Big noses & bad behaviour

Pre-bedtime television, Octonauts is the choice, The B's, that is.

The G is less enamoured. She'd hoped for another Fireman Sam and The B's current favourite is watched under obvious duress.

The eponymous elephant seal that gives the episode in question its title at last gets her attention.

"It's got a big nose," The B points out.

"Just like Mummy," says The G.

It's a harsh assessment - totally inaccurate, in fact - but such barbs are commonplace and it's not as though The W bears the brunt.

Quite often - most days, in fact - The G runs up behind me, slaps me on the, ahem, rear end, and exclaims "Daddy's big bottom!"

Like the previous example, harsh, but you get used to it.

You also become accustomed to the constant (and I mean constant) chatter, but that doesn't mean it doesn't become difficult to bear after an hour or so.

It's amplified in the house, of course, hence our strategy, getting out and about, all over the place, anywhere that'll have us, the busier the better.

This morning, soft play, a brave choice during school holidays. More cacophonous than normal, bodies strewn everywhere, toddlers running around at full pelt, up the ladders and down the slides, scurrying through the tunnels like sewer rats.

Needless to say, The B and The G loved it. 

If nothing else, I couldn't hear their nonsensical ramblings for an hour or two, their chatter lost in the ensuing chaos.

Then the playground this afternoon, also full-on busy, bursting at the seams, some patrons good, others less so.

The B and The G, like me, have a finely-tuned naughtiness radar, able to detect the children best to avoid in double-quick time.

Two in particular stood out on this occasion, their bad behaviour matching their horrendous haircuts.

"That girl pushed me," The B said at one point. 

The long-haired horror in question was male, although I didn't correct the mistake.

There is, incidentally, a direct correlation between basic grooming and behaviour, but that's one for another time, so too toddlers dressed to look like miniature football hooligans.

For now, let's just say that getting out and about serves to remind me that The B and The G are, on the whole, remarkably well-behaved.

If the price for that is the occasional comment about oversized facial features and bottoms, so be it.

@homedad.
SAHD 31/8/2011.

The G's colourful career

Given their ages, it's perhaps a little too soon for The B and The G to be making career choices.
Still, we've had the talk and we're all clear about what everyone is going to be when they're all grown up.
The B, for so long desperate to become a train driver, is these days setting his sights on making the grade as a firefighter, underlining the growing influence that Fireman Sam exerts in our household.
I'm not sure The G understands careers quite the same.
She says she does, but her choice is a little baffling.
You see, The G is adamant that when she grows up, she would like to be ........ yellow.
@homedad.
SAHD 30/8/2011.

Sugar cookies & shoes

Supplies required, a trip to the supermarket beckons.
Just the small supermarket, the one around the corner, a short stroll for me but for The B, his legs not always 100% operational, a significant undertaking.
I decide that biscuits might aid the mission so, leaving him for a moment to work out the intricacies of his shoes (velcro straps, not especially complicated), I head for the cookie jar.
The contents are homemade, star-shaped, sugar cookies the recipe calls them, an apt name given that sugar makes up around 75% of their content.
Just the thing for such an exhausting expedition, I think.
I bring three: one for me, two for The B.
Eating mine already, I put his on a shelf as he continues to battle his shoes.
He eyes them hungrily, his expression that of a starving seagull.
The B: "Are those for me?"
Me: "Are what for you?"
The B: "Those biscuits."
Me: "What biscuits?"
The B: "Those ones there."
He points, concern spreading across his face.
Me: "I can't see biscuits."
The B (getting worried now): "Those biscuits, there on the shelf."
Me: "Oh, those ones. No, they're mine."
The B (starting to look a little tearful): "Please can I have those biscuits? Please? Pleeeeeease?"
I remain silent for a moment.
The B (relieved, getting it now): "You're just teasing me."
I smile at him, his shoes finally on his feet, albeit the wrong way round.
The B (laughing): "Daddy, don't tease me."
But that's the best bit.
@homedad.
SAHD 30/8/2011.

Lost bedding and pre-dawn frights

So, in nose-blowing terms (see previous post), The G leads The B 1-0.
In the recovering-of-lost-duvets-in-the-dead-of-night stakes, The B is ahead, making the scores level I guess, 1-1 on aggregate, a dead heat.
The G is terrible at this, it's true.
Should she become uncovered and cold in the night, there's just one thing for it: call for urgent assistance.
Therefore, at 1am, 4.30am and, more often than not, 6am, either The W or myself is summoned, to The G's bedroom, to recover said bedding and move it the couple of inches or so that is required to ensure that The G, disgruntled and half-asleep, is once again under cover and able to resume interrupted dreams.
You like to think that the disturbed nights can be consigned to the past once the initial stages of babyhood have passed. But no.
Until errant quilts can be recovered and rearranged sans parent, forget about it.
To be fair, at The G's current age, The B needed regular assistance on this front and he got there.
She'll get there too.
Soon, I hope.
It seems worse at the minute because The G has taken to rising earlier than anyone else in the house.
From 6.10am onwards, she is apt to appear, bright, breezy, full of noise, raring to go.
Until this month, she'd remain in bed, waiting for someone to come and get her, singing songs until the appropriate hour.
No longer.
These days, upon waking, she's up and out: full-speed-ahead, crashing across the landing, chattering non-stop already, en route to our bedroom.
Sometimes, the approaching noise serves as an early-warning system. The other morning, though, she managed to get all the way without waking us, the first we knew about her impending arrival coming when the bedroom door, pushed a little too enthusiastically, crashed hard into the bedside table, giving us all a pre-dawn fright.
Not a good start to the morning.
It's less than a fortnight ago that we were complaining about The B's penchant for getting up at 7am on the dot.
Those were the days.
@homedad.
SAHD 28/8/2011.

"I got snots"

Colds are back, not long since the last lot, bad ones these ones, The B's in particular.
He has all the symptoms: cough, sneezes, streaming nose, morning grumps.
He's not the best patient, although I don't hold that against him given that perhaps he has inherited that from me.
But The G, she takes these things in her stride much, much better than her suffering sibling.
The simple things in life that can often be taken for granted tend to be highlighted in these situations. Trying to explain the art of nose blowing to an unreceptive three-year-old is a case in point.
Yet again, The G outperforms on this front.
The B is huffing and puffing, blowing through his mouth, sucking in, getting cross, doing everything other than blowing the offending organ.
The G? She just toddled off, pulled out the piano stool, climbed up onto it, reached for the tissue box on top of the piano, removed a tissue, climbed down, blew her nose, wiped her nose, screwed up the tissue and dispatched it into the kitchen bin.
Upon her return, I looked at her, all impressed.
On her face, a nonplussed expression.
"I got snots," she said, and continued playing.
@homedad.
SAHD 27/8/2011.

The old bag has to go

Testing out a new-style changing bag.
This might sound trivial, but trust me, in SAHD-land, this is a major development.
It's a decision that has to be right, a balance that must be made.
Big enough to fit in all the paraphernalia that might be required on a routine outing - wipes and spare clothes, phone and camera, snacks, keys and, more and more these days, bus timetables - but still sufficiently small to not become a burden.
It must be light enough to be carried for a significant distance without causing shoulder ache, but not too light lest it blows off during a playground gale.
The existing bag performs well in some areas (fits neatly in the buggy), but lets itself down in others (not the easiest to cart around sans pushchair). It does well in the compartment department - pockets aplenty, lots of zips - but inside, it isn't the roomiest.
Hence the decision to look at alternatives.
It's a big decision: the changing bag is a constant companion, not an item to be parted with lightly.
But in this case? In this case, there's just one conclusion.
The old bag has to go.
You see, it's main plus point, fitting inside the buggy, is soon to be rendered an irrelevance as the pushchair in question is also about to leave us.
Not through choice, not exactly, as The G is not quite ready, not quite conditioned for 100% no-other-option walking.
But the buggy, our faithful, long-suffering pushchair, is dying a painful death and the end is in sight.
Having covered several thousand miles over the last three years, the left rear wheel is hanging off, misshapen, no longer circular. It'll soon be gone altogether, meaning The G will have little choice but to go cold turkey.
In some ways, it'll solve a problem.
More often than not, The G wants to walk, leaving the pushchair vacant, The B needing no invitation to jump in.
"My legs don't work," he wails on such occasions.
Tall, often mistaken for an older child, he looks ridiculous.
Remove the pushchair from the equation, however, and his legs will have no choice. They'll have to start working again.
This week has been spent practising, preparing for the inevitable, more walking, fewer pushchair journeys.
The experience has taught me one thing: That with a toddler either side, with two hands to hold, a change in changing bag is required.
Option one, an old laptop-style bag from the days in which I held down a proper job, failed (great on compartments, lots of zips, velcro, little nets for putting things in, but too rigid, too bulky).
Option two, another work veteran, is faring a little better.
Too baggy,  I always felt, for the office environment. For this, a definite contender.
So to the weekend, the auditions set to continue.
Think X-Factor.
But without the music.
For bags.
Sad, but this is what I've been reduced to.
@homedad.
SAHD 26/8/2011.

The chocolates of choice

It was The W's birthday earlier this week.
For once, we had presents all sorted a good time in advance, but on an unscheduled trip to the supermarket, it occurred to us that an additional treat might perhaps be in order.
Full speed ahead to the chocolate aisle, The B and The G told to each choose something, anything, to supplement our offering.
I had a vested interest, I admit.
Given that I stood to benefit, as confectionery-based gifts tend to be shared, I was hoping for something special, some choice chocolates, a proper box, the bigger the better.
The B chose first, Maltesers, £1.50, not the most inspiring pick, but never mind, I had faith in The G.
Faith misplaced, The G chose the exact same, more Maltesers, unable to bear being different for a moment.
Cost-wise, it was a result, I suppose, but I'd been hoping for Black Magic at the absolute least.
Later, attempting to gift-wrap said Maltesers, the reason for The G's modest choice became a little clearer.
She'd thought The B had been allowed to choose some chocolates for himself and was determined not to miss out on the treat.
Imagine the protests as I tried to gift-wrap chocolates that she'd intended to spend the afternoon eating!
@homedad.
SAHD 26/8/2011.

Nick O'Teen not welcome

This is, on the whole, a happy, light-hearted kind of a place.
But from time to time, something happens that really gets my goat, something that cannot pass without censure.
One such event occurred earlier this week.
Smokers in the playground.
Not kids, not youths. That'd be annoying enough, but at least I could begin to understand it.
No, proper adults, grown-ups (although there's little grown-up about the behaviour in question).
These are people old enough to know better, the people supposed to be setting an example.
Imagine being a grandparent, charged with the responsibility of looking after a cherished child for a few hours.
Imagine not being able to discharge said duties without the aid of cigarettes.
Imagine not being able to push a two-year-old on a swing without first lighting a filthy, stinking, horrible roll-up.
Imagine the line of children on the other swings - and their respective parents and carers - forced to endure the resulting fumes.
Imagine being so oblivious.
It is, of course, inappropriate. It is, for sure, unacceptable.
Frankly, it's pathetic.
So it's illegal to smoke in pubs these days (and rightly so), but playgrounds?
Playgrounds, brimming with babies and toddlers?
Playgrounds, it seems, are suitable for smokers.
They're not, of course.
Toddlers and tobacco do not mix.
This isn't right and it cannot pass without protest.
If you're unable to endure 10 minutes without having to light up, get out of our playground.
You're not welcome.
Rant over.
@homedad.
SAHD 26/8/2011.

X9-rated

So, another day, another bus.
This one real, unlike yesterday's, the X9 there, the 308 back again, bone-shakers both, total travel time a little over 90 minutes.
The G at nursery, best off out of it.
For me and The B, the bus stop beckoned.
In truth, it was a predictable pursuit, an outing always on the cards.
Take last night, for example, the signs all too evident.
The post-bath period, stories before bed, a favourite 15 minutes for us all, a time to treasure.
In his bedroom, The B has some of the best picture books ever written and an almost-complete collection of Thomas & Friends tales.
On a normal night, The B can be relied upon to choose something good for us to read at bedtime.
Last night? He plumped for his favourite bus timetable.

Garden crabs & the indoor 306

On the 306 again this morning.
Not the real 306, you understand. Our own 306: the home-made kind, a coach constructed from cardboard, its route never leaving the room.
Take one giant box, in this case the discarded packaging from some newly-acquired garden furniture, a small chair for the driver and several thousand soft toys to serve as the passengers.
Imagination is also required, it's true, but The B and The G have this in abundance.
The B is the first to take the wheel, a plastic plate from the kitchen.
"This bus is going to Germany," he announces.
That has never happened on the real 306.
Upon our arrival in Germany, I am ordered to take over driving duties and complete the journey.
To express his gratitude, The B gives me a nice cuddle and a kiss prior to alighting.
"You've never kissed the driver on the real bus," I point out.
"No," he replies. "But I'd like to."
Later, The B and The G disappear upstairs, returning several minutes later clutching their bedding.
It is arranged, inexplicably, without comment, inside the box that makes up our make-believe bus.
So the morning passes, me sat on a child-size chair, using a plastic plate to steer a large cardboard box, The B and The G lying in the back, comfortable beneath their duvets, buried under countless Teddies and other assorted animals.
The B emerges at one point, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"You don't get duvets on the 306," he points out.
He considers this a moment longer.
"You ought to," he says.
It ranks amongst the morning's more sensible observations.
Earlier, pre-bus, in the back garden, The B noticed that something had been nibbling the leaves of his favourite plant, inspiring a nature-related conversation.
Me: "Who do you think might have been eating your plant?"
The B: "The Very Hungry Caterpillar?"
Me (impressed): "Who else?"
The B: "Some beetles?"
Me (even more impressed): "Anyone else?"
The B: "A crab?"
Hmmmm. Proof again that, sometimes, it's best to quit while you're ahead.
@homedad.
SAHD 24/8/2011.

From our resident artist....

Evidence that we might, perhaps, have an artist on our hands.
The other day, desperate to fill a difficult hour, I dug out pens and paper and suggested that The B and The G might like to make something special for The W. This, titled A picture of Mummy, was the clear winner.
The B has always liked his artistic pursuits. Gluing is his favourite, although the dreaded cutting comes close.
He's fantastic at destroying the newspaper with his scissors, more often than not before I've had a chance to read it.
To be honest, he's not that great at drawing. He's more of a scribbler, using his pens to create chaotic pictures and then deciding what it is he's drawn, based on what he thinks it looks a little like.
He's best at space rockets, although even then, more than a little imagination tends to be required.
This, though, A picture of Mummy, this is a cut above.
Needless to say, it isn't The B's work.
No, this came from the pen of The G, not yet two-and-a-half, but putting her older brother to shame with her artistic eye and impressive command of a crayon.
This is her best effort yet, one that thrilled The W upon her return from the office.
It's little wonder.
@homedad.
SAHD 21/8/2011.

Turning 50 & leaving home

The talk is all about our respective ages here at the minute.

It's inevitable, I guess, given that there's a birthday, The B's fourth, just around the corner.

The countdown has begun already, 24 sleeps to go, the wishlist growing daily, just like the excitement.

"How old are you, Daddy?" he asked me the other day.

"You know how old I am," I replied.

He adopted his thoughtful face for a moment, looked at me as though trying to carbon date me, and then hazarded his best guess.

"50?" he asked. 

I gave him the look.

"60?" he tried. 

Not amused.

"70?" came his final attempt. 

I sent him packing.

The conversation was again age-related this afternoon, The B quizzing The W, asking how many sleeps it'd be until she turned 50.

The W pointed out that when such a time comes, The B will be approaching 20 and, in all likelihood, will no longer be living with us.

Hearing such news, his face crumpled.

"But I always want to live with Mummy and Daddy," he wailed.

Given that there are 24 sleeps still remaining until he turns four, there's plenty of time for him to get used to the idea.
@homedad.
SAHD 20/8/2011.

Growing seagulls & having kittens

They're just two and three respectively, but sometimes it feels as though there's nothing The G and The B don't understand.
I'm not saying they're geniuses, but at times it seems there's no limit to their knowledge.
It's our job, as parents, to teach them about the world, yet with some of the stuff they come out with, you might be forgiven for thinking that they know it already.
It isn't the case, of course.
If ignorance is bliss, it's good to remember that there's a huge amount still to be imparted, the lessons set to stretch over many, many years.
Take The B, for example.
Taking a walk near the beach the other day, he found a large feather lying on the pavement.
He picked it up, studied it and thought for a moment.
"I'm going to take this home and plant it in the garden," he said.
"Then it'll grow into a new seagull."
It's clear that where things come from, a common topic here, is a lesson that has yet to be learnt.
Talking later about where babies come from, The B and The G were reminded that their own lives began 'In Mummy's Tummy'.
Just then, the cat walked past.
The B watched him go and then enquired: "Did he come out of Mummy's Tummy too?"
That there's still a fair bit to teach is clear.
@homedad.
SAHD 20/8/2011.

Great lies to tell small kids

Is it wrong to lie to your children?
Perhaps so, but as most parents appreciate, in certain situations, it's more acceptable than in others.
I'm not talking about huge, important lies. It's more about truth economics, this morning a perfect case in point.
Thursday, The G's morning at nursery, a chance to spend a little one-on-one time with The B, a chance to have some fun, to do something interesting.
I asked him, as I always tend to do on Thursdays, what he'd like to do, that is, how he'd like to spend our precious time together.
"I'd like to go on the 392," he replied, an answer guaranteed to make hearts sink.
For the record, the 392 is a bus route than runs from the end of our street to the regional HQ of the DSS.
It is known neither for the landmarks en route or for its final destination's desirability.
So we went swimming.
Pirate ship, water cannons, slides, wave machine, the works.
The B had a great time, as did I.
How did I pull it off? How did I exchange the boredom of the bus for the pleasures of the pool?
Through the miracle of mistruth, of course.
Our local gift shop stocks a range of reasonably-amusing greetings cards titled Great lies to tell small kids.
Examples include Wine makes Mummy clever and, a personal favourite here, Rain is Jesus' wee wee.
It might not sell a lot of cards, but I've come up with another.
The 392 doesn't run on Thursdays.
@homedad.
SAHD 18/8/2011.

Sleeping on the job

I might have just fallen asleep.
I didn't mean to, I was supposed to be playing Jitterbugs with The B, The G having been banished for cheating.
Her crime? The worst possible in Jitterbug circles, using her hands instead of her spider pole, The B administering the justice, his indignation all too obvious.
In such disputes, The B does like to act as judge and juror.
The G took her punishment in her stride, showing little remorse, toddling off to find some other mischief, leaving me and The B to fight it out over the Jitterbugs board.
I didn't put up much of a fight.
In hindsight, the playing position I adopted didn't help me to maintain consciousness.
Lying on the playroom floor can lead to such situations.
I didn't sleep for long, just time enough for me to start having strange thoughts and for The B to use his spider pole (or maybe his hands, I wasn't watching) to collect all 12 bugs.
"I'm the winner," he declared loudly, bringing me to my senses.
I might have snoozed off, but I don't think anyone noticed.
It had been a hectic morning, to be fair.
School holidays, best to get going, the earlier the better, at the playground at 9am, the best time, before the morning rush.
That gave us a full hour before the crowds started to gather at 10am, at which point we made a tactical retreat to the library, The B and The G emptying the shelves, making huge piles for borrowing with little regard for subject or title.
Snack time, then off to the water playground, an unscheduled stop so no swimming costumes or towels, The B and The G in pants and tee-shirts, the sun doing the drying after a half-an-hour splash-about.
"We missed you sunshine," The B said upon opening his curtains this morning to discover a brighter than normal start to the day. It was a far cry from yesterday, our afternoon activity splashing in giant puddles, wellies, raincoats and all.
It's much easier on days like this, the sunnier the better, enabling us to get out and about, occupying the children a simple task.
Such days can be tiring, but I can't complain.
The job I did before this was tiring too.
The difference is that, in the office environment, it's not considered appropriate to curl up on the carpet for a post-lunch power nap.
@homedad.
SAHD 17/8/2011.

Not big enough for bacon

There is no food stuff that The G can't eat using her fingers.
Jelly, ice cream, baked beans, breakfast cereal (milk included), it's all handled the same.
Cutlery's for losers in The G's world. It's a world that brings new meaning to finger food.
Still, as goes the saying in our house, eating is eating and sometimes methods matter not.
If it's a challenge to get The G to use a spoon to eat, it's another again to get The B to eat at all.
For three days after returning from our holidays, food didn't pass his lips. It's little surprise that, although he had an 18-month head-start, The B weighs just four pounds more than his somewhat-meatier sibling.
I thought I had him at the weekend: bacon sandwiches for breakfast.
If there's one thing The B is guaranteed to eat, it's a pork-based product, but he just looked at it all disgusted, the concern clear on his face.
"I'm too little to eat that," he said before running away.
Too little for bacon.
I've never heard that one before.
Still, we did a little better yesterday, pizza proving to be the answer. Homemade and everything, right from scratch, The B and me making the dough while The G had her post-lunch nap, him taking great delight in flouring his hands (and all the kitchen work surfaces, and the floor, and his clothes, and his shoes and the cat).
The mess mattered not. We made the dough, rolled it out, added our sauce and applied toppings.
"I want six slices," The B said, his appetite returning for the first time in days.
He managed four, but the G cast a suspicious look towards her plate.
"I don't like pizza," she said.
So the one food it's OK to eat with your hands is the one food The G doesn't like, the one food that The B will eat is the one that The G won't.
You couldn't make this stuff up.
There are, at least, some things that the two of them agree on and we did them all: the playground in the morning, the beach in the afternoon, then home for smoothies, the slides out in the garden, the chatter constant, The G the most talkative at the minute.
She's learning about our respective roles and her place in the world.
"Big girl," she says, pointing at herself, proud as punch.
She points at The B. "Big boy," she says.
She doesn't always get it right. Yesterday she pointed at me and announced: "Daddy big girl."
It didn't bother me: I've been called worse and, besides, I was more concerned about the jelly-covered finger with which she was prodding me as she said it.
@homedad.
SAHD16/8/2011.

Like MC Hammer on helium

Home from holidays, back to normal tomorrow, just the three of us, The B, The G and me.
There's always an adjustment period in these situations, although it doesn't take long to fall back into the old routines. It's not as though tastes have changed during our break.
The old obsessions endure (for The G, it's still Fireman Sam and Baa Baa Black Sheep, for The B, it's still buses and burping).
Speaking of which, The B has, in recent days, managed to combine his two favourite pastimes, inventing a unique classification system that uses one interest (buses) to assess the merits of another (burping).
The rating system is a little rudimentary, but it is effective, going like this:
Big burp = double decker.
Small burp = single decker.
In social terms, it perhaps isn't the best, but at least it shows imagination.
Plans for tomorrow have yet to be finalised, but in addition to old favourites, there are one or two newcomers to help keep us amused. Chief amongst these is The G's latest purchase, bought over the weekend and given pride of place amongst the ever-growing pile of toys.
The B likes to spend his cash as soon as he gets it, but The G has been saving. Her funds having swelled during our time away, we realised that she had collected almost £27, a sum crying out to be spent.
Off to the shops, me hoping she'd choose books, The W keen on dressing-up outfits. The G chose straight away, making straight for a bright pink keyboard, plonking herself down on the bright pink stool and refusing to move until we agreed to take it home.
Fortunately, it was on offer, half-price, well within her means. Unfortunately, it came with a microphone that, unlike the keyboard itself, has no volume control.
The microphone is almost the size of an adult fist, yet both The B and The G seem able to fit it inside their mouths, bellowing their favourite songs at a level that is guaranteed to clear the room, if not the street.
You might have heard The G's Big Pink Piano.
Our neighbours have, that's for certain.
It's a unique sound. Think MC Hammer on helium.
I'm sure its appeal will fade with time. Until it does, ear plugs and lots of trips to the playground are on the agenda.
Bedtime tonight, I briefed them on our impending return to normality, The W destined for work in the morning, the day ours to fill.
The G looked nonplussed.
"I love you," I said to her as she headed to her bedroom.
"Yeah," she replied.
The B, at least, paid a little more attention.
"What will we do tomorrow?" he asked, just before I turned off his light.
"I'm not sure," I said. "What would you like to do?"
He thought for a minute, rolled over in his bed and burped.
In case you're wondering, it was just a single decker.
@homedad.
SAHD14/8/2011.