I do not believe that Mr Rascal by the way, you seemed such a nice, and more expansive chap on Jonathon Ross.

Fortunately my boy is more concerned with getting behind his claim of simply being ‘free’, rather than being labelled ‘bonkers’ (You will need to listen to the song to get this bit).

With Mr Rascal’s video on in the background, my lad let me have his unsought opinion.

“I think he’s free daddy, I don’t think we should call him bonkers, do you?”

To which I replied; “I agree, I don’t think bonkers would be fair.”

A reply I had to muster through swelling laughter, giggling that confused my minor, and that forced me into yet another explanation.

But is this a laughing matter? This moment certainly was, but I fear the next time he may ask me about the sex and violence.

Questions, I am obviously not qualified to answer.

Father's Day Presence

I still have my first Father’s Day gift.

Well I have two thirds of it, the confectionary 33.3% would not have lasted the day, probably not even the hour, in which it was gifted.

These presents were also the only ones that my wife got to organise upon my son’s behalf, for the annual you must buy your dad something or the corporations will get you day of fatherhood celebration.

The other parts were a t-shirt - an ‘I’ve found Jesus, he was behind the sofa’ one, no less – and a ‘Super Dad’ picture frame, complete with picture of me with my child strapped to my chest.

Daft offerings that summed up our relationship, and how we ‘treated’ one another.

I am sure I would have insisted that Samantha buy me nothing, not being a huge fan of the purchase-to-order principle of all these obligatory days that have been created and commercialised to the hilt.

And feeling loved and appreciated every day of the live-long-week, in any case.

That would not have stopped her wanting to further celebrate my becoming a dad, and it was also a great excuse to go shopping.

I am really glad she went to the effort, and got these items that now have huge sentimental value since her passing. They would have been treasured had that not happened for sure, but they are now things that trigger nice memories of the past, as well as signifying anything.

This year I have four cards, one crafted at nursery, one we made together at playgroup, and two that my son has fashioned in the care of each of his sets of grandparents.

It is great that he gets to make stuff, and if I am the excuse, that is fine by me.

There are also a couple of gifts knocking about, which I am sure I will be able to consume, and thus appreciate.

But there really is no need.

Like I wrote for Alpha Mummy; every day is Father’s Day.

We have the day planned out, the morning will be spent in the garden, if we can avoid the predicted showers, planting carrots and beetroot, as we have harvested our first early potatoes this week – planted on Mother’s Day.

I then hope to get over to my parents’ in good time to watch the British Grand Prix, and certainly for the Twenty20 World Cup Final.

I have got to help my old man shift a scaffolding tower or similar – was not really listening – but it means I am doing my dutiful son bit.

But I would do it any day. As I know he would stuff for me.

I have also got him a little something, and a card, but that small something has been a little gag waiting to happen, that I have eventually been prompted into procuring.

I am just happy to spend time in the presence of my son, and with the presence of my father. My mother and sister will also be with us, and their beings are always most welcome too.

Hopefully we will have as good as a time as we did here.

It Has Started

The pushing and the prodding.

Picking up on the negative, potential ones at that, rather than celebrating the good, and under no account shall we look at the larger picture.

After my son had his first school induction session, it was understandable that the talk on the playground this morning – amongst the parents at least – was how each of the children had ‘got on’.

As always, I went glib, opting for ‘good – no big deal’ and thinking about it, even that was an over elaborate response, most of the parents were just waiting for me to finish so they could impart their observations and criticisms.

I thought we were talking about how the kids got on? No? Silly me.

These people really do not know me, yet.

One parent was critical of the Teacher, who in her year as an NQT (Not Quite a Teacher Newly Qualified Teacher), had not pushed, yes that is pushed, his other child - who is six by the way – hard enough.

My philosophy, current I have to admit, is that pushing is counter active. And eventually it means a child will get turned off by education, not to mention the possible social problems it causes and disruption to teaching the class as a whole.

I could not be bothered to explain this today, I went for clarifying what they were saying, and then silence instead.

That will probably work just as well.

I think I was also about hearing three sentences that started with “When I was at school….” or “At my school….” away from retorting with a “So f**king what.” or a “And your point is?”

But again, I was a model of restraint.

Education is important, vital in fact, but education without fault is no education at all, that is called programming.

Give me a school without blemish and I would run a mile. The welfare of the school and its children is as important to the ‘standards’ it achieves.

I want people to care, not try too hard, and in extremes, not focus on the narrow measurables.

Opportunities to be good, both academically and extra-curricular.

Appraisal of alternate methods, and appreciation that learning can be done whatever the subject, or method, would be a huge bonus.

This place certainly seems to be set to provide that, and furthermore it is really the facility that the whole of our small community centres around.

Lots will be learned here, about people, relationships, purpose, community, sport, farming, living, as well as the three Rs.

I will be keeping my gaze firmly on the big picture.

Just how long do you reckon that will last?

School's in for Summer

Scary, very scary.

In September a significant new chapter will open for my son, and me I suppose, when he embarks off on his formal education journey.

I was delighted, and a little overwhelmed, to get his official acceptance letter into the village school. I was always assured that it was a forgone conclusion, with our proximity to the school, but was still relieved to finally get that stance ratified.

It was right at the end of March, which was actually 12 weeks ago; proof itself that time with him seems to be flying. Well I suppose it will when you are having this much fun.

The postman arrived, and I was actually already outside – not waiting for him, but doing something around the garden – but I knew straight away what the letter he had just handed me should confirm.

I perched at the entrance of my home, opening this correspondence, and then quickly reflecting on a big part of ‘the plan’ becoming reality.

Sat at the doorway to the property we had self-built, a building I had also fathered, on a beautiful sunny morning, with written confirmation of a village school place, was a nice little, yet huge, moment.

And bang.

Also a huge does of a plan becoming a reality.

Or an imminently dawning one anyway.

Then came communication from the school about inductions, emergency contact forms, meetings, then last week, a uniform order form.

Today was the first of his familiarisation sessions, and I joined him at the end of it, for a school lunch.

It all seems to be happening at a break neck pace.

Max was brilliant this morning. Confidently, but not cockily, making his way into the classroom corridor, when most around him were floundering and doing their best limpet impressions.

I was warmed by this, but surprisingly unemotional, I did think of Samantha, his mother, and how I would have loved to have shared this vision with her, but even that did not override my general feeling of being proud.

That will change I am sure, when he gets all suited and booted, and trots off for his first day at school for real.

He knew I was coming for dinner with him, and he greeted me with one of his trademark smiles.

“Sit here dad.”

We got invited up to the dinner dispensing trolley thing, and were asked to choose between haddock bites and cottage pie. Both of us plumping for the latter.

There was a bit of a false start as the dinner lady kept calling him a girl, something that does happen a bit, but I did not correct her, I left the boy to do that.

Lunch was perfectly edible, I demolished mine, and Max made great work of his, his fruit and juice too.

His teacher then walked us through the cleaning up process, and took my son off to collect his hoody.

She explained that the photos they had taken today, would be over the pegs next week, so the children would know which was theirs, and thus, wear to put their outside clothes.

Max informed her which peg he would like, one near the door not surprisingly, and again I was happy to see he had not only understood, but that he had already made his mind up about it.

No messing about.

I did not ask him a lot about what he had got up to, as I do not want to bombard him with school based queries, and add to any pressure he may be feeling.

He did mumble something about what they had done, and it was clear he had enjoyed the morning.

So he trotted off for an afternoon back at nursery, and I trotted off home to write this.

And, to order his uniform.



In other news, with Father’s Day looming, I was asked to contribute to The Times’ Alpha Mummy blog, you can see the result here.

My Son is a Compost Heap

Justification, and an open and honest approach to it, does not always seem to be prevalent amongst many of my parenting peers.

Economy with the truth seems especially appropriate when it comes to diet, and what the smaller scurrying amongst us consume.

I was already familiar with the carrots providing excellent vision phenomenon, and that greens help the vertically challenged, more than any other food source.

But as I am a terribly liar, I have not really used those methods with much gusto.

My food philosophy was absolutely no food of wonderment, yet nutritional doubtful crap, like chocolate, sweets, ice cream, biscuits, crisps, until 12 months of age. And then their introduction was very much sparingly at first, and I have always maintain an ‘as-long-as-you’ve-eaten-what-I’ve-asked’ policy.

So if the stuff I judge to be well balanced is consumed, then – within reason – treats are allowed.

When questioned my justification was, at first, ‘well, I provide the food, thus the rules kid.’

That was also the truth, which is with what I am most comfortable, usually.

As my son has matured, and his understanding has grown, thus his questions elongated, I have stuck with ‘this diet gives you the energy you need, a process that shall remain unhindered by chocolate buttons, they may accompany it, but not hinder son.’

Or a shorter, more toddler friendly, variation on that theme.

At present I would not say my boy’s diet was wonderful, or something I am particularly proud of. But he is eating from a group of foods that I am comfortable with, while also enjoying the freedom of indulgence edibles around a satisfactory level of consumption of the aforementioned.

But he is always pushing the limits, asking the questions, and still able to demonstrate reluctance to continued acceptance of this protocol.

So my imagination is stretched to provide further justification for my methods, or to put it in ways that are easily understandable for a little one, without having to revert to the ‘because I said so’ fail-safe.

The results of which are never pretty.

This morning I reverted to an analogy.

He had eaten a piece of melon for breakfast, he wanted to follow that with a cake when we arrived at the grandparents’ this morning.

‘It’s too early for cake.’ Was not washing, and we were headed for teary stand off, so, perhaps inspired by the ecological aware amongst us, my analogy, and compromise took a smelly twist.

“See you are like a compost heap son. And like a compost heap you need a great mix of things in order to be much use to anything, or anybody, else.”

“What dad? I’m not a compost heap.” He chortled.

“Exactly, but you’re not having a cake until you’ve had some more fruit, and a piece of toast.”

His confusion, perhaps, yielding the agreement I was after.

Concealer

It does not take much to un-seat me, well it does, I need to lose a bit of timber, but figuratively speaking it doesn’t.

The parenting cycle and routine changes subtlety all the live-long-day, and I can just about handle, and have got used to that phenomenon. But when something happens for the first time, and I have not dealt with it in the past, I tend to revert to thinker mode, and many of my other functions are put into stand-by.

It does not have to be a huge change, nor something of huge concern, but still, when I am uncomfortable with an aspect of parenting I tend to get a smidge more serious in my persona.

On Sunday, we had an afternoon out with friends from the village, a rainy day visit to one of our favourite precipitation proof haunts. We had a lovely afternoon, and we joined upon our return home by grandparents, coming over to watch the final of The Apprentice (and just in case my father reads this; Where’s your Debra now punk?).

At bath time it was grandma in favour, and thus she was designated chief bonce and bottom washer.

I was summoned mid-wash process, which usually means I am about to get wet, by either pistol or superhero squirter. But not this time.

My presence was required as Max had declared himself injured.

Apparently he had hurt himself while we were out at the museum, but up until this point, probably about four hours later, had not informed me of his woe.

He was still reluctant to give me the information, and was clutching the injured area – his wrist – to his chest.

When he was eventually coaxed into showing me, I discovered an approximate two inch scratch, no biggie, but worrying him for some reason.

He complained again later, in his sleep. Really got quite upset.

I re-inspected the area, just double checking there was not anything in there, like a splinter. I know how disproportional uncomfortable they can be.

But, no, nothing.

So I probed a bit, which I think actually made it worse. In fact, he decided, he had had enough of my quizzing, and sought comfort with from the visiting grand folk.

In the morning his injury had started to heal, but he was still no keener on showing me, and was only using the one hand, even though – it seemed – there was no physical reason for not using the other.

He then went off for a day out with the folks, and they said he forgot all about it until them came back to ours for tea. Again seeming unwilling to show his small ailment to his father.

The same has been true at nursery this week. No mention of it, until I came to pick him up.

He had murmured about not wanting anyone else to see it, as he did not want them to worry. Then I recalled a recent incident where he did the same.

When we were at the Welsh coast recently, he fell in some stinging nettles, and shielded everyone from seeing the results. But as they quickly subside, as did his shielding, and I forgot of his attitude.

He also mentioned the doctor a few times, and I would not be surprised if he developed a phobia to the doctors after his experience with them.

Last year we got recalled for an injection, as they had messed up in the first instance, so he suffered a bit because of that.

But that was last October, and we have been back a few times, and he has not been overly reluctant.

So I am a little perplexed, and hopeful that this is just an example of his sensitive side.

It is also a reminder to listen for the reason, rather than push for it.

I'm Elsewhere

I was recently interview by the lovely Tara over at MyChild, a website for parents helping children achieve their best.

Anyhow, my interview, and vastly entertaining responses, can be found here. Be prepared for a little bromance and a story about a crocodile and a missing arm.

And talking of bromance, or typing of it – just how many times can I do that gag?

MyChild are running a Father of the Year contest, in collaboration with Kodak. There are some wonderful prizes, with the overall winner getting a holiday to Orlando.

The idea is for children to enter their father into the contest, articulating why their dad is worthy of such a prize.

With the possibility of a clever Kodak pocket video recorder, I shall be getting my boy to come up with his best. Though I will have to type it for him. Well, it is the least I can do, I am trying to go for a good dad award after all.

On second thoughts I might get him to wax lyrical to someone else, and I would advise parents of children unable to physically enter the contest to do the same.

The contest will be run over two parts, with 10 video recorder winners recording a three minute video using their new piece of kit, for an eventual winner to be chosen from.

We all now how good I am at putting together a montage, and garden furniture, as it happens.

Entries are welcome here, and good luck.

Grafters' Montage

After my growing realisation that my son might not inherit my sporting genes, and that instead he may actually inherit the mechanical and practical acumen of both his grandfathers, today I stumbled upon an opportunity to nurture that along.

I have been needing to replace our garden furniture, and eventually got round to allocating funds and making a choice earlier this week. I did not go too crazy, I only chose a table and chair combo, I want some other stuff too, but you should not really rush these things.

I went along to a local garden centre to get this set, but they were out of stock, and so they rather helpfully directed me to order it from their national website, they predicted it may arrive sooner, than one shipped via their store.

Still, I was not expecting it in a rush, but that changed when I got an email from the courier last night, advising my packages would be out for delivery this morning.

We were off to our normal Friday morning playgroup, so I left a note to accept delivery and advise the delivery people where to put my packages. More in hope than expectation.

On our arrival home, I could see my note had disappeared, and soon discovered that our goods were where I had asked them to be put.

Kudus to TNT

My boy was also excited, he had no idea I had ordered this kit, but the prospect of its construction certainly got him animated.

So, we had lunch and then we set about assembling this ensemble.

This also included a trip to get some tools we required, the obligatory workers visit to a cake shop, and then lots of chat about how we were going to get to a satisfactory conclusion.

Max really does have a flair for this stuff, he is a great fetcher, carrier, and seems able to pick things up and understand what is going to happen next.

He is also very sharp at observing a stereotype, either that, or Bob the Builder really does has a lot to answer for.

If someone had told me these next couple of gems, I most likely would have said they were lying, or more likely, being optimistic, but these things actually came from my sunshine during our afternoon of building.

Before starting. “We need music Dad, all workers have music.”

Reading the instructions. “Hold on.” Disappears and returns with a pencil above his ear.

Five minutes into assembly. “Can I have a break now, workers need breaks.”

After being caught with his celebratory cake, before we had anything to celebrate. “Eerrr. I need it for energy. Workers need energy.”

He has the acumen alright.

And to make the event, and still hearing the words of Team America; even Rocky had a montage.

I give you this.

A job well done, and wouldn’t you know, he ASKED to play football afterwards, coming up with a questionable scoring system, but all the same, WANTED to kick a ball with his daddy.

I have had worse afternoons.

I've Got a Mommy Today

For those of you that read this last week, do not worry, hopefully this post will not go the same way, and not have another good old heave on your heart strings.

After nursery today, like many other days, my son was off with one of his chums for extended play and dinner at their house.

It is something that happens reasonably regularly, and we have friends back here too. Like this week, we shall have eaten, as a pair, only once out of the five working days.

Despite this my son gets terribly excited about his post nursery exploits, and spends quite a lot of the day discussing them, and bragging I suppose. I know this as the nursery staff always say they know who is coming to ours for dinner, or where Max is headed to.

If he is being picked up by someone else, I have to let them know, and deal in passwords if it is someone unknown to them.

And if the child he is going home with is at nursery too that day, I think they are encouraged to talk about it, and what they might get up to.

So today, when his friend was asked if he was excited about my son going back to his house, he replied in the affirmative, and explained that his mommy was picking them both up. This prompted my boy into action, apparently, and he followed with;

“Yes, I have a mommy today.”

I think it stopped everyone for a moment.

But not for long.

I think his, or our, situation is good for everyone else immediately around us. They get to share in the life of someone not enjoying the benefits of two parents, one taken in the most permanent of ways. And I hope it makes them appreciate what they have, while they have it, and in some way, sets them up to deal with any grieving situation in the future.

I know Max’s mother gets used a lot when relatives, or even pets, of children around him pass away.

‘Like Max’s mom’.

I have not really thought about this as a benefit for others before now, but I am convinced it is the case.

The particular mommy in question today, like many of the parents, is one I have a good relationship with, and she was talking in such ways tonight when I went to pick him up.

Taking as many positives out of any situation is what it is all about for me. And I am delighted others around us do too, rather than just feeling sad for us, and ultimately, themselves.

I know, and appreciate that people will, I just take great comfort in that not being the only thing they feel, and take from us.

Skipping

When Max was just a little dot, a baby with which communication and interaction was somewhat limited - as it is with them all at the very early stages - I would ponder our future relationship, and what form it would take.

We were close from minute one, as with my wife hooked up to a monitor, she could not get up, and was under order, not to complete many parts of the new baby protocol, I was there to fit his first baby grow, and bathe him.

I know Samantha suffered mixed feelings about this; proud of watching her boys together, but also feeling a bit guilty, and perhaps a smidge of jealously, that she could not perform some of the aforementioned herself.

She breast fed to begin with, so I thought that process would trump any bonding we might get up to, and indeed it ensured that there was an immediate bond between mother and son.

But she was well aware of the other bond going on, and I can remember her saying ‘you two are going to be so close’ on more than one occasion.

It was lovely to hear, and to see the pride in her as she said those words. Memories I will treasure, and tell my boy about.

I certainly felt that too, and would ponder what we might get up to together, as we both grew.

As someone who has enjoyed being in various sports teams, and indeed, in a mixture of sports, I was quickly thinking what games he might be interested in, and which of them, and in what form, we could do them together.

I played football, not to any particular standard, but I was in the school’s team, and spent a bit of time playing for one of the fairly highly regarded local boys’ teams.

The game is something I enjoyed playing a lot, but the manner in which it is coached, and the way many people, particularly parents, behave within in it, is something I deplore, especially versus the comparable behaviour in the much more civilised worlds of cricket and hockey.

I suspect the same is true of rugby, but I was only brave enough to go to two training sessions, before returning to much more comfortable ground.

With both cricket and hockey, junior teams are much more frequently run with a priority on enjoyment and involvement. Everyone counting, and all getting a relatively equal go at all the different disciplines.

There is then also the ‘badger’ type teams, where youngsters are gently introduced to the adult game, and these sides are made up of a mixture of youngsters and much older players, themselves at the other end of their own sporting pursuits.

I played in such teams as a teenager, and there was quite regularly father-and-son combos featuring on the team sheet.

My father, whilst certainly not hopeless at sport, was not amongst these teams. Although I do have a vague memory of having once played together in a one-off Boxing Day hockey match

He was very supportive, as was my mother, both putting up with my whims across different disciplines, making sure I was able to play in games, get to practice, buy me the equipment I needed, coming to watch and encouraging by playing about with me at home.

My dad’s real strength comes in things that go together. He has a first class engineering degree, and will have a go at most things manual that need a big of nous.

I find all that interesting, and like my dad with sports, I am not absolutely useless if given the right tool and heavy direction.

My dad even built his own kit car, a project delayed by the arrival of my sister and me, and it is something he should be very proud of.

He would spend evenings cutting bits off old cars, and fitting them to his own contraption. Interesting stuff, but not interesting enough to keep me in the garage for very long.

I have never asked him if it is something he had hoped to involve me in. But he certainly did not push me, or overly encourage me to do so, nor did he kick me out if I was being a pain in the ass distraction. Something I do with aplomb.

We did do some car stuff together; he taught me how to change the oil and brake discs on my car, as well as some other basic maintenance stuff.

However not playing team sports together neither harmed nor hindered our relationship.

Golf was a great medium, something we paired up on, and still play together now. We also went to watch football matches together, both home and away, something we also still do now.

And while this is true, I was still hoping that my own son would play to my questionable sporting strengths, rather than stretch my understanding of areas I would consider weak within my makeup.

The social side of team sports was great for me too, and is something I hope my son enjoys. Understanding what being part of a team means, as well as making great friendships based on common loves.

This is on top of the possibility of us being able to pair up together within the ‘badger’ type sides.

Yet, I am beginning to fear this is going to be unlikely.

As my father before me, and his grandfather before him (my granddad was more sportsmen than workman), my son is showing a growing aptitude for hands-on mechanical pursuits, rather than a desire to kick or hit a ball with anything.

This is no bad thing, as I love learning with him, it just means I have a job on staying in front in terms of knowledge and ability.

In fact, I know just where to go for advice.

We both do.