I am not Designed for This (S-H-I-T)

Very nearly four years ago, when my wife died, I was left devastated, in a state of shock, but really in a position that required some important decisions, and fast.

At least I thought it did, retrospectively I perhaps could have taken more time, though I know I would have come to the same conclusions and decisions in any case.

I effectively decided I would not return to work, my professional role pretty much dictated I needed to be full-time, and I had concluded that there was someone else who needed me – and me him – on that basis more.

It was not a smooth exit from my employer, not sure my side of the story will see the light of day, but in short, I never returned.

A few people chose to question my decision, and I welcomed their opinion, I was happy to hear out their arguments and thoughts. My mind was all over the place, focusing on anything other than my son was very hard work, concentration was something I gave up on very quickly. So visiting things in short bursts I was happy to have people query me, so I could question myself, and my decision.

People were genuinely concerned, and not doubting me. They were more suggestive that other solutions may suit our situation, and me, better. I was, and still am, thankful for that concern, and that people cared enough to risk falling out with me by broaching the subject.

I just knew it was the right call, and that it would suit us both.

If Samantha had earned three times what I did, rather than the other way round, I would have been more than happy to have been the one at home, no worries.

But I suppose I had never really shown form to be a good parent. And it was only after my wife had miscarried before our sole successful pregnancy, that I knew, I was ready.

I am sure it would not suit a lot of men, as it does not suit all women. We all are wired differently, get satisfaction from different things, have different philosophies and some of us actually do jobs we like, and gain greater satisfaction from.

Which was also part of my plan. 2) Get a job I want.

I did meet the odd person, and still do, that just find it difficult to accept that a single dad can do as good a job as a woman left in the same circumstance.

This is an opinion, while dismissed, that I have also constantly checked along the way. I often wonder how a woman, or indeed my wife, may handle a situation, and in general, what a woman may do ‘naturally’, that a man might not.

I think I do have a mothering instinct, and it was interesting to hear the staff from Max’s nursery suggest he really is the mother-hen of the group, perhaps it is genetic.

However, as a 6ft 2” male, built on a reasonably substantial frame, carrying a little holiday weight and with all the suppleness that suggests rigor mortis is not the sole reserve of the recently deceased, some parenting tasks take their toll.

Apparently Go-Karting, Bowling, throwing my son about in ball pits, and helping him jump waves are OK.

But contorting and bending to wipe my heir’s behind in a caravan toilet is a step too far. My gosh, it was like someone stabbed me in the back, making an already delightful job, evermore charming.

Fortunately, Grandma was on hand – very quickly – to complete the job at, errm, hand, and I was left to simply deal with the agony that was my aching first secondary curve of my back.

Having the grandparents around was actually very lucky, as I was able to rest it up, steal some strong pain killers, and alter my Excel spreadsheet to allow it another 24 hours before I had to drive again.

So perhaps I am not built perfectly, but there is nothing else I would rather be doing.

Not that I will be taking a job as a full-time bum cleaner you understand?

Pictures Tell It Much Better

Pictures, telling yesterday's story so much better than I can in wordage.

Checking the duff weather report



Ready for racing



Racing

Finished

Bowling

Lovely lunch

Ice cream, and beckoning over (if you can zoom in)

The boys making, definitely not getting over, waves

The result

One of Those (Excellent) Days

Our first mini-excursion, of our excellently organised – and formatted – holidays, has been a very good one. Well it is actually still to expire, a bad back/muscle spasm has put back our return home by at least 24 hours, and has meant we have had to cancel our attendance at a local outing organised by some of the parents of Max’s nursery. But we have had a great time here, and our Excel spreadsheet can cope.

The folks’ caravan, sited overlooking one of the beautiful bays of the Llyn peninsula, is always good value for money, especially for me, as I do not spend a lot with the grandparents around.

Surprisingly there have not been a great number of children on the site, so myself, and my parents have been in much higher demand from Junior, and that has been great.

It has not been without its little hitches, there have been a few child toilet failures, and then there is the aforementioned back issue, but overall it has been massive fun, and yesterday was just one of those magical days.

When checking the Met Office for weather reports the night before, it looked like we had to plan for a rainy day, not a problem, and it is better to be prepared, as there would be a lot of holiday makers in the same situation.

I have been pushing one of my favourite visits, from my own childhood holidays here, a visit to Electric Mountain. Very suitable for a day of precipitation.

It was actually just called Dinorwig Power Station back then, which is simply what it was, and still is. A hydro-electric power station, used as an auxiliary supply at short notice (10 seconds if memory serves me right).

The exciting part, for me, was that it was a bit James Bond, a hollowed out mountain, using water, lakes of it, to drive six huge turbines, each producing extra power for the grid at peak times.

My selling of this place has thus far been ineffective on my four-year-old, and I suppose I was a little older when we went. Instead he had identified the butterfly farm on Anglesey as his rainy day option.

Neither of us needed to have bothered, as the only thing you can rely on a weather forecast to be, is wrong. Not that we complained, waking to blue skies, warmth and moderate winds.

So instead I sold the boy on another unchartered favourite of mine.

Go-Karting.

Max was not entirely convinced, but as the Go-Karting place is a multi-purpose centre that also has Ten Pin Bowling, soft-play, archery, quad bikes and some tame electric children’s vehicles, the possible alternatives to my suggestion were enough to get the nod and us on our way.

When we got there the petrol powered machines were noisily racing around. It had been a while since I had been to a race track of this kind, and I had forgotten how fast these things can look, particularly to someone who has never actually been in one.

I walked my son over to where the specially adapted double versions were. His initial reaction was negative, instead suggesting he wanted to go bowling inside. But after observing for a short while – the karts flying round, and other youngsters in the queue – he decided he would be my co-driver.

After signing our lives away, we got overalls and helmets on and headed for the track. We had six minutes waiting, and I spent the time reassuring my son, and devising a system for him to tell me he was happy over the very loud engine and our necessary head, and ear, shrouds. A thumbs up signal.

I put Max in the kart, attached his seat beat, and took my own seat. This thing had two steering wheels, both able to direct it in the right, or wrong, direction.

The safety chat was effectively a warning that the double karts can go over at full pelt in tight corners, but only if you are an idiot.

Now I have been such in the past, and have come out of karts before, but I was not planning on putting my son, and sunshine, anywhere near that level of risk.

Still, we belted round, and I was delighted to see Max’s beaming smile and thumbs up confirming he was happy racing round the track, passing virtually everyone else who was on it.

It was a brilliant six minutes, and another great first. An activity I hope we can continue to do into our futures, much like I did with my dad.

Afterwards we indeed did go bowling, followed by some free soft-play for the lad while the adults had a hot drink. I did have a short spell messing with my son, throwing him in the ball pit, which I must add, is not a great idea when you are trying to give him the hurry up.

You know that idiot thing?

We then headed to a very popular sea-side café, parking right outside, getting a prime terrace table, excellent service and hit-the-spot food.

Afterwards sauntering passed a picturesque life boat station for a lovely traditional ice cream, which we all finished on the beach.

We swapped beaches for the one at the foot of the grandparents’ caravan site. The wind had got up, but we still also swapped trousers for shorts, and went into a very rough sea for a paddle.

A paddle that was more jumping over, or through waves. Max proving he is not the World’s best wave dodger, nor am I the best at uploading pictures to Twitpic.

Absolutely brilliant fun though, right through the après shower we shared, and the telling off we got from Grandma for depositing the vast majority of the beach into her shower tray.

Hi five.

The Twenty20 cricket quarter finals were on, and as I am going to the finals day with my dad and a few friends, these were essential research.

Our enchiladas and garlic bread dinner was an excellent accompaniment.

We just had one of those wonderful days.

Our Glourious Seven Week Schedule

Is casually regimented an acceptable turn of phrase?

If I was going to pigeon hole myself – which actually sounds terribly unpleasant – that is most likely a category, or storage void, I would choose.

A semblance of a plan suits me. I like having a rough, yet decided, outline that I can then manipulate, alter and deviate from.

Although my son is yet to start his official schooling, something he will do in little over six weeks, he is at a school affiliated nursery, which means it shuts when the school does, and in turn, means, at present, I have a seven-week blank canvas to paint.

My marking of our calendar, a pleasant ring-bound A4 masterpiece created with family pictures, started to turn into more a mutilation, a defacement of our pleasant reminder of the date, and our impeding activities of note.

Not really fit for purpose. The purpose of filling a seven week schedule, with activities to satisfy all parties, not ignoring any tasks, or jobs, that still have to be fitted around our adventures.

Our 45-day-holiday is planned to be full of outings, all over the country, generally short breaks, designed to be fun, and hopefully making our stints between at home more enjoyable too.

Hopefully we shall really feel like we are holidaying all of the time, even at home.

However this all needs careful arrangement, not only for making the necessary phone calls and ‘bookings’, but, for me at least, it needs to be formulated in a tangible format to continually refer to when making further plans, or answering enquiries as to our movements and availability.

Obviously everything is subject to change, illness would change a lot, as it would too for the people we intend to visit. Cars breakdown, money can run short, breaks can be extended, cut short, or introduced at the last minute.

So, to hold all this information in one place, I called upon an old friend.

Excel.

There is not much I miss from my 9-to-5 days, but messing about with spreadsheets, designing, changing, learning new functions and finding new uses for, were all things I got a certain amount of satisfaction from. Sad, I know.

So proud, I announced my 8 column, 17 row creation of scheduling joy on Twitter. A piece of work - created while I cooked dinner for my son and his friend - that includes colour, merged cells, fancy shading, all our planned activities in bold, and our TBC stuff in normal typeface.

This thing is prime for lamination and storage, so I can show my son how sad beautifully organised I was.

My tweet was derided and hailed in unequal measure.

The uncouth opting for straight up ‘sad’ insults, those married to the uncouth confirming that they had to do similar (presumable to cope with living with a neanderthal), and then the turncoat, ridiculing my work, to only turn full-circle when they discovered the work of the aforementioned. There are no words, well there are, but as I have questioned their sexuality a lot over recent times, I shall not do so again.

I am sticking to my temporary method, both figuratively and actually, the master is on my laptop, but I have a printed version for quick reference, such as when another child’s parents decides to try and organise a trip out at the leavers presentation.

Copies have also been issued to grandparents, so they know when they may be called upon, and indeed, when we are planning on visiting them.

This approach will lapse as the holidays do, as we return to the more regular school, and its linked activities, and probably to jotting little reminders on our lovely kitchen calendar.

And I can get back to pining for Excel, again.

Back to School with Kickers

For the first time, I will be looking for a pair of school shoes this summer. No, not for me, but for the boy, he shall be starting ‘proper school’ in early September.

I have been quite canny, at least for me, in that I have bought Max black shoes in the past for his everyday usage, so new shoes dedicated for school only – that have to be black - will not be very far from his comfort zone. And, hopefully, will be two very comfortable zones for his feet.

Kickers, a favourite of my sister’s throughout our youth, is partnering with Apple this holiday, to offer school kids the chance to win a top spec Macbook, iPod Nanos, iPod Shuffles and iTunes vouchers.

The competition runs from 1st July until 31st August 2009 in selected Barratts, Schuh, Brantano, D2, JD and Slater Menswear stores. Competition details can be found here.

Working on His Grateful

For many reasons I want my boy to be thankful for, and positive about, the things that he has, rather than the things that he does not.

That is huge picture thinking I suppose, and I am unsure how much of an impact I, or anyone else, can actually have on this particular character trait.

That typed, it is still something I desire for my son, and feel it would be a way of thinking that will him keep him sane, and not bitter, throughout his life.

He often hears me say; “focus on the positive.” And when I detail stories down to their most basic, I often ask “Is one better than none?” or similar positive poser reminders.

Max’s determination does need any help from me, as he has demonstrated both physically and, he continues to do on an almost daily basis, phonetically.

He is very stubborn rigid of mind, and difficult to dissuade once a decision has been made. A trait that will serve him in good stead, but sometimes a challenge for me as his parent.

His grandparents, bless them, spoil him rotten, which I have grown to have no problem with. I think they are teaching a lesson to Junior by pretty much always buying him something when he is in their care, that some people, and situations, can be manipulated to your advantage.

They also reward positive behaviour, and still negotiate with him, albeit from very weak stances, but they are getting him to think and act positively.

My only real concern for them, is that Max will start to take them for granted, and it will be the gifts that he desires, rather than the actual company of his loving grandparents.

But that is not my problem.

On a practical level their approach lends to me the opportunity to teach the opposite. We have had a couple of incidents recently where I have had to deal out such lessons.

We had a lovely afternoon at one of our favourite places to visit, then when it came for the time to leave, my son decided we must go to the shop to buy something. I took exception to this attitude, and informed him of my frugal policy of not buying things for merely the sake of it.

He tried everything, listing random things the shop might stock that he needed. I pulled his arguments apart with vigour, insisting he had plenty of toys at home that he needed to be grateful for.

We were at an impasse.

But I stood firm, and the tantrum started, tears on the car park, bad mouthing of existing toy stocks, and the odd ‘I don’t like you’ jibe.

I thanked him for expressing his thoughts, and also for confirming that I had made the right decision earlier.

He was delighted with that.

Calm was restored eventually, and the lesson has been somewhat heeded, as now, even though he still tries, his requests are more specific, and he better justifies his desires, and we do not get huge problems when I stick to my policy.

There was another opportunity last week, when my mother, his grandmother, decided it was wise to give him a small packet of sweets about 30 minutes before dinner.

In a quandary, fearing that a straight ‘no’ would bring upset that would make dinner consumption difficult and unlikely, or that a straight ‘yes’ would set a dangerous precedent and also impact on the amount of dinner that would be eaten, I made a quick decision on a compromise.

“You can have them, as long as you give me one.”

We spent the next ten minutes or so, that felt like an age, arguing about this. And when I type arguing, not so much an argument, more me repeating myself, repeating myself.

The boy was not having it, and was not keen to choose between the two options I had given him; none, or the contents minus one.

He looked to his grandparents for support, but they knew better than to interfere in our abode, and I think they were on my side in any case.

Eventually he made the right call, and through a few remaining tears, started to pick which of these sugary treat he was going to pass to his dad.

Ridiculously he gave me two, after all the fuss he had made over just giving up one, he actually ended up sharing more, the lovely daft apeth.

Demonstrating two very strong sides of himself, over one tiny packet of Haribo. I could have munched him, not the sweets.

He even apologised at bed time, and I reassured him there was no need for an apology, more that he is learning all the time, and that I could understand why he would want all these things for himself.

Drayton Manor Park and Zoo + Thomas Land, Review

I have very fond memories of Drayton Manor Park. It was my favourite school outing, and having disliked my schooling enormously, enjoyment on the odd days I could escape the mundane dross of ‘learning’ pointless skills, was heightened.

Those days are getting on for twenty years ago now, and the park has transformed enormously in those years. The best ride all those years ago was called something like Skyride or Skyline, which was effectively two pirate-ship-type-vessels, that were caged, and went a complete loop-the-loop, meaning you would spend some time upside down.

It may be my memory playing tricks, but no two rides were identical, the weights of these respective boats, or the difference between the two, seemed to dictate how the ride went. If they were very well matched they would ‘stick’ upside down, which was of course the temporary Holy Grail for thirteen year old lads (I am not going to type about the permanent goal of that age).

This and some other rides, coupled with a trek around the Zoo used to make for a fantastic day out. Outings that were repeated as a family in the school holidays.

I always felt more comfortable at this park, although it was, and still is, a Theme Park, it was less faceless than some of the others, and had a more intimate feel.

It is somewhere that I have had more than a decade of absence from, until my son came along, and before it also became the home of Thomas Land.

When I got word that us Europeans were going to get a piece of Sodor action, I was delighted to learn that it would be at a place only 45 minutes from my home.

‘Set in 6,000 square metres of beautiful parkland, Thomas Land is a multi-million pound attraction promising fun and adventure for the young and young at heart. It boasts 12 wonderful themed rides, a spectacular indoor play area and a shop filled with fantastic Thomas & Friends merchandise.’

We quickly became fairly regular weekday term-time visitors, as the prices, and crowds were incredibly just. Noting at the time that the price would jump eventually, to what seemed astronomical figures, when school kicked in, and our only options became weekends and holidays.

So when the park offered to host myself, and some other bloggers from the British Mummy Bloggers network, I thought, amongst other things, this would be a great opportunity to appraise paying the proper prices into the future.

Our connection came via Twitter, and you can follow the Drayton Manor account for all sorts of updates and news.

As I bored you with earlier, the park has transformed over the last twenty years, all for the better in my opinion, and it still retains a relative feel of intimacy, even though there are a lot of attractions, set over 280 acres of parkland.

Visiting at a weekend, there were the inevitable crowds, which are not really conducive for impatient 4-year-olds (or 32 year-olds for that matter), however the queues were not as bad as I had anticipated, and I am sure as my son gets older they will be better tolerated, and perhaps even add to the tension before going on one of the bigger rides.

Because of Max’s age, and the fact that he did not want me to go on any of the big rides – I kid you not – we did not really get to try the park out in its entirety, instead sticking mainly to Thomas Land, and the other rides that are parent and child friendly around the park.

A fellow blogger, visiting on a separate occasion, with older children did however, and you will find her awesome review here, if you want an opinion on the park’s bigger assets.

Thomas Land is immense, and the variety of ride, even though there are only 12 in number, is vast, there are gentle rides like The Vintage Cars and Carousel, then there is the more voracious Troublesome Trucks and Cranky The Crane (Note, do not go on the latter needing the toilet).

Children can also learn to drive at Terence’s Driving School, and I observe they have obviously not learnt as necessary, as the original island that they had to circumnavigate has been flattened. But that does demonstrate a park that thinks on its feet however.

There are also the loftier rides, like Jeremy The Jet – where children control how high they go – and Harold The Helicopter ride.

Being in a group our little clan seemed happiest playing together, and a short journey with Thomas, or Rosie, to the picnic area with adventure playground was enjoyed by them all.

We also ended the day in Emily’s soft play area, well not quite, most of us spent out final moments delicately selecting a pick ‘n’ mix that was going to make the journey home more pleasurable.

Hanging around until the park was due to close, around six on this occasion, has its advantages. Many of the park’s visitors dissipate and therefore so do the queues, meaning it is a virtual walk-up-get-on protocol for the last 90 minutes or so.

And if you are the kind of anal person who would be working out how much each ride has effectively cost, this is pay back time.

That is the one gripe I could perhaps justify with the park, the prices, or more specifically the prices for families with young children. As they now operate a simple price system, where everyone pays the same, irrespective of use of the rides, I would feel a bit cheated, having paid £25 to effectively accompany my child around the park.

But I suppose the trade off is that this is a commercial world, and that if the prices were lower the numbers of people there may get out of hand, and enjoyment levels would be considerably reduced.

I would say the staff were surprisingly pleasant, the girl operating the driving school was incredible chirpy even late into the day, especially when you consider she would have spent most of the day correcting a group of toddlers on electrically powered bulldozers.

The zoo was a welcome calm for a short while, and on its own would not be worth the visit, but it is a pleasant part to walk through, I would imagine even nicer if you could find where everyone else had managed to get an ice-cream from.

Overall this place is still marvellous and well worth a visit. Something we hope to do again soon.

I Have a Name

Identity is something very important to me.

It was especially significant in the aftermath of my wife’s death. I was incredible keen, and fought harder, to establish myself as my son’s sole parent.

We were living with my parents, so I was aware it might be all too easy to become overly reliant on my folks, send confusing messages to my boy, and also end up, eventually, dependant on them to exist.

I was also mindful that I did not want to lose my fully competent parenting ability and tag.

I know a good few men, becoming fathers, who were almost fearful of their children, and the responsibility thereof. My only fear was that of the unknown, never taking much of an interest in other babies or children, I really did not know what to expect or how to perform the most basic of tasks.

But I was determined to get rid of that fear, and the only way I was going to do that was to get stuck in, and take responsibility, at times solely, for all the necessary functions of parenting.

I had great opportunities to hammer this home right from the start. When Max was born Samantha was confined to her bed for a couple of days, so it was left to me to do the first changing, dressing and bathing.

She also needed some unrelated surgery a couple of months after, and was again out of action for a while, so I took a lot of the responsibility for our son then too.

This is not to say that Samantha did not do a lot, she did, but at times she could not even pick up Max, and needed to recuperate herself.

In fact when she did recover, I decided she deserved some more time. One of her friends was living in Stockholm, so she went off for a girlie weekend, again leaving me in total confidence with our child.

There were other times where Samantha would go out, and indeed when I would, sole charge was passed between us.

This is how we wanted our lives to be as a family, not all that much time apart, but the confidence, and will, to be both able to do our thing when the right opportunity arose.

One leaving the other in sole charge of our brood, without fear or guilt.

If everyone is having a good time them guilt is even more unnecessary than usual.

To bring it back, basically we were strongly established, and identifiably, as Max’s parents, two people that took their responsibility very seriously, putting a lot in, and getting a lot back.

Being introduced as Max’s dad, was more an honour bestowed, than an irritation.

I know some people like using their own names, for fear of identity, and of course I am not just Max’s dad, I have a few other facets.

Which is where I have got to today.

For nearly 18 months Max has been trying to get a certain child from nursery round to ours for play and dinner. A combination of non-English speaking au pairs, illness, unavailability, and this kid not really being helped into the kids’ social circle, had prevented it, until this week, the penultimate nursery week.

Both children were delighted and apparently spent much of their day at nursery asking if it was time to go home yet. Eventually, of course, that time did come, and they both proudly wandered to our house, only stopping to announce their social occasion to anyone that would listen.

I was called on a couple of times, generally by my son’s chum, who addressed me as ‘Max’s Dad’.

Junior tried to correct him several times; “You can call him Ian.” He said.

With all their excitement, correct designation was low on their list of priorities, but still, I pressed with my ‘I have a name’ retorts.

Repetition did not seem to wash with this lad, and I could also see his mind working – you’re clearly Max’s Dad, what’s the problem, let’s move on, and can you actually answer my question?

And, as always, I am pleased when my son’s peers accept me as his parent, and are comfortable being around me, however I still would prefer this child, who I am likely to have an ongoing relationship with through school, to use my proper name.

Because my approach of correction seemed to be making little inroad I decided to go on the attack.

Each time I was referred to as Max’s Dad, I responded with “Yes, Max’s friend, how can I help you?”

I did not have to say it many times for it to work.

Seems everyone likes their own identity.

Teacher's Pet

I do not have fond memories of all the teachers I have had during my various forms of education. As I start typing this blog post, I am very hard pressed to even say I had a favourite, I do not think I did.

There were ones I respected, a few I would listen to, but lots I would look at with disdain and barely acknowledge – such a nice child that I was.

My own mother was my home economics teacher for a short time, and she would most definitely vouch as such.

In early education I suppose it was different, and I can not really recall that far back, but still, I do not have a teaching idol.

The point I am getting to, is that as the end of the school year looms, children arriving with gifts for their teachers has also started.

It seems like a strange practise to me, and at times, a very robotic and for-the-sake-of-it laden process.

Are we rewarding them for doing their job well, or because our children ‘like them’, or simply because everyone else in the class will be buying something?

In our personal situation I find it quite difficult. Max’s nursery is staffed, like I presume many others, with various people, doing different shifts and performing different functions.

Certain employees are designated as key, and also have to monitor the progress of allocated groups of children. But that does not mean they have exclusivity of care, or do not observe and encourage others.

My boy has enjoyed nursery, and made great progress, I am sure in no small part down to them, but I have absolutely no idea who, if anyone, is responsible for this.

He does not really talk about any one of the adult helpers, and if he did, it may be the one that lets him off the hook the most, or allows him to punch his peers in the face, I have no idea. Who could?

I have discussed this with a couple of the other parents, and the responses I have received range from the inevitable “They get paid don’t they?” to the similarly predictable “It’s only £20 you tight git.”

Things have gone well for us here, and I am very grateful that there have been only few minor problems with my son’s pre-schooling, but I am unsure if my gratitude should be made in the form of presents for its current staff.

Typing this out I realise that my boy also deserves reward, and I probably need to recognise his achievements at nursery as a collective too.

So, I’ll add an Optimus Prime to my shopping list already containing six bottles of plonk.

Or do you think a bushel of apples with cut it?

Who Got a Black Eye?

Last weekend was a little out of the norm for us.

The boy and I were parted, which is not a totally freak occurrence on its own, I have been on a skiing trip before, and later this year I will go without him to my third V Festival, but I am unsure how much longer he will let me do that unaccompanied.

But this time I was off to sample the delights of Magaluf, on a stag do, and he was off on an adventure between his two sets of grandparents.

As, I am sure is conveyed here too, I am generally sophistication personified, so a three day drinking bender to the worst place on earth is a smidgen out of my new comfort zone.

Whereas a weekend of grandparent manipulation is bread-and-butter stuff to Junior.

I originally agreed to this binge in foreign climes, thinking it would be a great laugh, and that it would be good for us to spend a few days apart before the summer holidays get in full swing.

With, what I thought was, a recent history of enjoying quaffing vast amounts of alcohol, I never really thought through how I may physically cope with such a ‘break’, considering it to not be a problem.

The guy celebrating his last few weeks of freedom is also one I really like, a person who has opened a few social doors for me since Samantha died, and for that I owe him gratitude, and his company is always entertaining too.

Therefore I quickly made a decision to go, on what was initially going to be a four day trip. However Max’s school scheduled a parents’ meeting on what was to be the first day, so I chose to shorten my trip in lieu of attending such meeting.

And as well as being the absolutely right thing to do for Max, it was also the right decision for me, in terms that I would not have enjoyed the extra day abroad anyway.

In the past when we have spent this amount of time apart, and shorter really, I have always tried to make it feel like it is also an ‘adventure’ for my son, as well as for me, never hiding from the fact of how long we shall be apart.

For those reasons, I have also found it works to have Max leave me, rather than the other way round. Like this time, logistically it may have been easier for us both to head to my parents, then me leave for the airport while he was asleep, but I did not feel comfortable with this, so instead I packed my mini-colossus off to my folks for tea, and I stayed put, leaving a little earlier in the morning to get everyone else picked up and to the airport for check-in time.

Once apart, my scheduled was basically full of drinking, no sleeping, staying in a hotel – come half-way house – full of large groups of youngsters, all with similar, if not more experimental, itineraries.

Nights merged into days, all spent in packed streets with drunken children falling over themselves, or their vomit, and a Civil Guard keen to pounce on any behaviour considered undesirable (a policy that needs a radical re-think).

The boy’s plans were full of fairy cakes, trips out, swimming, toy procurement, playing and topped off with a birthday party for one of his friends.

So, which one of us had a black eye when we reconvened on Sunday afternoon?

That is right, not me.

A clash of heads at the party had resulted in my heir getting a little purple around his right eye, which is now considerably purpler.

Prompting, one of my parenting peers this morning, to say; “I thought it was you that went to Magaluf?”

And thus, this blog post.

Bringing Down the House, or Beer Garden

Social acceptance, in our relatively new rural setting, has been something of immense importance to me, and us.

I have given gravitas to carrying favour with the nice families around us, not least because I want my son to have a happy social existence, filled with children, and with the absence of the planned siblings (there would have been at least one, and I was angling for two) I need others to want to be around us in order to procure such a regular reality.

When I take a step back on our lives, and more specifically Max’s, and have a look, I see that we now have a lot of ‘new’ people we interact with.

Not something I have ever considered a strength – making chums - but it appears that I have managed to convince quite a few mugs to spend time with us.

My son’s charm and entertainment value have played an enormous part in this, as has, I suppose, my openness to shiny new folk.

Junior is very sociable, and always asking where, or who, we are going to see next.

He does not keep an exclusive company, and I am proud to observe that he is much more open to playing with members of the opposite sex than some of his peers.

This, in part, may be down to our situation, and that he feels a need to be less choosy, but it is a trait that I like to see in him.

Last week, after a successful nursery sports day, we were invited to join a girl from the school, and some of her family, at one of the local pubs, that has excellent outdoor facilities for the children.

In the glorious weather, we were more than delighted to accept.

The people that had invited us are great company, and have always lived on or around farms in this area, so they know it well.

For those reasons, they are also very useful to know.

It is a nice feeling to be accepted by folks like this, especially when we were joined by a few of their extended family.

They must not be fussy either, right?

Meeting new people can be exhausting, and especially emotionally zapping when we are called on to explain our situation.

Totally worth it though, and I love people that ask questions, taking it as a great sign, I am much more likely to get on in the long-term with someone prepared to ask questions that might trigger difficult answers, than those that ignore them.

That typed, I have not really developed a formula, or stock answer, for questions about becoming a widower, or where my wife is.

You can see it coming sometimes, or feel it brewing, but still, I am inconsistent, yet always honest, with my replies.

On this occasion I dangerously assumed that the adults that joined us knew of our situation, and as the conversation went in certain ways, I knew, that they knew.

However the same was not true for the children.

And kids ask questions too.

I suppose the sight of a floppy haired man with his son, versus a backdrop of women with their offspring, induces a certain train of thought.

That train being; “Where is your mom?”

Again, this is a situation I like to encourage, I am interested in how my son reacts to these queries, and also if there is anything to learn from either parties’ behaviour.

Not sure if I could hear the sharp intakes of breath, but ears definitely pricked up. I was comfortable than no one tried to interfere, or apologise.

My matter-of-fact protégé offered his simply explanation; “She died.”

Interestingly, well for me anyway, the other children, then asked me to clarify, almost double-checking that they were not being lied to.

After my re-affirmation, that indeed, such information was correct, they returned to my unruffled boy for further explanations.

Pointing to his heart and mind, my wonderful creation said “She is in here and in Daddy’s too.”

Ignoring everyone else for a moment, I asked Max how he gets to see his mom, and he replied, as expected, with “I just close my eyes and think.”

I then suddenly became acutely aware we had stirred a lot of emotion around us, and seeing that my son was OK, I assured him he was right, and opted for a bit of silence and composure.

Silence which was broken with; “Oh, Daddy, we can also dream about her.”

That really finished them off.

But it was not long before tranquillity returned, and conversation moved on, acknowledging what had just happened, but without dwelling on it.

These moments are enormously emotional, and personally, I feel a vast array of emotions, for myself, for my boy, for Samantha and for those around us.

I hope my son’s future is full of bringing people to tears in beer gardens, but, perhaps, by very different means.

Glitterati and Drayton Manor Park and Zoo

This past weekend has been a bit of a humdinger.

One was perhaps chewing a tad more than it is reasonable to consume. Speaking, or typing, both figuratively and actually.

Friday evening was spent at a friend’s stag do, which involved dog racing, lasagne, bar brawl witnessing, excessive amounts of alcohol, dodgy dancing and man hugging.

Not the best preparation for hosting my favourite blogger and his family on the following day, but I think I got away with it.

I really do not miss going out on the town on a regular basis, I enjoyed Friday night, but it was with some reluctance, and at times I was incredibly bored.

And I really am pathetic for the 48 hours that follow such events.

However I have been attempting to put together a meet-up for localish bloggers that are part of the British Mommy Bloggers community, and this weekend was one of very few that I could squeeze it into.

Drayton Manor were kind enough to host five of us, and our families, this past Sunday, and I plan to review their excellent facilities very soon as a result.

As mentioned this get together was originally intended for those of us that live in the middle of England, but I had not accounted for the gall of some.

Dan, he of allthatcomeswithit.

He who really narrowed my eyes to the world of blogging.

He whom is the UK’s premier Daddy Pig impersonator.

The guy organising the most awesome walk along Hadrian’s Wall ever.

Well, anyway, him, he got in touch to enquire as the possibility of being included in our rendezvous, and because I fear he may have sat on me if I’d said no I really wanted to meet him in the pork, I was accommodating.

Very.

To the point that I gladly offered to house his clan at mine the night before, so it might break up the excessive travelling for his kids, and so we could all perhaps enjoy the actual gathering a bit more, and relaxed.

I was delighted, but fearful, when he agreed to come down on the Saturday. It is a weird feeling meeting people you have ‘met’ on the internet. Made even weirder when you try to explain it to other people, especially those that are only four-years-old.

I was nervous about meeting Dan and his lovely family, as I had painted a picture in my head of these people, and how we may get on with them if we were ever to meet. My fear was that I had got our compatibility terribly wrong.

But I need not have worried, despite my relatively fragile state, their whole visit felt effortless, our conversation naturally flowing, way later than it should have, and without having to feel for subject matter, certainly from my point of view anyway.

The kids, blimey, they got on incredibly well. Max and Amy, Dan’s daughter, were virtually inseparable from the moment they met. And Evan, Amy’s younger brother, was certainly not excluded either, and there were some really wonderful moments between the three of them, that alone made their visit worthwhile (mind I also got some Penguins, and a bunch of flowers out of it).

After a good night’s sleep we were off to Drayton Manor Park and Zoo, to meet three other bloggers and their families, and my meeting internet folk anxieties returned. Again these people, Jo Beaufoix, Rosie Scribble and Tara Cain, were people I was really looking forward to meeting, and had developed a relationship with online.

They all proved to be very nice people, and great company, even Tara. All the children were lovely too, and pretty much proved that all you need when you have kids, are other kids to play with.

There was a plethora of things to do and ride on, but the offspring seemed genuinely happy to mess about on the adventure play areas, and most of them pined to go and play together in the soft play zone.

That is not to belittle the park and its facilities, far from it. If it was just me and the boy, then I am sure that he would have held no interest in the playing parts of the theme park. And he was still very excited to go on all the rides we did manage.

We were both knackered last night, and are really still recovering today. Max had his first day time nap for an age, and I am in a state of overtiredness.

But it was all worth it, and I hope to meet these wonderful people again soon, people I am now comfortable, and proud, to call friends.

Silent Escape

I am an appreciator, or more accurately, an observer, that routines are subject to change.

They change with age, with mood, with season and without any notice.

In the early-ish stages of single parenthood simple changes to the routine, like sleep times moving, different food types being consumed, or newly rejected, used to really mess with my yin and yang.

I would be well and truly out of kilter, wherever that is.

These would only have to be tiny amendments, and I suppose being taken out of my evolving comfort zone, however subtly, my discomfort was amplified by my newly widowed, and sole parenting, statuses.

Rationale always helped, and a new normal, and my relief within it, was never that far away. Although it may have felt like an age at the time.

The bed time procedure has always been one I have applied consistency to. Well, from my end anyway.

There are exceptions, but never enough to have a sizeable impact on the effectiveness of the general, and practised, process.

At the moment the status quo is; bath time, dry and comb hair in front of the television, a drink and biscuit, toilet, teeth brushed, bottle of fresh water for night time drink, in bed, stories, kiss, cuddle and mutual love declaration, then sleep.

The number of stories usually reflected by the hour, and how close we are to my target bedtime, also extra for positive behaviour, and there may be more stories if shorter books are chosen.

But we have always entered into a negotiation. A process I always seek clarification and acceptance of, before we actually start the reading.

This method has operated with only minor glitches for a good time, probably nearing something like two years.

And sleep has usually quickly followed our kisses, without the need for me to be in the room.

However recently, and with a dawning grief process, my son has needed a little more reassurance and thus this protocol has been somewhat amended.

I have been staying with my boy post cuddle and kiss, while he settles down. Mindful of slipping into a trap of having to always be there to get Max to sleep, I have limited this, and still leave the room prior to the sleep descending.

This has not been without reluctance, and I have quite frequently left the room to only return to re-settle my boy down, before eventually leaving him to get of to the land of nod successfully.

My usually rule of thumb is if I leave the room to silence, sleep will ensue.

But if I get a ‘daddy’ it will be quickly followed by a ‘don’t leave me’ and then the re-settling process.

That has been fairly consistent, as has been my sighing before I about-turn back to his bed.

Then one night this week the ‘daddy’ - the ‘sighing’ - and the ‘about-turn’ were played out, but what followed was new to the process.

“I love you daddy.”

Now that is a change, and addition, that can stay.