Pre-bedtime TV, earlier this evening, The B's turn to choose the programme.
He sprang a surprise.
"The Little Princess please," he said, his cheeks reddening, his embarrassment clear.
It was a good one, though, all about a tadpole, the episode leading to an impromptu nature quiz.
Me: "What do tadpoles grow into?"
The B: "Frogs?"
Impressed, I thought I'd try another.
Me: "What do caterpillars grow into?"
The B: "Butterflies."
There followed a short pause as he tried to work something out in his head.
The B: "What do dogs grow into?"
One question too far.
It was a good day today, this morning The B at nursery, me and The G doing a little shopping and then heading to the playground.
Later, post-nap (hers, not mine, I'm sad to report), the three of us went for a special treat, the ice cream parlour, two scoops each.
Me: Strawberry and Cookies & Cream.
The G: Caramel and Chocolate Flake.
The B: Bubblegum and Turkish Delight.
The G's was the tastiest, The B's the most colourful.
It took a couple of hours for the effects of the E-numbers to wear off.
Still, it was nice, the three of us together. Just the three of us, that is.
It'll be the last time for a couple of weeks, holidays start tomorrow, visiting family, both sets of grandparents.
This is it for a while, I'm taking a break. From the blog, from being a SAHD.
But never fear, I shall return, the respite is sure to be short-lived.
The B and The G will see to that.
@homedad.
SAHD: 29/7/2011.
Friday, 29 July 2011
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Cleaning cars & speeding
Foiled on the fingernail front (see previous post), I tackled another of the least-appealing chores to feature on the unwanted jobs list this afternoon.
Hoovering the car: can there be anything that daunts a SAHD more?
I think not.
Just imagine it for a moment: the death of a thousand cereal bars.
Several hundred raisins, sand from the beach and countless crisp crumbs, all mixed up together and deposited in all available nooks and crannies throughout the car, front and back
The mixture is at its most concentrated in the creases and recesses in both child seats, although The G's is the messiest.
You get used to it, but it can be ignored no more.
There is clear motivation for doing this particular job. There has to be.
Two days ago, we met up with friends who, upon greeting children still strapped into their seats, couldn't disguise their disgust at The B&G's travelling environment.
This weekend, we're visiting the grandparents and a clean car is always a good idea in such situations.
The determining factor, the thing that made me reach for the vacuum cleaner, was seeing The G digging down into the furthest seams of her car seat, earlier this afternoon, to liberate (that is, eat) all available mixture - crumbs, raisins, sand, the lot. Not a pleasant sight.
So the car's clean again, although it won't last. So crucial are snacks on long journeys that a fresh mixture is sure to have been concocted long before our scheduled arrival.
It promises to be a long trip, especially given The B's latest travel-based interest.
Having grown just enough to be able to see the car's speedometer from his position in the back, he has taken to spending journeys commenting on the car's speed and posing unanswerable questions about the limits pertaining to different road types.
"What's the speed limit here?" he asked at one point this afternoon.
"Forty," I told him.
"But you're doing fifty," he squealed, a terrified look on his face. "I'm not safe!"
So it turns out I can't drive the car properly, but at least I did a decent job cleaning it.
Just the house to do now.
@homedad.
SAHD: 28/7/2011.
Hoovering the car: can there be anything that daunts a SAHD more?
I think not.
Just imagine it for a moment: the death of a thousand cereal bars.
Several hundred raisins, sand from the beach and countless crisp crumbs, all mixed up together and deposited in all available nooks and crannies throughout the car, front and back
The mixture is at its most concentrated in the creases and recesses in both child seats, although The G's is the messiest.
You get used to it, but it can be ignored no more.
There is clear motivation for doing this particular job. There has to be.
Two days ago, we met up with friends who, upon greeting children still strapped into their seats, couldn't disguise their disgust at The B&G's travelling environment.
This weekend, we're visiting the grandparents and a clean car is always a good idea in such situations.
The determining factor, the thing that made me reach for the vacuum cleaner, was seeing The G digging down into the furthest seams of her car seat, earlier this afternoon, to liberate (that is, eat) all available mixture - crumbs, raisins, sand, the lot. Not a pleasant sight.
So the car's clean again, although it won't last. So crucial are snacks on long journeys that a fresh mixture is sure to have been concocted long before our scheduled arrival.
It promises to be a long trip, especially given The B's latest travel-based interest.
Having grown just enough to be able to see the car's speedometer from his position in the back, he has taken to spending journeys commenting on the car's speed and posing unanswerable questions about the limits pertaining to different road types.
"What's the speed limit here?" he asked at one point this afternoon.
"Forty," I told him.
"But you're doing fifty," he squealed, a terrified look on his face. "I'm not safe!"
So it turns out I can't drive the car properly, but at least I did a decent job cleaning it.
Just the house to do now.
@homedad.
SAHD: 28/7/2011.
Monster fingers & bouncy castles
Thursday, B time, his turn to choose, anything at all.
Soft play, school holidays, chaos.
Quiet at first, it soon fills up, bodies everywhere.
Head upstairs, there are four levels, the higher the better.
The basic rule: the greater the climb, the quieter is it.
Reach the summit, there's a bouncy castle. No-one else there so I decide to have a go.
"Not you, Daddy," The B says. "You're too big."
Put in place, I return to the sidelines, a spectator's role, The B having all the fun.
Bored, I start to toss a coin, absent minded, not thinking about it.
The B is entranced, I have his attention at last, perhaps this is something we can do together.
I ask if he'd like me to teach him.
"No thank-you," he says. "I'm too busy."
Back home again, I attempt to tackle a job that is long overdue.
It's a job that I've been putting off for some days, a job no-one likes: fingernails.
The B resists - as usual - refusing the manicure, despite his nails having grown to a length that is causing me some concern.
It doesn't concern The B. He likes them long.
He spreads them out to admire.
"They're like monster fingers," he says.
Lunch in the garden, nice and hot, the sun shining at last, then off to collect The G from nursery, a pleasant stroll before the inevitable return to chaos.
This afternoon's plans?
Perhaps the beach.
It's not always the easiest, but this job has its moments.
@homedad.
SAHD: 28/7/2011.
Soft play, school holidays, chaos.
Quiet at first, it soon fills up, bodies everywhere.
Head upstairs, there are four levels, the higher the better.
The basic rule: the greater the climb, the quieter is it.
Reach the summit, there's a bouncy castle. No-one else there so I decide to have a go.
"Not you, Daddy," The B says. "You're too big."
Put in place, I return to the sidelines, a spectator's role, The B having all the fun.
Bored, I start to toss a coin, absent minded, not thinking about it.
The B is entranced, I have his attention at last, perhaps this is something we can do together.
I ask if he'd like me to teach him.
"No thank-you," he says. "I'm too busy."
Back home again, I attempt to tackle a job that is long overdue.
It's a job that I've been putting off for some days, a job no-one likes: fingernails.
The B resists - as usual - refusing the manicure, despite his nails having grown to a length that is causing me some concern.
It doesn't concern The B. He likes them long.
He spreads them out to admire.
"They're like monster fingers," he says.
Lunch in the garden, nice and hot, the sun shining at last, then off to collect The G from nursery, a pleasant stroll before the inevitable return to chaos.
This afternoon's plans?
Perhaps the beach.
It's not always the easiest, but this job has its moments.
@homedad.
SAHD: 28/7/2011.
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Train therapy & toilets
This bus addiction persists.
Day, night, it matters not. The B's mind is on the buses.
"I dreamt about buses last night," he said over breakfast this morning, the 10th morning in succession.
"It was just me and The G," he continued.
"We were both riding on the bus. You weren't there."
Did that not, I asked, seem a little strange given that the three of us do everything together?
"No," he said in a matter-of-fact fashion.
"I liked it.
"It was good without you."
Charming.
Trying to devise a cure for the bus addiction, I thought a little train therapy might help, so we headed for the car and on into town, to the railway station - the big train station, as The B likes to call it.
Such a trip has always ranked amongst The B's favourite outings, although we've not been for quite a while.
The G likes it too and the suggestion prompted great excitement in the post-breakfast period.
The G also likes lavatories and, during our subsequent expedition, I'm afraid we spent as much time inspecting toilets as trains. It doesn't matter where we go, the bathroom facilities - in their minds, at least - are an attraction in their own right.
Green soap or pink?
Hand-dryer or paper towel?
Handle flush or button?
These things all have to be checked out.
The toilets sussed out during four separate trips inside 60 minutes, we even had time to check out some trains.
Then back to the car, the drive home, talking about all the engines we'd seen.
For a time, I thought I'd cracked it, buses didn't merit a mention.
Then the number 306 approached.
"That's the bus I was on in my dream, Daddy," I heard The B pipe up from the back.
"The one I was on without you."
"Really?" I sighed.
"Yes," he beamed. "It was great."
@homedad.
SAHD: 27/7/2011
Day, night, it matters not. The B's mind is on the buses.
"I dreamt about buses last night," he said over breakfast this morning, the 10th morning in succession.
"It was just me and The G," he continued.
"We were both riding on the bus. You weren't there."
Did that not, I asked, seem a little strange given that the three of us do everything together?
"No," he said in a matter-of-fact fashion.
"I liked it.
"It was good without you."
Charming.
Trying to devise a cure for the bus addiction, I thought a little train therapy might help, so we headed for the car and on into town, to the railway station - the big train station, as The B likes to call it.
Such a trip has always ranked amongst The B's favourite outings, although we've not been for quite a while.
The G likes it too and the suggestion prompted great excitement in the post-breakfast period.
The G also likes lavatories and, during our subsequent expedition, I'm afraid we spent as much time inspecting toilets as trains. It doesn't matter where we go, the bathroom facilities - in their minds, at least - are an attraction in their own right.
Green soap or pink?
Hand-dryer or paper towel?
Handle flush or button?
These things all have to be checked out.
The toilets sussed out during four separate trips inside 60 minutes, we even had time to check out some trains.
Then back to the car, the drive home, talking about all the engines we'd seen.
For a time, I thought I'd cracked it, buses didn't merit a mention.
Then the number 306 approached.
"That's the bus I was on in my dream, Daddy," I heard The B pipe up from the back.
"The one I was on without you."
"Really?" I sighed.
"Yes," he beamed. "It was great."
@homedad.
SAHD: 27/7/2011
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Yoghurt and yard sales
Emergency! No yoghurt to be found anywhere in the house.
Unscheduled trip to Sainsburys required, The B and The G grumble, but there's nothing else for it.
Supermarket a success, but heading home we're waylaid by children from the next street. It's the first day of the school summer holidays and they're spending it selling unwanted toys from their driveway.
Under pressure, it's agreed that we'll take a quick look, albeit with a warning that, having spent most of our cash on yoghurt, available funds are in short supply.
It turns out that it matters not: their entire stock would cost less than a fiver.
The B spots a giant yellow radio controlled car, The G an In the Night Garden alarm clock.
Total cost £1.50. Bargain.
Both are in need of batteries so we can't test them, but we make the purchase in good faith.
Back home, screwdriver out, covers off, the real cost becomes clear: The car, five batteries. The control panel, three batteries. The clock, three batteries.
Total batteries required: 11. Batteries in cupboard: three.
There follows a scramble around the house, removing batteries from various remote control units, TV, DVD player, VCR, hi-fi.
Batteries in, car not working, The B's face falls. I feel I've had one.
More batteries needed, this time borrowed from clocks, other toys, torches, anything that can be found that is battery-powered.
Success, the car works and so too the clock.
It's at that point that the horrible truth dawns. It's the noise, the awful noise. The revving engine, screeching brakes, honking horn and squealing tyres from the car, the sound effects and full gamut of Night Garden songs from the clock. I can't hear myself think.
This was yesterday, the afternoon cacophonous, head-ache inspiring.
This morning it's much quieter, The B and The G both at nursery, the silence golden.
I'm not sure what the time is, the clocks aren't working, must get some more batteries.
Neither can I turn the TV over, the remote controls powerless, the childrens' channels all I can access.
Neither can I turn the TV over, the remote controls powerless, the childrens' channels all I can access.
Fifi and the Flowertots is on, though and it's a good one, a personal favourite: Stingo's enormous carrot.
Who needs The B and the G around to be childish?
@homedad.
SAHD: 26/7/2011
Monday, 25 July 2011
Burping and bubble wrap
Breakfast time, Cheerios and juice all round, apple for The G, cranberry for The B.
The latter gulps his drink down, finishing with the deafening burp that has become an unfortunate post-meal custom in recent times.
Cue great hilarity, at least from The B and The G.
To toddlers, it seems, there's little funnier than belching, the louder the better.
Sometimes it can be amusing, I admit, but on this occasion I decline to join in the laughter, instead seizing the opportunity to start a discussion about manners and the reasons for trying to burp, if one has to, in as quiet a fashion as possible.
It's no surprise that the social niceties involved in said discussion are lost on The B and The G.
The G just looks bemused, The B as though he's going to start crying.
His face crumples.
I decide this is perhaps one for another time.
Instead, a game of hide-and-seek baby, using The G's favourite doll, me secreting it somewhere around the house, them locating it. The game starts well, although its initial promise fades around the point when The G realises that it isn't the same if, as she demands, she does both the hiding and the seeking.
"Why?" she asks, the first time I've heard it from her, not the last time, I'm sure.
"That's what I say," says The B, looking a little aggrieved, his catchphrase stolen.
Mondays are our laziest morning, nothing in particular to get dressed for. Pyjamas are often still being worn at 10am, The B and The G in disagreement as always as to who should put their clothes on first.
"The B first," says The G.
"The G first," says The B.
Stalemate ensues, a snack-based bribe required to break the impasse.
Then it's out: first to the library, then the sorting office to collect the replacement for The B's meal-reward treat, delivered broken last week.
Back home, he plays with the contents, The G with the bubble wrap it came in, I make lunch.
"I love cheese on toast," The B declares, demolishing the lot in record time before delivering another sizeable burp.
He looks up, a little shame-faced.
"It wasn't as loud as the last one," he says in defensive fashion.
It's a start.
@homedad.
The latter gulps his drink down, finishing with the deafening burp that has become an unfortunate post-meal custom in recent times.
Cue great hilarity, at least from The B and The G.
To toddlers, it seems, there's little funnier than belching, the louder the better.
Sometimes it can be amusing, I admit, but on this occasion I decline to join in the laughter, instead seizing the opportunity to start a discussion about manners and the reasons for trying to burp, if one has to, in as quiet a fashion as possible.
It's no surprise that the social niceties involved in said discussion are lost on The B and The G.
The G just looks bemused, The B as though he's going to start crying.
His face crumples.
I decide this is perhaps one for another time.
Instead, a game of hide-and-seek baby, using The G's favourite doll, me secreting it somewhere around the house, them locating it. The game starts well, although its initial promise fades around the point when The G realises that it isn't the same if, as she demands, she does both the hiding and the seeking.
"Why?" she asks, the first time I've heard it from her, not the last time, I'm sure.
"That's what I say," says The B, looking a little aggrieved, his catchphrase stolen.
Mondays are our laziest morning, nothing in particular to get dressed for. Pyjamas are often still being worn at 10am, The B and The G in disagreement as always as to who should put their clothes on first.
"The B first," says The G.
"The G first," says The B.
Stalemate ensues, a snack-based bribe required to break the impasse.
Then it's out: first to the library, then the sorting office to collect the replacement for The B's meal-reward treat, delivered broken last week.
Back home, he plays with the contents, The G with the bubble wrap it came in, I make lunch.
"I love cheese on toast," The B declares, demolishing the lot in record time before delivering another sizeable burp.
He looks up, a little shame-faced.
"It wasn't as loud as the last one," he says in defensive fashion.
It's a start.
@homedad.
SAHD: 25/7/2011
Sunday, 24 July 2011
The magic of weeding
The front drive needs weeding. I ask The B if he'd like to help me and I get his best suspicious look.
He thinks for a moment, eyeing the broom I'm holding.
"Can I have a go with that?" he asks.
I nod.
"I like weeding," he says.
Ten minutes later and I've taken several blows from said broom. Both cars have also taken a hit.
"Weeding's great," he says.
The great comes out g-r-r-r-r-r-eat!
Think the Frosties Tiger.
It's something he's trying out. Last week, everything was cool. Later, post-weeding, we go to the playground, the basket swing the highlight.
"That's fantastic!" he says.
Back to the weeding, we get into a pattern. I remove weeds, he sweeps them up and puts them in the bucket. Our next-door neighbour stops to check our progress.
"Weeding's great," he tells her, all proud, brandishing his broom, requiring her to take evasive action. The B and the broom are a dangerous combination.
The G comes to see what we're doing.
"Weeding's great," The B tells her.
I ask if she'd like to help.
"I don't," she says, her standard response to most questions at the minute.
The G cannot be fooled quite the same as The B. The G requires proper entertainment, chores just don't cut it.
I suspect we'll have to find something good to do this week.
It might be great, but the magic of weeding can only do so much.
@homedad.
He thinks for a moment, eyeing the broom I'm holding.
"Can I have a go with that?" he asks.
I nod.
"I like weeding," he says.
Ten minutes later and I've taken several blows from said broom. Both cars have also taken a hit.
"Weeding's great," he says.
The great comes out g-r-r-r-r-r-eat!
Think the Frosties Tiger.
It's something he's trying out. Last week, everything was cool. Later, post-weeding, we go to the playground, the basket swing the highlight.
"That's fantastic!" he says.
Back to the weeding, we get into a pattern. I remove weeds, he sweeps them up and puts them in the bucket. Our next-door neighbour stops to check our progress.
"Weeding's great," he tells her, all proud, brandishing his broom, requiring her to take evasive action. The B and the broom are a dangerous combination.
The G comes to see what we're doing.
"Weeding's great," The B tells her.
I ask if she'd like to help.
"I don't," she says, her standard response to most questions at the minute.
The G cannot be fooled quite the same as The B. The G requires proper entertainment, chores just don't cut it.
I suspect we'll have to find something good to do this week.
It might be great, but the magic of weeding can only do so much.
@homedad.
SAHD: 24/7/2011
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Marmite sandwiches and lemon sorbet
Strange tastes these toddlers have.
Offer them the basics, staple items from normal toddler diets, and noses are turned up.
Offer them toast and Marmite and neither can get enough.
The G has a standard response to the question What would you like for your lunch?
Referring to her favourite sandwiches, she barks back in no uncertain fashion:
"Jam. Bovril."
Not in the same sandwich, you understand, but still. That has to be unusual, no?
The G is allergic to fruit. Not actually allergic, not in a medical sense. But allergic in the sense that anything organic - anything to have grown on a tree, bush or in a field - is not passing her lips.
Strawberry? Raspberry? Peach? Forget about it.
Marmite sandwich? Go on then.
The B, the fussiest of eaters through the first stages of toddlerhood, is much better, although he isn't without his own eccentricities.
"Could I have a cup of tea please Daddy?" he just asked.
It's not the most unusual thing that he'll drink.
In recent days, he has acquired a taste for grapefruit juice.
Sour doesn't seem to faze. His favourite pudding at the moment is lemon sorbet, proper lemon sorbet, the real screw-up-your face kind, the good stuff.
The G, her tooth is sweeter.
For breakfast this morning, toast served four ways: honey, blackcurrant jam, lemon curd and chocolate spread.
Perhaps her tastes are not so strange after all.
@homedad.
Offer them the basics, staple items from normal toddler diets, and noses are turned up.
Offer them toast and Marmite and neither can get enough.
The G has a standard response to the question What would you like for your lunch?
Referring to her favourite sandwiches, she barks back in no uncertain fashion:
"Jam. Bovril."
Not in the same sandwich, you understand, but still. That has to be unusual, no?
The G is allergic to fruit. Not actually allergic, not in a medical sense. But allergic in the sense that anything organic - anything to have grown on a tree, bush or in a field - is not passing her lips.
Strawberry? Raspberry? Peach? Forget about it.
Marmite sandwich? Go on then.
The B, the fussiest of eaters through the first stages of toddlerhood, is much better, although he isn't without his own eccentricities.
"Could I have a cup of tea please Daddy?" he just asked.
It's not the most unusual thing that he'll drink.
In recent days, he has acquired a taste for grapefruit juice.
Sour doesn't seem to faze. His favourite pudding at the moment is lemon sorbet, proper lemon sorbet, the real screw-up-your face kind, the good stuff.
The G, her tooth is sweeter.
For breakfast this morning, toast served four ways: honey, blackcurrant jam, lemon curd and chocolate spread.
Perhaps her tastes are not so strange after all.
@homedad.
SAHD: 23/7/2011
Friday, 22 July 2011
Bat out of Hell!
Fridays: The G's time, the mornings at least, The B dispatched to nursery, proud as punch, looking cool in his latest T-shirt, bright red, Lightning McQueen.
Back home, time to kill.
The G's choice: a bike ride. Into the abyss that is the garage, locate the old bone-shaker, inflate the flat tyres, search for helmets, the G's fitting much better post-haircut, I note.
Nothing brings The G's bossiness out more than a bike ride, me doing all the work, her directing operations from her comfortable child seat at the rear.
The end of the road, she points to the right.
"That way," she demands.
I turn left, just to annoy, she tickles me.
Lose control for a moment, almost crash into a bus stop. Quick pit stop, agree a no-tickling rule.
Get there in one piece.
Destination: playground. The clientele mixed as always.
One child challenges his Granddad. "Hit me if you dare," he shouts, running towards him.
Granddad obliges, delivering a not-insignificant slap to the back of surprised boy's head.
"I dare," he says.
There's time for a snack - raisins, The G's current favourite - and a good go on everything, The G mastering the challenging cargo nets and climbing walls that stand between her and the tops of the slides now that ladders have become an endangered species in the playground environment.
Then it's back on the bike, racing a rain cloud that threatens to soak us at any moment, Bat-out-of-Hell style.
High speeds are reached, as is home, nice and dry, our mission a success.
Lightning McQueen himself couldn't have kept pace with us on the return trip.
I'll be sure to tell The B.
@homedad.
Back home, time to kill.
The G's choice: a bike ride. Into the abyss that is the garage, locate the old bone-shaker, inflate the flat tyres, search for helmets, the G's fitting much better post-haircut, I note.
Nothing brings The G's bossiness out more than a bike ride, me doing all the work, her directing operations from her comfortable child seat at the rear.
The end of the road, she points to the right.
"That way," she demands.
I turn left, just to annoy, she tickles me.
Lose control for a moment, almost crash into a bus stop. Quick pit stop, agree a no-tickling rule.
Get there in one piece.
Destination: playground. The clientele mixed as always.
One child challenges his Granddad. "Hit me if you dare," he shouts, running towards him.
Granddad obliges, delivering a not-insignificant slap to the back of surprised boy's head.
"I dare," he says.
There's time for a snack - raisins, The G's current favourite - and a good go on everything, The G mastering the challenging cargo nets and climbing walls that stand between her and the tops of the slides now that ladders have become an endangered species in the playground environment.
Then it's back on the bike, racing a rain cloud that threatens to soak us at any moment, Bat-out-of-Hell style.
High speeds are reached, as is home, nice and dry, our mission a success.
Lightning McQueen himself couldn't have kept pace with us on the return trip.
I'll be sure to tell The B.
@homedad.
SAHD: 22/7/2011
Thursday, 21 July 2011
A cut above
I can handle most things in my role as a stay-at-home dad (or a SAHD, as I'm told we're now known).
Taking The G to the hairdresser, however, isn't one of them.
It had to be done. She's been just once before - not the happiest of experiences - and her fringe was taking on such mop-like proportions that in recent days she's not been able to see an awful lot.
Time to act. Time to call in the big guns.
So The W (the code should be simple enough to crack) dashed home from work this afternoon to handle the thing that, for one reason or another, I don't do.
It was, of course, a total success, although at one point, I'm told, The G embarked on an ill-advised tongue-based experiment, sticking it out mid-snip, resulting in a large portion of said fringe being deposited on it, much to her surprise.
That apart, no problems encountered, the exercise handled in expert fashion.
Home again, neat and tidy, much, much smarter.
"Hair," she confided in me upon her return. "Gone."
Less hair perhaps, no less mischief, although that perhaps was expecting a little much.
So great job The G and great job The W who, I think it's safe to say, will be handling all future hair-related excursions.
She just does it that much better than me, understandable I suppose considering that when it comes to hair, I can't claim to be an expert.
After all, I don't have an awful lot.
@homedad.
Taking The G to the hairdresser, however, isn't one of them.
It had to be done. She's been just once before - not the happiest of experiences - and her fringe was taking on such mop-like proportions that in recent days she's not been able to see an awful lot.
Time to act. Time to call in the big guns.
So The W (the code should be simple enough to crack) dashed home from work this afternoon to handle the thing that, for one reason or another, I don't do.
It was, of course, a total success, although at one point, I'm told, The G embarked on an ill-advised tongue-based experiment, sticking it out mid-snip, resulting in a large portion of said fringe being deposited on it, much to her surprise.
That apart, no problems encountered, the exercise handled in expert fashion.
Home again, neat and tidy, much, much smarter.
"Hair," she confided in me upon her return. "Gone."
Less hair perhaps, no less mischief, although that perhaps was expecting a little much.
So great job The G and great job The W who, I think it's safe to say, will be handling all future hair-related excursions.
She just does it that much better than me, understandable I suppose considering that when it comes to hair, I can't claim to be an expert.
After all, I don't have an awful lot.
@homedad.
SAHD: 21/7/2011
Not on the buses
So after all of that, a reprieve, an 11th hour intervention, the condemned man spared a while longer, if not quite a pardon, at least a postponement.
I was all set, prepared to spend two hours this morning riding the number one.
But then an unexpected stay-of-execution.
It came from The B, his plans changing.
"Bus?" The B said as I began to unfold the relevant timetables and plan our route. "Bus schmuss."
So instead, we went swimming. I say swimming, we went to the pool. It wasn't swimming in the conventional sense, not swimming as most people know it.
You see, The B took his goggles along, keen to test his diving skills beyond the bathroom environment.
He spent his time in the pool with goggles on, face down in the water, floating just beneath the surface, looking to most like something long dead. On several occasions, the lifeguards mistook him for a drowned person, their concern clear. But every now and then he'd surface, keen to assure everyone that he was in fact alive, just practising his diving.
He seems to have the nose pinching sussed, although the enormous belch he emitted just prior to leaving the pool suggests he still needs to practice keeping his mouth shut.
That was our morning, me and The B.
Does that mean his bus addiction is cured? Not a chance.
"We can go on the number one next Thursday," he told me on the way home.
I can hardly wait.
@homedad.
I was all set, prepared to spend two hours this morning riding the number one.
But then an unexpected stay-of-execution.
It came from The B, his plans changing.
"Bus?" The B said as I began to unfold the relevant timetables and plan our route. "Bus schmuss."
So instead, we went swimming. I say swimming, we went to the pool. It wasn't swimming in the conventional sense, not swimming as most people know it.
You see, The B took his goggles along, keen to test his diving skills beyond the bathroom environment.
He spent his time in the pool with goggles on, face down in the water, floating just beneath the surface, looking to most like something long dead. On several occasions, the lifeguards mistook him for a drowned person, their concern clear. But every now and then he'd surface, keen to assure everyone that he was in fact alive, just practising his diving.
He seems to have the nose pinching sussed, although the enormous belch he emitted just prior to leaving the pool suggests he still needs to practice keeping his mouth shut.
That was our morning, me and The B.
Does that mean his bus addiction is cured? Not a chance.
"We can go on the number one next Thursday," he told me on the way home.
I can hardly wait.
@homedad.
SAHD: 21/7/2011
On the buses
You're never too young to start suffering with addiction. Just ask The B.
His main vice? Buses. Single deckers, double deckers, coaches, it matters not. He can't get enough of them.
The B spends lots of time each week on buses and, therefore, so do I.
There's not a bus route within five miles of our house that he doesn't know, I'm afraid to report, he's ridden them all.
This morning, I suspect we're heading to the bus stop again. You see, The B has spoken.
Thursdays are The B's time, the mornings at least, The G packed off to nursery, enabling me to spend some good one-to-one time with our family's most-demanding member.
It's not as unfair as it might sound: The G gets her time too, Fridays are a B-free zone, a chance for her to relax, to sample a little peace and quiet, the calm before the storm that is his return to the house.
But Thursdays, they're The B's and that tends to mean the bus. There's lots of other good stuff we could be doing, swimming, for example, tends to be my preference, but the pool's out of favour right now, it seems.
On Sunday, I took him to a vintage bus rally, a full afternoon of looking at buses, riding on buses and taking photographs of buses in the hope it might help satisfy his appetite.
As an afternoon out it was a success. As a cure for bus addiction, it seems to have made things worse and this morning, just four days later, it seems we're going to be riding the buses once again.
I asked him last night what he'd like to do on our morning together.
"Go on the number one," he replied cheerfully, his excitement obvious.
The number one is a long route: an hour there and an hour back, most of our morning together gone in bone-shaking fashion.
Last week it was the 306, quite long but not quite so bad, perhaps a 90-minute round trip.
The 85, that's the dream, 15 minutes each way, a distance I can handle, the tedium not too great, the ride not too long.
But The B knows that. He doesn't pick the 85 these days.
@homedad.
His main vice? Buses. Single deckers, double deckers, coaches, it matters not. He can't get enough of them.
The B spends lots of time each week on buses and, therefore, so do I.
There's not a bus route within five miles of our house that he doesn't know, I'm afraid to report, he's ridden them all.
This morning, I suspect we're heading to the bus stop again. You see, The B has spoken.
Thursdays are The B's time, the mornings at least, The G packed off to nursery, enabling me to spend some good one-to-one time with our family's most-demanding member.
It's not as unfair as it might sound: The G gets her time too, Fridays are a B-free zone, a chance for her to relax, to sample a little peace and quiet, the calm before the storm that is his return to the house.
But Thursdays, they're The B's and that tends to mean the bus. There's lots of other good stuff we could be doing, swimming, for example, tends to be my preference, but the pool's out of favour right now, it seems.
On Sunday, I took him to a vintage bus rally, a full afternoon of looking at buses, riding on buses and taking photographs of buses in the hope it might help satisfy his appetite.
As an afternoon out it was a success. As a cure for bus addiction, it seems to have made things worse and this morning, just four days later, it seems we're going to be riding the buses once again.
I asked him last night what he'd like to do on our morning together.
"Go on the number one," he replied cheerfully, his excitement obvious.
The number one is a long route: an hour there and an hour back, most of our morning together gone in bone-shaking fashion.
Last week it was the 306, quite long but not quite so bad, perhaps a 90-minute round trip.
The 85, that's the dream, 15 minutes each way, a distance I can handle, the tedium not too great, the ride not too long.
But The B knows that. He doesn't pick the 85 these days.
@homedad.
SAHD: 21/7/2011
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Aussie Edam and the Center Parcs Republic
You have to love toddler logic.
Lunchtime, a wedge of Edam is removed from the fridge.
"New cheese," says The G. It is the most sensible thing said all mealtime.
There follows a general discussion about Edam and its origins.
Me: "Where does Edam come from?"
The B: "France?"
Me: "No."
The B: "Australia?"
Me: "No."
The B: "Germany?"
Me: "No."
The B: "America?"
Me: "No."
At this point, despite some fundamental gaps in his cheese-making knowledge, I am impressed with how many countries The B knows.
"I know countries," The B remarks, confidently, so I ask him whereabouts in the world we live.
"Center Parcs?" comes the unexpected answer, The B, in an instant, undoing all his earlier good work.
And so we return to the subject of Edam and, in particular, the red wax rind that has both The B and The G fascinated.
Me: "What else is made of wax?"
The B: "Ham?"
I put the cheese away, making instead a tuna sandwich. The B takes one look. "Is that made from chickpeas?" he asks.
The discussion begins drying up at the point, although there is one further comment before The B starts on his lunch.
Looking at my sandwich in disdain, he remarks: "That smells."
Looking at my sandwich in disdain, he remarks: "That smells."
I can't fault him there.
@homedad.
@homedad.
SAHD: 20/7/2011
Happiness is a tub of Space Putty
The G has a new word. It's a good one.
"Happy," she'll say, and it's not just a word, it's an accurate reflection of her mood these past two or three days.
It's a major relief given that she's been in a bit of a funk so far this month, the combination of new teeth (big ones) and the general frustrations of a developing two-year-old making her seem anything but content too often for comfort.
Even a spectacular fall from a rocking horse didn't disrupt her happiness this morning, The G going right over the handlebars (since when did horses have handlebars?) following an overly-enthusiastic post-breakfast gallop.
Quick blast of TV and then off to our once-a-week singing group, a highlight for The B and The G.
Our subsequent trip to the playground had to be cancelled due to another downpour, this too taken in stride.
Instead, we headed to the aquarium, only to find that several thousand others had had the same idea, the queues stretching out of the door, the people standing in them soaked to the skin.
School holidays start next week. This is a sign of things to come.
Dry in the car, we considered joining the queue, but then two school coaches pulled up and the decision was made for us: back home, the remainder of the morning to fill.
What to do? In these situations, you do what you can. Bribes? You bet.
The B and The G requested something from their respective Treat Box and Bag. The deal we struck? Help with some jobs first and earn those treats. So The B and The G sorted washing, took it downstairs, loaded it into the machine and set the programme. Some remarkable tidying followed.
"I like doing jobs," The B said, suggesting that doing the laundry ranks as a perfectly acceptable substitute for a trip to the aquarium. It was a surprising development.
Things quiet thereafter, thanks in the main to The B's choice of treat from his box: Space Putty, in some ways a horrible substance (sticky, smelly, gooey, it collects cat hair and general fluff wherever it goes), in other ways pure genius.
It ensured The B and The G's happiness for ages and anything that does that on a wet morning is good in my book.
@homedad.
"Happy," she'll say, and it's not just a word, it's an accurate reflection of her mood these past two or three days.
It's a major relief given that she's been in a bit of a funk so far this month, the combination of new teeth (big ones) and the general frustrations of a developing two-year-old making her seem anything but content too often for comfort.
Even a spectacular fall from a rocking horse didn't disrupt her happiness this morning, The G going right over the handlebars (since when did horses have handlebars?) following an overly-enthusiastic post-breakfast gallop.
Quick blast of TV and then off to our once-a-week singing group, a highlight for The B and The G.
Our subsequent trip to the playground had to be cancelled due to another downpour, this too taken in stride.
Instead, we headed to the aquarium, only to find that several thousand others had had the same idea, the queues stretching out of the door, the people standing in them soaked to the skin.
School holidays start next week. This is a sign of things to come.
Dry in the car, we considered joining the queue, but then two school coaches pulled up and the decision was made for us: back home, the remainder of the morning to fill.
What to do? In these situations, you do what you can. Bribes? You bet.
The B and The G requested something from their respective Treat Box and Bag. The deal we struck? Help with some jobs first and earn those treats. So The B and The G sorted washing, took it downstairs, loaded it into the machine and set the programme. Some remarkable tidying followed.
"I like doing jobs," The B said, suggesting that doing the laundry ranks as a perfectly acceptable substitute for a trip to the aquarium. It was a surprising development.
Things quiet thereafter, thanks in the main to The B's choice of treat from his box: Space Putty, in some ways a horrible substance (sticky, smelly, gooey, it collects cat hair and general fluff wherever it goes), in other ways pure genius.
It ensured The B and The G's happiness for ages and anything that does that on a wet morning is good in my book.
@homedad.
SAHD: 20/7/2011
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
Like a sloth. A dead one.
We've coined a phrase in our house.
Now, if something's slow, its progress imperceptible, if just watching it drains you of the will to live, we don't say it's like watching paint dry. Instead, we say it's like watching The B eat his tea.
Mealtimes are true torture. It's not that The B doesn't eat his meals. It's just that it takes him an absolute age.
In eating terms, he moves with all the speed of a sloth; a dead one.
We've tried various strategies to tackle this issue, but have settled on the most effective: out-and-out bribery, a true friend of the impatient parent.
The B and The G both respond to bribes and, since introducing a sticker chart reward system with some rather attractive end prizes, things have begun to improve.
Today, it was the culmination of The B's mealtime sticker programme, the reward on offer a real piece de resistance. So imagine our dismay, upon removing said treat from its box, to discover that it has been delivered to us broken.
Given that he had worked his way manfully through 18 meals to achieve this particular treat, The B took it remarkably well. Still, it required a sympathetic ear and a roll of gaffer tape to achieve a short-term fix that could satisfy The B.
One quick phone call later and a replacement is en route, due on Thursday, and already, The B has forgotten all about it. The tape is still holding - just - and so is the peace.
It'll soon be tea and without the promise of a reward, for this was the last for the time being, dead sloth time beckons again.
Now, if something's slow, its progress imperceptible, if just watching it drains you of the will to live, we don't say it's like watching paint dry. Instead, we say it's like watching The B eat his tea.
Mealtimes are true torture. It's not that The B doesn't eat his meals. It's just that it takes him an absolute age.
In eating terms, he moves with all the speed of a sloth; a dead one.
We've tried various strategies to tackle this issue, but have settled on the most effective: out-and-out bribery, a true friend of the impatient parent.
The B and The G both respond to bribes and, since introducing a sticker chart reward system with some rather attractive end prizes, things have begun to improve.
Today, it was the culmination of The B's mealtime sticker programme, the reward on offer a real piece de resistance. So imagine our dismay, upon removing said treat from its box, to discover that it has been delivered to us broken.
Given that he had worked his way manfully through 18 meals to achieve this particular treat, The B took it remarkably well. Still, it required a sympathetic ear and a roll of gaffer tape to achieve a short-term fix that could satisfy The B.
One quick phone call later and a replacement is en route, due on Thursday, and already, The B has forgotten all about it. The tape is still holding - just - and so is the peace.
It'll soon be tea and without the promise of a reward, for this was the last for the time being, dead sloth time beckons again.
Diving, bananas and custard
The B has a new hobby. This week, he has taken up diving. He's a little young, I appreciate, but diving is what he likes to do and it's not as though he's doing it in the sea. I'll explain.
The G, until last week obsessed with having her hair washed, is making a stand since the arrival of a new brand of shampoo. There are two kinds, banana and custard and jam sandwiches, but she refuses to have her hair washed with either. It got to the point where The G really needed to have her hair washed, and desperate times called for desperate measures.
One theory was that she didn't like the water getting into her eyes and so a smart pair of swimming goggles were purchased. Unsurprisingly, The G took one look and refused to wear them.
The B on the other hand, he loves them. Now, no bath time is complete without The B having donned said goggles and spent at least 10 minutes lying face down in the water, looking at The G's feet and goodness knows what else.
The first time he tried he got a shock, the water going up his nose, but he has since mastered that, pinching it to ensure the nostrils are watertight. Come the end of the bath, he has red marks around his eyes where the goggles have been pressing, tightened to the maximum to ensure no water can get in.
The G? Well, she still won't wear the goggles and she still won't have her hair washed, although with an appointment at the hairdresser booked for Thursday, she's going to have no choice in the matter soon.
I wonder if the shampoo's branding is the problem, whether she thinks that one bottle really does contain banana and custard and the other jam sandwiches. They smell the part, after all.
Me? I think it's just defiance, showing her independence, a spell that she's going through.
The B, he did it too at this age and bath times could prove problematic.
Now, when I look at him face down in the water, goggles clamped to his face as he examines the plug hole, now I think that we're well and truly over that.
The G, until last week obsessed with having her hair washed, is making a stand since the arrival of a new brand of shampoo. There are two kinds, banana and custard and jam sandwiches, but she refuses to have her hair washed with either. It got to the point where The G really needed to have her hair washed, and desperate times called for desperate measures.
One theory was that she didn't like the water getting into her eyes and so a smart pair of swimming goggles were purchased. Unsurprisingly, The G took one look and refused to wear them.
The B on the other hand, he loves them. Now, no bath time is complete without The B having donned said goggles and spent at least 10 minutes lying face down in the water, looking at The G's feet and goodness knows what else.
The first time he tried he got a shock, the water going up his nose, but he has since mastered that, pinching it to ensure the nostrils are watertight. Come the end of the bath, he has red marks around his eyes where the goggles have been pressing, tightened to the maximum to ensure no water can get in.
The G? Well, she still won't wear the goggles and she still won't have her hair washed, although with an appointment at the hairdresser booked for Thursday, she's going to have no choice in the matter soon.
I wonder if the shampoo's branding is the problem, whether she thinks that one bottle really does contain banana and custard and the other jam sandwiches. They smell the part, after all.
Me? I think it's just defiance, showing her independence, a spell that she's going through.
The B, he did it too at this age and bath times could prove problematic.
Now, when I look at him face down in the water, goggles clamped to his face as he examines the plug hole, now I think that we're well and truly over that.
Peace and quiet!
The silence is deafening. Peace and quiet reign. I can, for the first time in a week, hear myself think!
The reason? It's simple, The B and The G are not here. You see, on Tuesdays, I like to ship them off to nursery, it's good for them, I tell myself, but it's good for me too.
Things have been too frantic around here. That's just par for the course with a three-year-old and a two-year-old running around. Breathing space is in short supply, but for one morning each week, I get the place to myself, a little downtime, a chance to regroup.
It goes quickly, that four hours. I'm halfway through it already, two hours down, two to go.
It's a rush, to get them breakfasted and dressed, to use the loo and into the car, to get them to nursery, as quick as possible, 8.30am at the latest. Their early-waking tendencies help in that regard: The B, having been told he's not allowed to get up before 7am, has interpreted that as meaning he has to get up the moment his clock reads 7:00. The G, well, she seems to be set in a 6.30am sing-a-long routine that tends to make sure that we're all up and about ahead of schedule.
It's annoying on a weekend, but on Tuesdays, it helps, ensuring I can get them to nursery, to maximise the time off I can enjoy, the short-lived time that now has less than two hours to run. Eek!
The B is no trouble, it's one of his favourite days of the week, a morning spent with his friends and the 'nice ladies', as he calls them, who look after them. It's a chance to make a mess and run around and be loud without me moaning at him. There'll be time enough for that later on, I'm sure.
The G loves it too, although in recent weeks, she's deemed it necessary to protest at the point of arrival, marking her presence with great noise and violence, flailing and thrashing around and generally objecting to being left behind. The B used to do this too and I understand that once I've gone, the defiance soon ends and the playing begins, the fun starting in earnest. This morning, though, she was much better, going in with no fuss and even a smile. Perhaps she's getting to the point where she can mask her enjoyment no longer.
Let's hope that mood persists, for the clouds are gathering again and our options could be limited once more this afternoon. For now, I'll not worry, I don't have time. Less than two hours and lots to do.
Got to love that quiet!
The reason? It's simple, The B and The G are not here. You see, on Tuesdays, I like to ship them off to nursery, it's good for them, I tell myself, but it's good for me too.
Things have been too frantic around here. That's just par for the course with a three-year-old and a two-year-old running around. Breathing space is in short supply, but for one morning each week, I get the place to myself, a little downtime, a chance to regroup.
It goes quickly, that four hours. I'm halfway through it already, two hours down, two to go.
It's a rush, to get them breakfasted and dressed, to use the loo and into the car, to get them to nursery, as quick as possible, 8.30am at the latest. Their early-waking tendencies help in that regard: The B, having been told he's not allowed to get up before 7am, has interpreted that as meaning he has to get up the moment his clock reads 7:00. The G, well, she seems to be set in a 6.30am sing-a-long routine that tends to make sure that we're all up and about ahead of schedule.
It's annoying on a weekend, but on Tuesdays, it helps, ensuring I can get them to nursery, to maximise the time off I can enjoy, the short-lived time that now has less than two hours to run. Eek!
The B is no trouble, it's one of his favourite days of the week, a morning spent with his friends and the 'nice ladies', as he calls them, who look after them. It's a chance to make a mess and run around and be loud without me moaning at him. There'll be time enough for that later on, I'm sure.
The G loves it too, although in recent weeks, she's deemed it necessary to protest at the point of arrival, marking her presence with great noise and violence, flailing and thrashing around and generally objecting to being left behind. The B used to do this too and I understand that once I've gone, the defiance soon ends and the playing begins, the fun starting in earnest. This morning, though, she was much better, going in with no fuss and even a smile. Perhaps she's getting to the point where she can mask her enjoyment no longer.
Let's hope that mood persists, for the clouds are gathering again and our options could be limited once more this afternoon. For now, I'll not worry, I don't have time. Less than two hours and lots to do.
Got to love that quiet!
Monday, 18 July 2011
Soft play, hard labour
The English weather is no friend of the stay-at-home dad. Today, as though leading us into a carefully-laid trap, it drove us to head to soft play, the last resort of the restless, an outing to avoid wherever possible, an activity only marginally more appealing than just standing out in the garden in the pouring rain.
Of course, it's only me that feels this way, The B and The G adore it. For me, the afternoon brings its usual annoyances, but The B and The G are oblivious, especially The G, who, after a frantic half-an-hour of climbing, sliding, tumbling and rolling is the sweatiest person there, her cheeks scarlet and her hair a sodden, matted mess.
In that regard, it's a success, although there's a price to be paid when, after several reminders, the time comes to head home.
The G is having so much fun she refuses to leave and has to be carried, kicking and screaming, a furious bundle of flailing limbs and fearsome shrieks, shoeless and without a coat due to a rage that prevents such measures, a soaking from the rain doing nothing to help her mood.
The B trails in our wake, hood up, eyes down, bemused at the turn of events the afternoon has taken.
Back in the car, The G still cross, but back home and all is well again, all forgotten.
Let's hope for a little sun tomorrow.
Of course, it's only me that feels this way, The B and The G adore it. For me, the afternoon brings its usual annoyances, but The B and The G are oblivious, especially The G, who, after a frantic half-an-hour of climbing, sliding, tumbling and rolling is the sweatiest person there, her cheeks scarlet and her hair a sodden, matted mess.
In that regard, it's a success, although there's a price to be paid when, after several reminders, the time comes to head home.
The G is having so much fun she refuses to leave and has to be carried, kicking and screaming, a furious bundle of flailing limbs and fearsome shrieks, shoeless and without a coat due to a rage that prevents such measures, a soaking from the rain doing nothing to help her mood.
The B trails in our wake, hood up, eyes down, bemused at the turn of events the afternoon has taken.
Back in the car, The G still cross, but back home and all is well again, all forgotten.
Let's hope for a little sun tomorrow.
A result of sorts
The bribe worked. Better haircut than normal, a proper buzz cut, US Marine-issue. Still a struggle, a little like shaving a chimpanzee, I imagine, although I don't speak from experience. Honest.
Optimism on the weather-front misplaced, raining again and a touch of the stir-crazies after lunch. Still, The G tucked up in bed and all quiet for now, although not for long, one suspects.
Optimism on the weather-front misplaced, raining again and a touch of the stir-crazies after lunch. Still, The G tucked up in bed and all quiet for now, although not for long, one suspects.
A close shave..!
Cutting The B's hair this morning, always a challenge. Given that, like most three-year-old's, The B is unable to stand still for little more than around 23 seconds, the results are always unpredictable.
Going to use a bribe this morning - something from the Treat Box - in the hope that it'll help me to achieve a better finish than normal!
Not the most promising start from The G, who has paid her first visit to the Naughty Step for a spot of world-class snatching and pushing. Still, it has stopped raining for the first time in three days, so with a bit of luck, we might even get out of the house for a short time later on.
Going to use a bribe this morning - something from the Treat Box - in the hope that it'll help me to achieve a better finish than normal!
Not the most promising start from The G, who has paid her first visit to the Naughty Step for a spot of world-class snatching and pushing. Still, it has stopped raining for the first time in three days, so with a bit of luck, we might even get out of the house for a short time later on.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
When I'm four.....
The age of four has mythical powers in our house. If ever I ask The B to do something he thinks he can't do, or, more often, something he doesn't want to do, he gives me the standard answer: "I'll do it when I'm four".
He seems to think that on that day, his birthday, all these things he wasn't previously able to do as a three-year-old will suddenly be within his capabilities as a four-year-old, as if by magic.
As it stands, when he's four, The B will suddenly be able to write the second half of his name, pedal his bike, undo the velcro straps on his shoes BEFORE removing them and, a little more worryingly, drive the car.
There are some other things, though, that'll take a good while longer.
The B has never been able to pronounce 'milk' correctly, saying, instead, 'mulk'.
I asked him this evening when he thought he'd stop saying 'mulk' and start saying 'milk'.
He responded, with an earnest look on his face: "When I'm as old as you."
He seems to think that on that day, his birthday, all these things he wasn't previously able to do as a three-year-old will suddenly be within his capabilities as a four-year-old, as if by magic.
As it stands, when he's four, The B will suddenly be able to write the second half of his name, pedal his bike, undo the velcro straps on his shoes BEFORE removing them and, a little more worryingly, drive the car.
There are some other things, though, that'll take a good while longer.
The B has never been able to pronounce 'milk' correctly, saying, instead, 'mulk'.
I asked him this evening when he thought he'd stop saying 'mulk' and start saying 'milk'.
He responded, with an earnest look on his face: "When I'm as old as you."
Night-night ..... poop
Having a serious night-night chat with The G isn't always that simple. Each night, at bedtime, I have a night-night routine, an affectionate and loving talk about the things we've done, the things we're going to do and what we all mean to each other.
Tonight, as I was telling her all this stuff, The G just lay there, looking at me all serious, saying again and again and again: "Poop. Poop. Pooooooooooooooop. Poop."
Tonight, as I was telling her all this stuff, The G just lay there, looking at me all serious, saying again and again and again: "Poop. Poop. Pooooooooooooooop. Poop."
Why, why, why???
The B is suffering from an acute case of the Whys?
It doesn't matter what I say to him, the response tends to be the same: "Why?"
I don't object to questions per se. To the contrary, I enjoy answering his enquiries, filling in all the gaps in his knowledge. It's one of the reasons that I'm here, after all.
It's the nonsense whys that are getting to me - indeed, getting to us all.
It's the questions that don't mean anything, the questions that can't be answered, the questions that are just questions for questions sake.
Some typical examples from this afternoon include:
The B: "Is that Sainsburys?"
Me: "Yes."
The B: "Why?"
The B: "Is that car red?"
Me: "Yes."
The B: "Why?"
The B: "Is that the road that goes to the shops?"
Me: "Yes."
The B: "Why?"
Me (patience lost): BECAUSE IT IS!!!!!
You can see why, after a while, this starts to get a bit much. Especially when the morning began at 6.20am with the day's first rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep.
I'm told the whys don't last too long and I'm hoping that proves to be the case.
Mind you, once The B stops, I imagine it'll be time for The G to start.
Why?
It doesn't matter what I say to him, the response tends to be the same: "Why?"
I don't object to questions per se. To the contrary, I enjoy answering his enquiries, filling in all the gaps in his knowledge. It's one of the reasons that I'm here, after all.
It's the nonsense whys that are getting to me - indeed, getting to us all.
It's the questions that don't mean anything, the questions that can't be answered, the questions that are just questions for questions sake.
Some typical examples from this afternoon include:
The B: "Is that Sainsburys?"
Me: "Yes."
The B: "Why?"
The B: "Is that car red?"
Me: "Yes."
The B: "Why?"
The B: "Is that the road that goes to the shops?"
Me: "Yes."
The B: "Why?"
Me (patience lost): BECAUSE IT IS!!!!!
You can see why, after a while, this starts to get a bit much. Especially when the morning began at 6.20am with the day's first rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep.
I'm told the whys don't last too long and I'm hoping that proves to be the case.
Mind you, once The B stops, I imagine it'll be time for The G to start.
Why?
Wake up baa!
Imagine an alarm clock that woke you up not with a buzz or a bleep or a bell, but a hearty rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep. Imagine you couldn't determine at what time the alarm would sound. Imagine there wasn't a snooze function or any way of turning the alarm off once it had started. Imagine on a Sunday, the alarm started going off at 6.20am and didn't stop. We have that alarm clock.
It's called The G.
Good morning!
It's called The G.
Good morning!
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Another day done....almost!
Textbook bedtime routine.
Me: "You've been a good boy today."
The B: "You've been a good man today."
Me: "Night night, little man."
The B: "Night night, big man."
The B: All quiet and asleep inside 60 seconds.
The G: At least half-an-hour singing Baa Baa Black Sheep at the top of her voice through the baby monitor.
Not quite time to relax, but getting there!
Me: "You've been a good boy today."
The B: "You've been a good man today."
Me: "Night night, little man."
The B: "Night night, big man."
The B: All quiet and asleep inside 60 seconds.
The G: At least half-an-hour singing Baa Baa Black Sheep at the top of her voice through the baby monitor.
Not quite time to relax, but getting there!
Brews for burglars?
We've just been reading Judith Kerr's Mog the forgetful cat.
It's a nice story, and it's great that, come the end, the much-maligned Mog emerges as the hero of the hour.
That said, I always find it a little surprising at the end of the book when Mog's owners feel the need to make the burglar a cup of tea. I can't help thinking that, having done so well to foil the burglary, Mog must feel a little agrieved to see the culprit treated so hospitably.
The B is just three, but even he understands that furnishing a burglar with a nice hot beverage does not count as normal behaviour.
It's a nice story, and it's great that, come the end, the much-maligned Mog emerges as the hero of the hour.
That said, I always find it a little surprising at the end of the book when Mog's owners feel the need to make the burglar a cup of tea. I can't help thinking that, having done so well to foil the burglary, Mog must feel a little agrieved to see the culprit treated so hospitably.
The B is just three, but even he understands that furnishing a burglar with a nice hot beverage does not count as normal behaviour.
Thanks Fireman Sam
The mood, as predicted, was not-best-pleased. The G can be like that upon being woken up. I wonder who she gets that from?
Pleased to report that all's fine now, The G much happier.
Thank goodness for Fireman Sam. Oh, and cheese too!
These are the tricks of the trade!
Pleased to report that all's fine now, The G much happier.
Thank goodness for Fireman Sam. Oh, and cheese too!
These are the tricks of the trade!
Farewell to peace
It's that time already, the peace is about to be shattered.
I'm afraid it's time to go and rouse The G from her lunchtime nap. Goodness knows the mood she'll wake up in, although not-best-please is the likeliest bet.
The B has been nice and quiet in The G's absence, playing with his cars and trains. I'm guessing that'll soon change. It has to be said that The G hasn't been the best behaved so far today, a bundle of mischief since the off.
I wonder why it is that, on their own, their behaviour is perfect but, in tandem, it's pandemonium.
I might as well attempt to crack the meaning of the universe: the answers to both are just as elusive.
Oh well, here goes.
Bye-bye quiet calmness.
Farewell peace.
I'm afraid it's time to go and rouse The G from her lunchtime nap. Goodness knows the mood she'll wake up in, although not-best-please is the likeliest bet.
The B has been nice and quiet in The G's absence, playing with his cars and trains. I'm guessing that'll soon change. It has to be said that The G hasn't been the best behaved so far today, a bundle of mischief since the off.
I wonder why it is that, on their own, their behaviour is perfect but, in tandem, it's pandemonium.
I might as well attempt to crack the meaning of the universe: the answers to both are just as elusive.
Oh well, here goes.
Bye-bye quiet calmness.
Farewell peace.
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