@homedad: September 2011

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Dangerous driving & discipline

"Naughty step. Now!!!!!!"

It seems The B has a rival in his role as our foremost Familial Enforcer.
Needless to say, it's not yours truly, for no-one here listens to me these days.
No, it's The G.
The household's smallest member can, as detailed previously, make the biggest noise.
In recent times, she has started to put it to good use, eking out a position for herself as a disciplinarian to be reckoned with.
This morning, over breakfast, The B, as is his wont, produced a sizeable belch.
The G fixed him a stern look.
"Rude!" she barked, her contempt clear.
Later, over Lego, he did something else that wasn't to her liking.
She pointed to the hall.
"Naughty step," she ordered.
The B, at first, didn't move and so The G began the count.
I stopped her at 'two', sensing that an intervention might be a good idea.
I might not have that power for much longer.
You see, I'm not sure who is in charge here these days.
Me? I don't think so. I'm always getting told off.
Two days ago, driving through the B&Q car park, the motorist in front stopped quicker than expected and, in reacting, I might perhaps have been a little heavier on the brakes than normal.
"You almost drove into that car," The B snapped from the back, bringing back bad memories of long-forgotten driving lessons.
Later, a careless youth on a BMX rode out into the road without having first looked.
I steered around him, no drama.
"You almost hit that boy," The B observed sagely.
There's no end to it.
In recent days I've told The B not to stroll around with his toothbrush in his mouth and not to lick jam from his knife having just spread his toast.
"You do it," he said in both instances.
Who am I kidding? His position as Familial Enforcer is safe.

Feel free to leave a comment or use the button above to get in touch. Thanks for reading, please keep coming to learn more about me, The B & The G and life as a stay-at-home dad. This blog is all about us, from the mundane to the momentous. This is @homedad. One man, two children: the trials & tribulations of full-time fatherhood.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Firefighters & Flying Saucer Men

The B has never been one for dressing up.
I perhaps haven't helped on that front having never provided the appropriate outfits, but that's just a hunch.
It matters not now, for it's all change here.
You see, ever since his birthday, The B has been the proud owner of one rather splendid firefighter's suit.
Its arrival in the household appears to have awakened a never-seen-before penchant for role playing.
The other day, for example, he disappeared for a short time, reappearing a little later clad in a fetching pink pom-pom hat and red glittery slippers, purloined from the The G's bedroom.
"I'm a flying saucer man," he announced.
Quite.
The firefighter's outfit, though, that's the firm favourite, so much so that it was worn for the first time outside the home environment earlier this morning.
You see, last week, for reasons unknown, The B endured rather than enjoyed our music group. This time around, I suspected, turning up in full firefighting garb might help him to have a better time.
It proved a shrewd move. From our arrival, praise aplenty, the centre of attention, The B proud as punch, commanding countless comments from the assembled adults and envious glances from his peers.
Just one slight drawback: Said suit is 100% polyester and, on a sunnier morning in a small room containing 30+ pre-schoolers, is a garment guaranteed to cause severe overheating, not quite a fire hazard, but not far off.
The temperature rising, come the end I could have used a hose to cool down a boiling B, Fireman Sam-style.
He didn't mind, of course, his morning made, the experience enhanced.
Hot but happy, I'll settle for that.

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Man Crisps & mealtimes

I have a former work colleague who loves his crisps.

Not like most people love crisps.

Not like I love them.

To him it's something more. Much more.

You see, he loves crisps. Crisps are his life. Call it an obsession, an addiction, a fixation, it doesn't begin to come close.

Potato-based snack foods are his passion, without them he'd be bereft.

One Christmas, four or five years ago, I served as his Secret Santa, the gift choice obvious.

I bought him a catering-size box of Walkers, 36 packets, all eaten long before the festive period had passed.

"Best present ever," he said.

He wasn't joking.

You might be questioning the relevance here, but trust me, there's a point to all this.

You see, I think the erstwhile colleague in question might have met his match.

It's The G.

There's nothing she enjoys more than a good crisp.

They're her favourite food bar none, no question, no comparison.

I don't mean the puffy, wheaty, flavourless organic things that the manufacturers like to market as snacks for babies. Crisps-lite, pah!

No, I mean proper crisps, the real deal, the stronger the better, there's not a flavour available in the supermarket that she'll not dispatch with relish.

The G, if asked what she'd like for her lunch, always starts in the same place.

"Crisps," she says, on good days adding a couple more components to her mealtime wishlist.

Sweet chilli proved a challenge for a time, but given practice she's proved more than up to it, not even the spicier snack-food able to sate her extraordinary appetite.

I hope it goes without saying that this isn't a situation that is encouraged here and that it's something we do like to limit.

Still, as I discovered long ago in the office environment, an addiction's an addiction and when you have a full-blown crisp habit, nothing else will do.

McCoys are The G's absolute number-one favourite, Flame-Grilled Steak flavour the best, as the marketing campaign puts it, Man Crisps.

It's not quite Annabel Karmel, but then here in the real world, it's not all courgettes and cucumbers.

Monday, 26 September 2011

Pants, paddling & personal bests

Shark: Where did everyone go?

The Olympics next summer, getting in the spirit already, thinking hard about records, performances and personal bests.

Set one such this morning, a fastest-ever time, albeit one that's not something to celebrate.
The G picked our morning activity, the local aquarium, not enormous but still, with its eclectic collection of sea life from near and far, an attraction that ought to be able to keep us occupied almost until lunchtime.
It didn't, of course. Nowhere near, in fact.
The aquarium opens at 10am. We arrived at 10.05am. We left at 10.18am.
It ought to be pointed out that our time inside included five minutes sitting inside a Peppa Pig car ride, that despite having no 50p pieces to make it move.
It might have been a PB, but it couldn't be considered a success.
So out on the streets after our 13-minute mini-visit, not yet 10.20am, most of the morning still to be filled.
Leaving the aquarium behind, we retired to the beach across the road, a bright morning, the tide out, conditions perfect.
Impromptu and unplanned, no equipment, towels or toys, The B and The G soon set about making their own entertainment.
Paddling in pants and tee-shirts, being in the ocean much more fun than looking and learning about it.
That is, until The B trod on a crab and The G tripped and fell face down in the sea.
Time then for home, but at least we'd made it through to lunch.

You don't know what you're doing!

The other day, doing something with The G, I don't remember what exactly, although in this instance, the details are not especially important.
I'm sure it was something rudimentary, let's just say, some basic parenting, playing, the simple stuff.
I must have been concentrating hard, head down, lost in thought, aware that elsewhere in the room, The W was doing something similar with The B, although again, I have no idea what it might have been.
From nowhere, breaking the spell and making me jump a little, I heard The W speak.
"You don't know what you're doing, do you?" she said.
I looked up, guilty-faced, glad to discover that she'd been talking to The B, as usual fiddling with something in a futile fashion having failed to first think it through.
I resumed the thing that I'd been doing, whatever it might have been, the relief tangible.
For a moment, I thought I'd been found out.

Sunday, 25 September 2011

The first rule of Ferrari Club.....

Just bought a car.
It's a Ferrari.
If I'm being honest, it's not mine.
To be 100% accurate, it's not a real Ferrari either.
It goes fast, though, reaching high speeds in the hall, although it can prove a touch lethargic on the playroom rug.
The car in question is radio-controlled and it belongs to The B, acquired using the cash he received for his birthday, funds that have been burning a hole in his pocket for almost a fortnight.
He has been keen to spend it, desperate in fact, so much so that he'd have bought anything just to have rid himself of it. In such times, a little parental guidance is crucial.
The other night, he commandeered the Argos catalogue, skipping all the boring sections expertly, turning to the back pages, the good stuff, the toys.
His choice? Scalextric.
The initial pick pleased me as I allowed myself to imagine the thrills and spills, the red-hot racing action and the fun-packed hours it'd fill. I then remembered the Bikegate affair.
Bikegate has taught me an important lesson, the episode highlighting the pitfalls of buying toys before their time. That is, purchasing items unsuitable for the child in question, things that are just a little too old for them.
The bike was one such folly, a Scalextric, as much we both craved it, would have been another.
You see, The B isn't quite ready, he doesn't have the required control. Scalextric might have been great fun for me, but as I had to remind myself, finding toys for me wasn't our objective.
So no Scalextric, not yet, anyway.
He took the decision well, much better than expected, in fact.
Our subsequent trip into town, bearing said funds, to scour the biggest and best toy shops around, helped to cushion the blow, it's true.
The Ferrari stood out from the start, all red and shiny, its box boasting of the speeds that it can reach and the manoeuvres it can perform.
In an instant, The B was smitten. I liked it rather a lot too.
So back home again, batteries in and away, no complicated instructions to read, just straight to the action, custom-made for our purposes.
One or two teething troubles.
Forwards and backwards, no problem. Steering, needs practice.
For the first hour or so, he'd drive it across the room and then get up and go to retrieve it. Teaching him that he can just drive the car back to himself has proved more difficult than expected, but it's coming.
The G has also been allowed a drive, although strict conditions have been applied.
You see, the car is plastic, not particularly robust, a little brittle, no match for a Matchbox.
It'll break underfoot, so the car must always be put in a safe place after use, and crashing, no matter how great its amusement value, must be kept to a minimum.
Before handing the controls over, The B gave The G a short masterclass.
"The first rule," he said in his most authoritative voice. "Don't sit on it."
I couldn't have put it better myself.

Thursday, 22 September 2011

Tying up loose ends, SAHD-style

The gingerbreads: People, not poo....

It struck me, looking back through some recent posts, that I've left one or two loose ends that need to be tied up.
I thought I'd get them done here, in one go.
I'm efficient like that.
So, here goes:
- Despite its unfortunate appearance during the production process, the gingerbread didn't taste like elephant poo. The finished product (pictured above) looked a little better too.
- The Scare Chair has reinvented itself as a state-of-the-art television seat, featuring a useful arm-based juice holder, and is proving a rather popular viewing station.
- The B still cannot pedal his bike, The G still loves it.
- Rollo's brother made it home safe and sound. It's a little sad, but he doesn't appear to have been missed in the days since.
- The G is hooked on swimming. It's tomorrow's sans B choice.
- The B has been good to his word and remains bored of buses. The Metro back in favour, he can be certified 100% 306-free.
- The G's hair remains problematic.
- I quite enjoyed Peppa Pig.
- The W did not.

This is life as a stay-at-home dad: The challenges of small children, parenting SAHD-style. Like this blog? Please share, spread the word, it couldn't be easier. Facebook, Twitter or email, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends, the more the merrier. Comments and feedback are encouraged. Please feel free to share your stories too. Just click the comment button beneath this post. Read more here. Contact me here. Thanks for reading, please keep coming to learn more about me, The B & The G and life as a stay-at-home dad. This blog is all about us, from the mundane to the momentous. This is @homedad. One man, two children: the trials & tribulations of full-time fatherhood.

Programmes, parenting & Peppa Pig

I have a confession to make.
I have never seen Peppa Pig. Not once, not for a single second.
That, despite having been a parent for a shade over four years. That has got to make me rather unusual, no?
It's no accident, it's down to full-scale, proper, dedicated avoidance.
It's The W's doing.
You see, she loathes Peppa Pig. Full-blown hates it. Can't stand it the porker.
It seems, at times, a somewhat irrational loathing, for like me, she's never, ever seen the programme.
But still, to mention Peppa Pig in our household is to suffer the severest censure. The rules on this are quite clear.
It's true that throughout, I've been content to maintain the status quo. I mean, I don't detest it quite the same (no-one does), but the Peppa Pig trailers I've seen on TV don't grab me quite the same as, for example, Fireman Sam, Fifi and the Flowertots or Thomas and Friends.
Things are about to change, however.
Having been exposed to Peppa Pig at nursery, The B and The G are keen to see a little more at home. Desperate in fact.
I tried to stand up to them - honest, I did - but following a short-lived playroom debate, I found that I lacked a persuasive argument.
"I think Peppa Pig's quite good, actually," The B said, hammering home his main point, his most earnest expression on his face, The G standing at his side in support.
I tried but, on the ropes, I couldn't counter.
Under close supervision, I've just been made to schedule a recording.
In itself, that's not so bad. I just have to break it to The W, and hope that she doesn't chuck something at me.

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Jumbo dung & gingerbread

Making gingerbread, me and The G and The B.
It smells fantastic, cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and allspice, all mixed together, the fragrance fabulous.
The best bit, the dough coming together in the mixer, all squidgy, brown and soft.
That part complete, roll it into sausages and leave to rest.
The B just looked at it, beaming as an idea formed in his mind.
"It looks like a big elephant poo on a plate," he declared, much to The G's delight.
Let's just hope that it tastes a little better.

Indians & Omerta

The B and The G are a talkative pair, their chatter incessant from morning until night.
But here's the rub: On the occasions that either of them possesses information that I need them to impart, neither has a thing to say.
To be fair, it's not just them. We have friends who have a little boy, a little under 12 months older than The B, who has just started school.
"What has he been doing?" I asked them during a break in the action at The B's recent birthday party.
"We have no idea," came the answer. "He hasn't told us."
I can sympathise, for The B and The G are just the same: ask them a question and they're guaranteed to clam up. It's like Omerta, toddler-style.
It's a little easier for us, because the staff at nursery, perhaps wise to this, send The B and The G home with a sheet that details each session's activities.
"What have you been doing this morning?" I always ask them upon their return.
"Read the sheet," is the inevitable response.
There's no such sheet at school, so I can see I'm going to have engage in some communicative exercises before The B starts next year or risk being kept in the dark.
That said, the nursery sheets often require a certain amount of interpretation.
The G's are simple: Lots of painting, had a good time, no food eaten, etc etc.
The B's, though, often leave a little more to the imagination, one recent sheet in particular more cryptic than most.
"This morning, The B has been playing with Indians," it said.
Getting him to expand on that is a forlorn hope indeed.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Terrible tigers & the chair scare

So much for being all grown-up.
The B appeared first thing this morning, terror on his face.
The cause? The tiger chair in his bedroom.
It's new, a gift given for his birthday, a popular present, it must be said, an unusual one, perhaps, but one he has enjoyed a great deal in recent days.
That is, until this morning.
"The tiger chair scared me," he said, as delicate as ever first thing.
"I don't want it in my bedroom any more."
So the chair has returned downstairs, it seems it's more acceptable there.
Following breakfast, he even sat in it for his morning Fireman Sam, the trauma forgotten, the tiger much less menacing in the playroom environment.
The B has always scared easily, it's true, his fear of loud noises just one example of his sensitive side.
The G? She's a great deal tougher, fearless, almost impossible to frighten.
The other day, The B hid in the downstairs loo - essentially, a cupboard beneath the stairs - light off, door ajar.
Exploring, The G opened it, The B leaping out at her, roaring at the top of his voice like a terrible dinosaur.
She jumped a little at first, but on the whole found the experience hilarious.
It takes a lot to scare The G.
Much more than a chair.

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Monday, 19 September 2011

The B's bike & a nervous breakdown

The B's bike: Grrrrrrrrrr

I think I just had a small breakdown. The B and his bike can do that.
It's an infuriating business, trying to get him to ride the thing.
"I'm just not bothered," he admitted earlier, fuelling a frustration that has bubbled beneath the surface for some time.
To provide a little background, The B requested a bike for his third birthday, a little over 12 months ago, a gift choice that pleased me, teaching him to ride it a real father-and-son kind of thing, like kicking a ball together or camping out, or at least, so I thought.
The truth has turned out to be somewhat different.
You see, six days after his fourth birthday, The B has still to ride said bike, not properly, at least.
In hindsight, it was perhaps acquired a little soon, three a touch too young, but four?
That's a proper bike age, four. Even The B agrees, not that it makes a difference.
For the last 12 months, ever since unwrapping it, he's been avoiding it, insisting: "I'll ride it when I'm four."
That in mind, I retrieved his bike from the garage a little earlier. He looked at it in the disdainful manner he reserves for such occasions.
He thought for a moment. "I'll ride it when I'm five," he said.
It can't be the case, of course, for the bike in question is suitable for ages three-to-five and, one year from now, he'll have outgrown it. That doesn't seem to concern him.
For the record, the issue isn't balance. Like most parents, perhaps, I'd always expected removing the stabilisers to pose the greatest problem, but our issue is much more basic.
You see, The B can't pedal, or at least he thinks he can't.
Having convinced himself that he can't move his legs in the correct manner, The B has given up trying.
I've tried encouragement, I've tried gentle coaxing, I've tried mind games and, in the last 24 hours, I've even offered bribes, but to no avail. The B and his bike are not compatible.
He no longer owns a bike, or so he says. Having decided he has no use for it, he has given his to The G.
Needless to say, she's delighted. Pink helmet in place, she's enjoying being pushed up the street and rolling down the slight slope back home afterwards.
I had hoped that seeing The G enjoying the bike so much might prompt him to reconsider his stance. It hasn't.
His loss is her gain but although The G's enjoyment has helped me recover from said breakdown and salvage something from the situation, I can't help feeling I've failed on this one.

Laying down the law, B-style

Having turned four, The B appears to think he qualifies for a promotion in the household pecking order.

He is no longer just The B, oh no.
These days, he has become The B, Familial Enforcer.
Earlier this morning, having finished her breakfast first, The G got down from the table to do a little playing.
"I'll keep an eye on her, make sure she's not being naughty," The B said to me, giving a knowing wink.
I might have imagined the wink, but you get the idea.
Later on, I called out to The G.
"What?" she replied, her newest, favourite phrase.
Once again, The Enforcer sprang into action.
"Don't say 'what', that's rude," came the inevitable admonishment.
Think Vinnie Jones in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Just smaller and less menacing, his voice higher pitched.
It'd be fine if he reserved it for the house, but he has started telling off complete strangers during our frequent outings.
"You're being naughty," he said to one misbehaving peer during a recent excursion to soft play, pointing an accusing finger at the culprit.
It gets worse.
Earlier, waiting to cross the road, a man overtook us and negotiated a safe passage through the oncoming cars.
"You didn't look," The B shouted after him.
The Enforcer strikes again.

Sunday, 18 September 2011

It's bye-bye to birthdays & Rollo's brother

Saying their farewells: Rollo and his brother

It's over at last, Birthdayfest 2011, that is.
It has been a marathon, a week-long commemoration, concluding earlier this morning with the third and final instalment in The B's fourth birthday.
Needless to say, The B has loved the lot: the party, the presents, the outings, the attention.
For others in the household this morning's closing ceremony, following the unwrapping of the last of the presents, came as rather a relief.
The G enjoyed the official birthday, she received a gift or two herself and had a great time on our tram-themed day-trip.
Yesterday's party, soft-play, sausage rolls and sweets, that too was also right up her street.
This morning? This morning was perhaps a bit too much for her.
Yet another B-centric celebration, more presents, more cards, all about The B, the attraction for her at an obvious end.
The latest gift haul, carted home from the party, was opened quickly, then leaving The W and The B to become acquainted with even more new toys, me and The G fled to the playground for a little quality time, her getting the full focus, leaving birthdays behind for an hour or so.
She's been a star throughout, it must be said, for sitting through her brother's multiple birthdays in recent days must have been a trial.
Back to normal tomorrow, the banners and balloons set to come down, the cards due to be filed, the presents all integrated into their new home.
Perhaps the biggest test of all still awaits, however.
You see, Rollo's brother is due to return home later tonight.
Please wish us luck, I suspect we'll need it.

Saturday, 17 September 2011

Boys & birthdays & gifts galore

Two birthdays? That's not a lot......

It turns out The B hasn't got as much in common with The Queen as I'd thought.

Following his official fourth birthday, earlier this week, The B's second celebration, the public one, took place earlier this afternoon.

I thought that'd mark the end of the events for 2011, but I was mistaken.

You see, we've had to schedule a third fourth birthday, if that makes sense, at this point pencilled in for first thing in the morning.

Perhaps I should explain.

This afternoon, between 4pm and 6pm, The B, 10 friends and The G all gathered at our local soft play, the occasion his first-ever full-scale party, a padded obstacle course, ice cream, bouncy castle, Lightning McQueen cake, the works.

Needless to say, all involved had a great time, all 12 (and assorted accompanying siblings) departing after two action-packed hours hot, red-cheeked, excited and exhausted.

The G's hair told the tale: sweaty, curly, more scarecrow-like than ever. In such situations, it can be a useful barometer of an event's success.

There were also gifts galore, a huge sackful to be carried back to the car, another eight in all, all still waiting to be unwrapped.

You see, it was too late to open them tonight, as it was, it was all we could do to calm them down, restore some semblance of order and get them to bed on time.

Therefore, we've organised another birthday, The B's third this week, set for tomorrow, an impressive pile of presents and cards demanding that the commemorations continue.

The party itself? It proved to be a major success: great venue, great staff, nice food, fantastic friends.

The G loved it, The B found it mind-blowing, his brain still struggling to process it all as, shattered and spent, he climbed into his bed.

"Did you have a good time?" I asked him just before turning the light out.

He thought for a moment and rolled over.

"I think so," he whispered and went straight to sleep.

Friday, 16 September 2011

Hoovers, hand-dryers & a garrulous girl

The B doesn't like loud noises.
Never has, although ever since an ill-advised trip to an air show, a little over 12 months ago, his ears have taken on super-sensitive qualities.
It was unfortunate that our arrival at said event coincided with that of the loudest plane ever built - a jet designed, in the main, to emit the most horrendous noise imaginable.
Ever since, the merest of sounds has been enough to make The B jump out of his skin. Hands clamped tight over ears is a regular pose.
The hand-dryers in public toilets are a familiar foe, but there are countless other noises guaranteed to make him squeal. The Hoover is one, power tools another.
The B doesn't have a great deal in common with our cats, it must be said, but this, this is shared ground.
There's one noise that always makes The B (and the cats) run for cover.
It's called The G.
You see, from morning until night, The G just doesn't shut up.
Chattering, shouting, laughing, bellowing, much of it at full volume, the barrage of noise that she is able to produce is incessant.
The G at her absolute loudest could be heard above the noise of the aforementioned jet plane. For someone so small, her impact on the household is enormous.
Me? I love to hear it, her singing in particular, for it is, in the main, a joyful sound, happy, excited and enthusiastic, confirmation of her contentment.
Throughout the day, The G gives a running commentary, a non-stop soliloquy, spelling out all that she does and sees, testing out new words and phrases, practising and developing her speech in the process, sharing her wonder with the world.
The B doesn't appreciate it quite the same, it must be said, the occasions on which The G's excitement gets the better of her causing him particular problems.
"I wish she'd turn it down a little bit," he said on one such occasion, earlier this week.
I don't agree.
I could listen to it all day, indeed, I do.

This is life as a stay-at-home dad: The challenges of small children, parenting SAHD-style. Like this blog? Please share, spread the word, it couldn't be easier. Facebook, Twitter or email, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends, the more the merrier. Comments and feedback are encouraged. Please feel free to share your stories too. Just click the comment button beneath this post. You can contact me at sahd2011@gmail.com. Thanks for reading, please keep coming to learn more about me, The B & The G and life as a stay-at-home dad. This blog is all about us, from the mundane to the momentous. This is @homedad. One man, two children: the trials & tribulations of full-time fatherhood.

Wading, waves & successful mornings

Swimming this morning, me and The G.
Major success: She got wet and everything.
It might sound like a given, far from it. In recent visits to the pool, The G has become water-resistant, splash-proof, our sessions proving to be short-lived.
It has been a while, but The G was adamant about our morning activity, swimming, no other options, nothing else on her agenda.
I was sceptical for obvious reasons, but following a cautious start, she loved it: Jumping in, splashing, wave machine, water slides, the works.
For the first time in ages, it was me who called time on our visit, almost an hour after our arrival on the poolside.
No exaggeration, some recent sessions have failed to last six minutes, let alone 60, this an astonishing improvement.
Showering afterwards, she gave our morning the thumbs up.
"I like swimming," she said. "Come swimming again."
Mission accomplished.

This is life as a stay-at-home dad: The challenges of small children, parenting SAHD-style. Like this blog? Please share, spread the word, it couldn't be easier. Facebook, Twitter or email, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends, the more the merrier. Comments and feedback are encouraged. Please feel free to share your stories too. Just click the comment button beneath this post. Thanks for reading, please keep coming to learn more about me, The B & The G and life as a stay-at-home dad. This blog is all about us, from the mundane to the momentous. This is @homedad. One man, two children: the trials & tribulations of full-time fatherhood.

Thursday, 15 September 2011

Straw, sweats & scarecrows

The G in her favourite hat.....

Daddies are just as proficient at full-time parenting as Mummies, of that I have no doubts.
That said, from time to time an insurmountable obstacle is encountered, a task that, as hard as we might try, men just can't complete quite as well as women.
Breastfeeding, for instance, that's one big ask for a man. I'm glad that that particular stage has passed.
The one that's getting me at this moment is time is dealing with The G's hair.
You see, men and little girls' hair just don't go together.
I've got clips and bands and grips galore, but I have no idea what to do with them.
For one thing, as The B likes to remind me, I don't have hair.
"I don't want hair like yours when I get bigger, I want hair like Mummy's," he said to me the other day.
The B I can handle, the clippers, number two attachment, Marine-style buzz-cut, job done.
The G? She's a different matter. Her hair has a life of its own.
No matter what I do, her hair is always mop-like and messy, long and thick, strands sticking out at all angles, conceivable and otherwise, like an impenetrable crash helmet plonked rudely atop her head.
Where most girls have hair, The G has straw. I've never met anyone able to look more like a scarecrow, it must be said.
The G doesn't mind her astonishing appearance. Bald for so long, she's enjoying her hair, that much I can understand.
Earlier this week, it was at its all-time worst, the combination of soft-play sweats, the windiest of days, a 90 minute nap beneath a nice, thick duvet and an afternoon spent at a coastal playground conspiring to give her the punkiest of appearances.
In such situations there's just one thing for it: a good dunking in the bath.
Behind closed doors I can just about cope, but in the outside world, I lose control as her neatly-combed and styled hair is transformed from the moment we leave the house into a bad bouffant and beyond.
It's an 'awkward, in-between stage', The W tells me.
It's not long until woolly hat season and it can't come soon enough.
@homedad.
SAHD: 15/9/2011.

Off the buses??

Bored of the bus???

The B is cured, his bus addiction, that is.
Today's trip the antidote, the most uninspiring outing of all time on the 306 holding the answer.
The B selected our morning's activity, choosing a trip on the bus over swimming and a third successive Dinosaur Golf tournament. He came to regret his pick.
The gaggle of miserable old ladies sitting across the aisle did nothing for the on-board atmosphere, their incessant moaning covering all topics from Raoul Moat to Mary's poor dog and its unfortunate end, 'put to sleep' before its time following her long-overdue admittance into a nursing home.
The B managed to tune out, but I couldn't quite manage it.
Depressing doesn't begin to cover it.
His crippling tiredness didn't help either. Lethargic on his brightest days, he came close to comatose during the outward journey, the human sloth, struggling to raise himself as the post-birthday comedown continued.
During our return, he looked at me, sadness in his eyes.
"I'm bored of the bus," he said.
Welcome to my world.
Next Thursday, he says, he'll let me devise our morning programme.
I'll believe it when I see it.
@homedad.
SAHD: 15/9/2011.

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

Keeping it quiet & The Queen

Normal service resumed, at least, as normal as things get around here.
Birthdays finished for the time being, it's a return to regular routines, a chance to calm down and to do the thing that we do best: keeping occupied, the busier the better.
Today's schedule, the hectic kind. First thing, our music group, then on to the playground. Home, time first for lunch, and then a little Fireman Sam before The G's nap, a prelude to an afternoon on the beach catching a little Autumn sunshine.
There's often a post-birthday comedown in these situations, today no different.
The crash came mid-morning, the combination of general tiredness, over-stimulation and dramatic, sudden reduction in sugar intake.
Yesterday, The G in particular ate little other than icing. Not today, sugar off the menu, somewhat Cold Turkey, on reflection perhaps no surprise that the hangover took such a hold.
Never mind, our packed programme kept trouble at bay, although it struck me a short time ago that I might have been a touch premature in consigning birthdays to the past.
You see, The B is being a little like The Queen this year and is having two.
The first one, his actual birthday, that was yesterday.
The second, this one a staged affair for public celebration, that is taking place this weekend, a soft play party, 12 children, a padded obstacle course, sausage rolls, the lot.
For this madness, I have no-one to blame except myself, for this was my idea.
To use The B's vernacular: WHY??
I have, at least, two days to steel myself, a little over 48 hours to prepare for the onslaught.
The plan is to keep those two days low-key, quiet, to keep the bubbling excitement under control as much as possible.
Tomorrow's schedule presents no problem, as The B has informed me that he has a bus ride planned.
Like I said at the top: Normal service resumed.
@homedad.
SAHD: 14/9/2011.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

Gifts, gestures & the little things in life

Further to the previous post about birthdays, a quick recollection from this morning.
Thinking about The B's present pile and the items most popular.
One thing stands out, not a present per se, but a gift nonetheless, a kind gesture, something small that had a big impact.
It's always the little things that make the difference.
On our outing, taking the tram, our kind-hearted conductor, having overheard us talking about The B's birthday, asked if, as a special treat, he'd like to ring the bell to inform the driver that we were all set to leave.
The B leapt at the chance and, having performed his task with relish, received an ovation from his fellow passengers in return.
Nice touch, but there was more to come.
Later, during the afternoon, we just so happened to catch the same tram back to the car park.
The conductor, recognising The B from several hours earlier, asked if he'd enjoyed his special trip.
The B beamed.
Having waited until the conductor in question was out of earshot, he turned to us, proud as punch, the broadest grin on his face.
"He called me Birthday Boy," he declared.
It made his day, and that made mine.
@homedad.
SAHD: 13/9/2011.

Tiredness, trams & terrible timekeeping

Birthdays, eh?
Good times, for sure, but thank goodness they're an annual event. I couldn't take them occurring more often.
The B has had a great day, The G too.
They're shattered, both in bed, asleep already, The W and me not all that far behind.
In the last 24 hours, he has gone from being a three-year-old to a four-year-old.
I feel I've aged much more during a frenetic period.
It matters not, of course. He got to ride on his tram and an old bus too, The G in tandem, both enjoying our outing and some rather splendid gifts.
The G's favourite is the latest Fireman Sam DVD, The Great Fire of Pontypandy, a present that she appears to have assumed ownership of.
The B is still working through the pile, but has taken quite a shine to his new wristwatch. It's a good one, a camouflage strap and a helicopter second hand.
He's kept it on all day, from time to time pulling up his sleeve to ensure that passers-by can see it.
"What's the time?" we've been asking him all day, his answers always amusing.
"Ten-to-two?" he'll offer first. Then "Half-past five?".
He might attempt "Quarter-past seven?" Then he'll admit "I don't know."
He's enjoyed wearing his watch so much he wanted to keep it on to go to bed in.
He wasn't allowed, of course, having to settle for another present instead, this one his gift from The G.
Pyjamas. Fireman Sam ones, of course.
@homedad.
SAHD: 13/9/2011.

Happy B-day!

So here it is at last, The B's latest birthday, the fourth one so far.
Yes, for the fifth September 13th running, today's all about The B, although it's an occasion The G is relishing almost as much.
There are going to be balloons, after all.
So it's four years since The B came kicking and screaming into our lives. He's given up the kicking, I'm pleased to report, but even all this time later, he's still known to do a little screaming. Not today, though.
It's three-and-a-half years since I quit a job that had begun to drive me nuts in order to do this.
Life changing stuff.
This role can also drive me nuts from time to time, it's true, but it offers a greater rewards package, days like today, a case in point.
I'll have to find time to dwell on this a little later, because I'm going to be a little tied up for the foreseeable future, helping to open presents, inserting the appropriate batteries and screws and making sufficient jellies for tea.
I'm pleased to report that The W isn't working today. Pleased because it's nice to spend birthdays together, pleased also because she handles a screwdriver better than me and there are toys here that require assembling.
There's a special outing on the cards later, The B keen to see some trams, The G just as excited although not entirely certain what a tram is. So we're off out soon, the four of us, The B and me, The W and The G. I imagine one or two extra passengers might also tag along for the ride, Rollo and his brother the likeliest candidates, but that's OK, the more the merrier.
It's happy birthday to The B and the happiest of days beckons.
@homedad.
SAHD: 13/9/2011.

Monday, 12 September 2011

"I like hooters......"

So here it is, the aforementioned secret stash, an impressive present pile, gifts galore, all set for tomorrow's main event.
In truth, The B would be content with a large slice of cake and half-a-dozen balloons, so it's clear that there's more than enough here.
Thinking about it, that's not quite accurate, for there is one more thing that he has requested.
One of these:

I think that's what he wants, anyway, but to be honest, his request required a fair degree of interpretation.
It came during a discussion about the things he'd like me to organise for tomorrow's celebrations.
He looked me in the eye, thought for a moment and gave the following answer (exact wordage here):
"Daddy, I like hooters."
@homedad.
SAHD: 12/09/2011.

Secret stash discovered

Tomorrow's the big day, The B's birthday, his fourth, the excitement almost at an unbearable level here.
The gifts have been piling up for several weeks: like The B, the heap is even bigger than last year.
They've been stored in the spare bedroom, hidden beneath a sheet, an attempt to stop him seeing them before the 13th, a bid to maintain the magic.
It has, of course, all been in vain.
On Friday, a parcel arrived, an obvious present, The B himself taking it from the postman.
"It's for me," he announced. "It's a present, for my birthday."
The game up, I asked him what he thought I should do with it.
"Put it with all the others," he said. "In the spare room. Beneath the sheet."
So much for secrets.
@homedad.
SAHD: 12/09/2011.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

Guten Abend Deutschland!

I never imagined I'd be saying this, but I'm feeling a little like David Hasselhoff here.
It's not that I have a talking car, more's the pity, or that I'm enjoying the lifeguard's lifestyle and clearly, it's not the hair.
No, it's that like The Hoff, I am, for unfathomable reasons, rather popular amongst the German people.
Not I, so much, as this blog.
You see, as the statistics can prove, nowhere outside the UK has this blog got a greater following than it does in Deutschland.
I can't understand it, but I'm not complaining. I've always had a soft spot for Germany, a trait that I've passed on to The B, who considers it his favourite nation.
His reasoning is that it is in Germany, in Hamburg, to be precise, that the world's largest model railway, Miniatur Wunderland, can be found.
Having spent hours studying footage from Miniatur Wunderland on YouTube, it's The B's dream to go there. It's a dream I aim to fulfil in the foreseeable future.
That in mind, I perhaps ought to brush up on some long-neglected language skills.
Please bear with me.
Guten Abend. Danke furs Lesen und halten Sie bitte Ihren Besuch!
I hope that made sense.
@homedad.
SAHD: 11/09/2011.

When @homedad met Mumsnet

Exciting news from @homedad HQ, where we're delighted to have joined forces with Mumsnet.
Earlier today, this blog became an approved member of the Mumsnet Bloggers Network.
Given that Mumsnet is the biggest online parenting resource in the UK, this is a major development and a great opportunity.
I'm looking forward to reaching a new audience and welcome all readers to our strange little world. Thanks for visiting, be sure to come back!
@homedad.
SAHD 11/09/2011.

A milky mutt & Rollo's brother

Separated at birth: The Rollo twins reunited.

The B has countless friends.
There are thousands. Some of them are even real.
Of the rest, some are imaginary, the others - the majority, these - are stuffed . . . .
Soft toys, or as he calls them, his friends.
He loves them all, none more so than Rollo.
Rollo is a small bean-filled dog, a gift for The B as a newborn - given almost four years ago, not put down since and still going strong.
Rollo is, or rather was, white.
These days he has gone a little grey. This I can relate too.
The B has slept with Rollo every night since the pair first became acquainted in 2007, their friendship strong, the bond unbreakable.
During his first year, The B could be, well, a little sicky, at bedtime in particular.
Once or twice, poor Rollo found himself caught in the crossfire and required a machine wash. It was at that point we decided it'd be best to have a stand-in, a Rollo for emergencies.
Such a substitute acquired, he was used once or twice but, as The B outgrew his unfortunate bedtime habit, Rollo Mark II found a new home, quiet and clean, the back of the wardrobe.
There he stayed, pristine and perfect. Until this week.
Two days ago, bedtime fast approaching, The B spilled a cup of milk all over his favourite hound.
Not enough time to get him dry, we suggested that perhaps The B could go to bed, just this once, sans Rollo.
His face made it clear that this idea was a non-starter.
Thinking quickly, we located substitute Rollo.
The B looked at him, all plump, unblemished and white.
"That's not Rollo," he said.
So we told him it was Rollo's brother, here for a visit, suggesting that perhaps he instead of Rollo might like to share The B's bed for a change.
The B agreed, under duress, concern all over his face.
He managed two minutes in the dark with MK II before the tears came.
No other choice: damp, milk-soaked Rollo had to be summoned from the radiator, joining The B and his brother, normal service resumed.
We've always wondered what'd happen if ever we lost Rollo. Now we know.
Anyway, in the days since, The B has taken quite a shine to Rollo's brother. They've become rather close, inseparable, in fact.
Earlier today, we talked about how Rollo's brother's visit is almost over and how he'll need to go home soon.
"After my birthday," The B said. Tuesday's the big day, although he has since bought himself a further four days by inviting Rollo's brother to his soft-play party, next weekend.
Me? I suspect he's here for the long haul.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

Christmas dancing & The ZeeBees

The school term in full swing, time to resume our regular routines.
One thing we're looking forward to this week is the return of our local music group, once-a-week, singing and dancing, fun galore, a favourite for The B, The G and me alike.
Music is important to us here and we've missed our melodies during the enforced summer break.
Indeed, in an attempt to fill the gap, the radio has been on more than normal in recent times.
I like to test some old favourites out on the children from time to time, although they're quite a tough crowd.
Last week, iPod on, I attempted to introduce them to one or two different sounds, even joining in during the best bits.
The B looked at me: sceptical, almost embarrassed.
"Your singing's naughty," he said in cold tones.
Perhaps, I thought, some amusing dancing might help.
It didn't.
"That's Christmas dancing," The B said.
I stopped, confused, looking to him for clarification.
The B sighed. "It's not Christmas," he explained.
So once again the iPod was switched off and, as usual, we settled for The B and G's favourite, The Ultimate BeeGees.
The children bought this CD for The W last month, a birthday present, and ever since it has been played in the playroom almost non-stop.
Nowadays, if ever the radio is switched on, no matter what might be being broadcast, The B will enquire: "Is this The BeeGees?"
He doesn't always get it right.
This morning, breakfast time not an appropriate time for 1970s disco music, I tuned the radio into Classic FM.
The B looked up from his cereal.
"Is this the ZeeBees?" he asked.
@homedad.
SAHD: 10/9/2011.

Two slides, curly, curly, bubble me

Breakfast time, watching The G licking jam from her elbow. So proud.
She's not at her most impressive at mealtimes, it must be said.
But sarcasm aside, we are so proud of the rapid progress she's making, in no area more so than her speech.
You see, what she lacks at the table she more than makes up for in talking.
Jibber-jabber, from morning until night, often not hesitating to take a breath for what feels like several hours.
Her words are much clearer these days, everyone understanding much more.
That said, we've still got our secret language, me and The G, a code no-one else knows. I hope that lasts a little longer.
Yesterday, for example, The G craved a trip to the playground.
There are two near us. One, she calls 'two slides' because, well, it has two slides. The other is known as 'curly, curly' due to its slide's helter-skelter shape.
Yesterday, it was 'two slides', our presence defying the elements. Following overnight rain, everything was sodden, but it mattered little to The G, anorak on, waterproof trousers, wellies, the works.
No-one else braved it, their loss our gain.
There's nothing quite as exhilarating for a two-year-old than negotiating a soaking slide in waterproofs.
She was beyond fast, a blur, her descent made in record time.
Mud at the bottom, quite a mess, time to go home for another secret communication.
This time it came during the clean-up operation.
"Bubble me," she said.
For those outside our immediate circle, that means: "Daddy, please could you wash my hands?"
@homedad.
SAHD: 10/9/2011.

Friday, 9 September 2011

Pea for pizza

From this.......

......to this.

Ever had a pea pizza?

No?

Here's some advice. Don't.

I tried it tonight for the first time. Not a taste sensation.

To be fair, it wasn't an idea I had myself.

Blame The B, a phrase often heard in our house.

Pizza night here tonight, an event to look forward to, a meal to savour.

It's much more than a meal, though. It's a full afternoon activity, an event that occupies The B and The G for several hours.

There's the dough to do, for starters. The measuring and the mixing takes a little time but nothing like the kneading. They'll do that until the cows come home. It's like Playdoh with a purpose.

That purpose? To make something that tastes great for tea, of course, so after it has rested and risen and been rolled, the crucial part: the toppings.

Peas were The B's idea. I tried to discourage him, but he was adamant. He said he'd seen it on Big Cook Little Cook and that it'd looked nice.

It wasn't, of course.

I should have stood firm, for in matters of taste, it pays to do so.

I had to put my foot down yesterday, when he made an unusual request for lunch: a ham and garlic sandwich.

I'm starting to wish I'd just let him have it.

@homedad.

SAHD: 9/9/2011.

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