Parenting, pineapples & ZZ Top

Baby say....pineapple?

You know, I like to think I'm OK at this parenting lark.
That is, taking everything into consideration, all in all, I'm quite sure I do a reasonable job more often than not.
There have been some things I've not been too good at en route, but then, some fundamental anatomical restrictions don't make it simple for men in certain regards.
Then there's the other stuff. The stuff that The W does that much better.
It might just be me, but I suspect it might just be a man thing.
Take eye colour, for instance.
Nothing more humiliating than, having changed GP, getting to the part on the registration form that says 'colour of child's eyes'.
The receptionist is looking on.
I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't a clue.
I tell her I'm not certain what colour my own eyes are, let alone theirs.
I smile.
She isn't impressed.
There are other examples to be found on the stuff-you're-supposed-to-know list.
Height and weight?
No idea.
Right-handed or left?
Not sure.
First words?
Interesting question.
The latter topic came up the other afternoon, me and The G collecting The B from nursery, his group having been talking about their first words.
"Daddy, what was your first word?" he asked.
I thought for a moment and admitted I had no clue.
"Mine was bubble," he announced.
News to me, it's true, but then, given that I have no recollection, I didn't argue.
I asked him about his peers and their first words.
One little boy's, he said, had been blue.
It sounded plausible, I thought.
Then he told me about the girl whose first word had been pineapple.
I might not do the stuff-you're-supposed-to-know all that well, but even I can see straight through that one.

I feared The G had developed some challenging musical tastes last night.

Post-bath, scheduled to put on her pyjamas, she could be found lying on the floor repeating the same thing over and over again.

That thing?

"ZZ Top, ZZ Top, ZZ Top," it went, or at least, so I thought.

I listened a while longer and still it continued.

"ZZ Top, ZZ Top, ZZ Top."

She paused for a breath.

"What were you just saying?" I asked.

She looked at me, a little annoyed, as though I hadn't been listening.

"ZZ Top," she said, not pleased at having to repeat herself.

So it continued, until at last I realised she'd been asking me to pass her a pyjama top, the one that features Upsy Daisy, her favourite character from In the Night Garden.

It had been Daisy top, not ZZ Top.

Relieved?

Damn right.

 

Silent Sunday 30.10.11

Pigs' bottoms, burping & great big piles of poo

Pig: "No bottom photos allowed......."

Yesterday, a typical kind of an outing.
Finding ourselves at a loose end at home, we headed instead to the farm.
En route, in the car, The G burped.
"I burped," she announced a split second later, beaming, proud as punch.
"Don't talk about burps," The B admonished, reverting to his role as the Familial Enforcer. "It's rude."
In such situations, The B likes to think that he understands etiquette.
He can't sustain it.
Case in point: Later, at the farm, a large pig was encountered.
"I can see its bottom," The B declared, thrilled, the most exciting thing ever. "Quick Daddy, take a photograph."
I obliged, to a point, waiting until the pig had turned around before pressing the button.
"Let me see," The B demanded, taking the camera to inspect my efforts.
Noticing the absence of pig posterior in the picture, he made his disappointment in me all too clear.
I made up for it, finding the 'attraction' that proved the morning's most popular.
It was one that most people don't even stop to look at.
Normal people, that is.
Huge manure heap, steaming in the cold October air.
"Look at that great big pile of mud," The B said.
I corrected him, informing him that said pile was, in fact, poo.
That got their attention.
"But why's the poo pile on fire?" asked Mr Inquisitive.
Cue an in-depth conversation about manure, its make-up and the reasons behind its steaming state.
Like I said, a typical kind of an outing.

Boobie talk, Polos & Hello Kitty's cat food

Polos: These treats are mint.....

I've mentioned before that certain people in the household are growing up rather fast.
The B in particular, it seems, is closing in on middle age.
The other day, The B&G had been good so I offered them a post-lunch treat.
Such things live in the aptly-named Treat Drawer, a receptacle that is, at present, rather well stocked.
The G, as is her wont, chose something chocolate.
"I'd like a Polo," declared The B, selecting mints that hadn't been intended for the household's smaller members.
Had the drawer contained some Werther's Originals (The W, who is herself growing up fast, likes them), I have no doubt that he'd have chosen them instead.
Treat time over, I asked The B if he'd enjoyed his Polo.
"Absolutely," he answered.
You see, he's not even talking like a four-year-old these days.
That doesn't mean that he doesn't still like a little childish banter, because he does.
The other morning, for example, in the playground, all sitting on the seesaw, The G dropped a conversational bombshell.
"Boobies," she said.
Silence, for just a moment, then The B began to laugh so hard he almost fell off.
There then followed a prolonged discussion that went a little like this:
The B: Boobies?
The G: Boobies.
Pause.
The G: Boobies?
The B: Boobies.
I tried to intervene, really, I did.
Me: Stop saying boobies.
This just made things worse, so after a while I gave up.
It took quite a long time, but in the end, the boobies lost their appeal (I never thought I'd be using that line, not in this blog, at least).
Back home again and The B embarked on an interrogation that persuaded me that he is still a normal four-year-old after all.
Posing the most random questions, firing them at you one after the other, no time for thought, little logic, there is nothing more age appropriate.
The most recent highlights:
1) Is there an airport at the North Pole?
2) Is a pancake good at flying?
3) Is a magic pancake good at flying?
4) How do you build a tree?
5) Does Hello Kitty eat cat food?
The best one, number five.
Now, pass me those Polos.

Cat Stress 2: The Violin Years

Cat Two: "Tell me that's not a violin......"

Cat Two's stress levels are, I'm pleased to report, starting to recede a little, his symptoms at last beginning to clear.
Little idea does he have of the things that are lying not too far around the corner.
Had he but the slightest clue, I'm sure he'd pack up his things (not that he has much in the stuff department, it's true) and go and seek his fortune elsewhere, a little like a real-life Puss-in-Boots, just minus the boots.
I'm thinking about one issue in particular, something that he is going to struggle with.
If it offers Cat Two the slightest consolation, he'll not be on his own.
You see, The W and I have been to take a look around the school that, it is hoped, The B will start next September, and The G 12 months after that.
It's rather nice.
It's got all the stuff that one tends to expect: a large hall for assemblies, cloakrooms, dining room, classrooms and a spacious playground.
The Headteacher seemed nice and said all the right things, although, If I'm honest, the lessons that we got to sit in on caused me one or two slight concerns.
I've always imagined myself helping The B&G with their homework, but even at this level - Primary, that is - I'm afraid I might be out of my depth.
One lesson was in something called phonics.
I'm sure I never did that at school.
Heck, I'm not even sure what it is.
Still, I have a little time to find out, I suppose, and anyway, it's not the biggest concern to arise from our visit. Far from it, in fact.
No, that came towards our tour's end, the proud Headteacher showing us a well-stocked music room, something I hadn't been expecting.
"Of course, we encourage the children to start learning an instrument as soon as possible," the Headteacher announced and, with that, she gave us all a knowing wink and looked purposely towards a large heap of violins, stacked in a corner, awaiting their next victims.
You know, if I close my eyes I can hear the screeching already.
I'm not going to tell Cat Two about this, because ignorance is bliss and, for now, he seems more content than he has done for quite some time.
But if he thinks he's stressed now. . . .

Pencil sharpeners & sticks, leaves & the loft

Pencil sharpener: good times guaranteed.......

The B has got a new favourite hobby: sharpening pencils.
It might not sound like the most appealing pastime, but he can do it for hours.
He received a rather nice art set for his birthday, pens, pencils, crayons, paints, the lot, all contained in its own zip-up bag, a little like a briefcase, Toy Story-themed and everything.
He quite likes the watercolours but really, in truth, there's nothing that can compare.
Sharpening pencils, that's where it's at.
So much so that his pencil crayons have all but disappeared, not from prolonged colouring, but as a result of his non-stop pencil sharpening programme.
It's strange the things that engage them sometimes.
The G is just the same.
Suggest an outing, anywhere at all, soft play, shopping, a museum, the park. 
There's nowhere she'd rather go than the loft.
Up in the attic, it's her favourite spot, she can't get enough.
On the occasions that we do venture out, the The G is more interested in finding a good stick to bring home than she is in her actual environment; she's a little like a dog in that regard.
On reflection, that's not quite true.
Sticks are so last season.
Right now, leaves are her favourite, her collection growing into an impressive pile at the front doorstep.
The point I'm making is this: Christmas is right around the corner.
If pencil sharpeners and sticks and leaves and the loft can entertain The B&G so much, is there a real need to provide all the latest toys and games on December 25?
I'm just asking.

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Silent Sunday 23.10.11

Oh help, oh no, it's a . . . Buffalo?

Gruffalo: Axel Scheffler, eat your heart out.....

The G has a crush.
It's more a fixation really, I suppose, an obsession that has lasted quite a long time already, but one showing no signs of abating any time soon.
The subject of her affections? What can I say about him?
Erm, well, he has terrible tusks and terrible claws.
Oh yes, he also has terrible teeth in his terrible jaws.
His eyes are orange, his tongue is black. He has purple prickles all over his back.
Good looking fella, eh? And no, it's not me.
It's The Gruffalo, or as The G often calls him, The Buffalo (we're working on that).
Right now, The G cannot get enough, a typical day going a little like this:
Get up (having dreamed about The Gruffalo), go downstairs to admire our chalkboard rendition (see picture above, not bad, eh?) and sit down for breakfast. Right now, Gruffalobix doesn't exist, but if it did, that'd be what she'd eat (note to self, must write to Julia Donaldson/Kellogg's about that).
Breakfast finished, we find the giant Gruffalo floor puzzle and, that done, retire to the sofa for a little light reading.
First up, The Gruffalo. Then The Gruffalo's Child. Then The Gruffalo again.
On some days, she'll demand that I put on The Gruffalo DVD.
Last weekend, enjoying some quiet time on The W's knee, The G sat through it twice, a back-to-back double-bill.
That tends to take up the morning, time then to eat.
That prompts a little envy, The G jealous that the Little Brown Mouse says that he's off to have lunch with a Gruffalo, whilst she has to make do with me and The B.
Still, one or two Gruffalo-themed activities in the afternoon more than make up for that.
The Gruffalo, I must admit, ranks amongst mine and The W's own favourite reads.
It's a good job.

      

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, email or carrier pigeon, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends. 

Feel free to leave a comment or use the button above to get in touch. You can also find me here on Twitter. 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.

Glue sniffing 101: Bostik for beginners

Glue: Brilliant

Chatting about chain letters during the previous post got me thinking about other dangers, real or otherwise, that I remember from childhood.
There was the aforementioned corruptive correspondence, and the other ever-present peril, strangers bearing sweets.
Then, as I recall, there was glue sniffing.
Do people still do glue sniffing?
I'm not sure.
You don't hear a lot about it these days, that's for certain.
The 1980s, though, it was massive back then.
I have an ulterior motive for bringing this subject up, I'm afraid, because the other day, you see, I myself indulged in a little light glue sniffing.
I should perhaps point out that it wasn't deliberate, rather the unwitting kind, although I appreciate that that's not the greatest defence.
I should perhaps explain.
The B had, during a quiet morning at home, asked me to make him a bed for Rollo and certain other friends (soft toys, that is).
I obliged, fashioning it from the material I understand best, the one that I use for all such craft projects: an old cardboard box.
Given that it was going to be a bed, and determined to ensure Rollo's comfort, I cut out some felt to line the box and began to search for something to use to stick it down.
Looking at the glue in The B&G's art box, I decided it wasn't up to the job, not strong enough, insufficient stick for such an important assignment.
This was, I felt, a job for a superior adhesive, the glue from the garage or, as The B calls it, Mummy and Daddy Glue.
Having instructed The B to stand well back, I applied it in generous measure and stuck the felt down fast, the end result rather pleasing.
Rollo liked it, at least.
That's when the fumes began to take hold.
In hindsight, I perhaps didn't take sufficient measures to ensure the adequate ventilation that the tube prescribed, not thinking that I'd be using the glue in such quantities.
The B noticed it first, a contented look forming on his face.
"Your Mummy and Daddy Glue smells brilliant," he said.
Lesson learnt, time to open some windows.

Snakes and Ladders and Liebsters all round!

The B exacts his revenge.....

Other than beating The B at air hockey, victories I've been told that I'm not supposed to celebrate, I've never been one for winning things.
Raffles? Never.
The Lotto? Forget about it, not even the occasional tenner.
I took on The B on the Snakes and Ladders board three or four days ago and lost, him reaching the all-important 100th square, me still stuck on number six.
Damn snakes.
You'll have to forgive me here, I'm starting to ramble.
The point I'm trying to make is this: Finally, at long last, I've won something.
It's a triumph that I am allowed to toast.
It's called a Liebster Blog Award and it means that I'm doing something right.
On the blog front, that is.
In regard to the parenting side of things, I've just been told that I could do better.
The B is entitled to his opinion.

So, a Liebster, eh? That's me, right enough.
To me, this is all a little new, but I'm told it's a little like a chain letter.
Not like the chain letters I remember from childhood, when Blue Peter warned us about the evils of such things, things that at the time were considered just a little less dangerous than accepting sweets from strangers.
No, this is like a good chain letter.
It's all thanks to acquaintances old and new, each brilliant blogsters like myself, their own efforts having been rewarded in similar fashion in recent times.
The first nomination came from Minibreak Mummy, the second from the irrepressible SAHDandproud.
The latter says he hates me, but I don't believe him.
He called me a dude, after all.
So thanks and all to both, please be sure to check out their blooming marvellous blogs and, SAHD, good luck getting that soiling thing sorted out.
In order to acccept the Liebster Award, it just remains for me to nominate five blogs that I've been enjoying to become the next Liebster recipients.
I hope you like them too.
But not quite as much as you like @homedad.
That'd just be wrong.

So here goes, the @homedad nominations for some lovely, lovely Liebsters are:

1) Lies I tell my kids: Brilliant concept, outrageously good blog. Funny, touching, bittersweet and brilliant, this is one talented chap.
2) Love Dad Blogs: Dads, blogs, several million robots, what more does one need? Excellent idea, excellent blogger, deserves a special mention for helping us all out. Bravo!
3) Miniteadevotee: The tagline says it all, Adventures of a Bewildered New Parent. One of the wittier blogs out there, entertaining and insightful. It's a good read guaranteed.
4) Guerilla Dad: Standing on slugs, Riggs and Murtaugh, Tootsie Rolls et al. You have to see it to believe it. Great graphics, great blog. Just mind where you're stepping.
5) Mummy Cool: You know, it's not everyone who can make such exquisite film-themed food faces. Check out Mrs Troutfire and I'm sure you'll agree!

So there it is, @homedad's top five, Liebsters all. I urge the Famous Five to go forth and multiply, to select your own favourites and reward them accordingly, help us take over the planet (or whatever it is we're supposed to be doing here, I'm still a little unclear on the details). Download the Liebster badge and wear it with pride - on your blog, that is, not your favourite sweater.
For everyone else, please read, bookmark, subscribe or do whatever else it is you do with this stuff.
To quote SAHD shamelessly, the world is a better place with these people blogging.
Mine is, at least.

      

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, email or carrier pigeon, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends. 

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.

It's up with Calpol, down with Health Visitors

And the winner is......

Some odds and ends and observations.
1) This just in, the ever-so-scientific results from the first-ever @homedad official survey, calculated using the data gathered from comments left on this blog.
The finding? That it's Calpol 1 Health Visitors 0, the general consensus suggesting that the former is brilliant, the latter rather pointless.
2) On the Calpol front, The G is feeling much better, but our medicine supplies are dwindling. It's time to fill the tank.
3) Still on the Calpol theme, The B felt he might be missing out, so much so that he feigned a little illness the other night. Not too convincing, it must be said.
Me (to The G): Come and get in the bath and I'll give you some Calpol (note the good use of a bribe there).
The B: I feel poorly.
Me: Do you? Which bit of you?
The B (after thinking for several moments): Erm, my tummy?
Me (a touch suspicious now): Are you just saying that so I'll give you some Calpol?
There followed a short silence.
The B: Yeah.
Close, but no Calpol.
4) Uncouth as ever, The B made some bubbles in the bath two or three nights ago using a method that is not to be encouraged. Caught unawares, I'm ashamed to admit that I emitted the heartiest of laughs.
Feeling I might be setting a bad example, I tried to regain composure for long enough to admonish him.
Me: That's rude.
The B: So why are you laughing then?
Damn.
5) Despite the unfortunate pigs episode the other day, The G's respect for law-enforcement officers remains intact.
6) Cat Two has appeared a little less stressed in recent days. Since our visit to the vet, we've learned about a product that, when plugged into an electrical socket, releases some kind of happy cat gas into the environment, relieving all worries and making anxious animals a little less stressed.
I think we might get him one. I think I might borrow it.
7) I've tried to fashion some nunchucks using the cardboard tubes from inside used loo paper rolls and other assorted items from The B&G's art box. They'd be no match for Bruce Lee, it has to be said.
8) Growing vocabulary, not always put to the best use. Earlier example, The G to The B: "You're a poo."
9) In The G's room at nursery, one staff member is, shock horror, a man.
Goodness, whatever next?
The G has always been a touch suspicious, so much so that she's never bothered to learn his name (for the record, he's called Dan).
It seems she likes him a little more these days.
This afternoon, after a morning spent at nursery, she stopped calling me Daddy, I noticed.
Now, it seems, I'm also known as Dan.

Oink oink: Peppa Pig and the police car

Earlier this morning, out and about, driving around in the car.
Shopping to be done, just a little, then to the playground, not our regular one but an old favourite, a special treat for The G, still a touch unwell and needing something to cheer.
Good times - better than normal, in fact, The W, taking a little annual leave, leading us on our expedition - but, lunchtime approaching, back to the car to start heading home.
En route, The B looking out of his window, seeing what he could spot, road signs, other cars, unusual dogs, all the normal stuff.
Slowing down for a junction, I spotted a police car, parked at the pavement, so far unnoticed from the back seats.
"Police car," I said, pointing it out as I passed.
The B looked out and noted said vehicle.
"Pigs," said The G.
Stunned silence in the car.
I thought I must have misheard so I asked her to repeat herself.
She looked up and paused for a moment.
"Oink, oink," she said.
It soon transpired that, unknown to us, The G was, in the back, somewhat engrossed in her newly-acquired Peppa Pig magazine, and had not even noticed the parked police car.
Still, the timing had been impeccable and, as all good comedians appreciate, you just can't buy that.

      

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, email or carrier pigeon, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends. 

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.

Calpol, coughing and nunchucks for children

The Calpol truck delivers direct.

That time of year again, Calpol season.
Most parents like to keep a bottle or two around the house.
Not us.
You know those huge tanks that people who live in houses that use oil-fired central heating systems have in their front gardens?
We have one of those, but it doesn't contain fuel.
I'll let you into a secret. Inside is where we keep our Calpol and, right now, it's full to the brim.
Four doses a day? Pah! It's nowhere near enough, not at times like this, not in Calpol season.
Right now, it's The G needing it the most for she's a little unwell.
Nothing serious, just routine stuff, cough and cold, temperature and tiredness.
Last night it disturbed her sleep to the extent that she ended up in with us. That might not sound that unusual but here it's unheard of, our two having never been great bed sharers.
Her poorliness apart, it was quite nice, although once or twice in her sleep she emitted a bloodcurdling shriek, right into my ear, from a range of just two or three inches.
Still, she seemed a little better this morning, especially after a Calpol-based breakfast and bonus Ibuprofen for elevenses.
Seeking distraction, we headed out to the opening of a new toy shop, something of a miscalculation given that every family within a 25-mile radius had had the same idea.
Think Al's Toy Barn from Toy Story 2, but filled with tracksuits, tattoos and tantrums, the masses doing battle to snatch the best pre-Christmas bargains, children everywhere, toys littering the aisles, abandoned babies, chaos.
It didn't do a lot to make The G feel better, it has to be said.
Indeed, on our return home, I felt the need to join her in a little lunchtime Calpol.
Good job the tank had just been filled.

Your fake muscles are no match for me............

There's not much that I dislike more than those horrible Spiderman dressing-up costumes.
The ones that have the muscles sewn into the arms and chest, I mean.

They're awful things.

Flicking through the Christmas catalogue from the aforementioned shop a little earlier, I was surprised to find that the costumes in question cost £19.99.

On the same page, I noticed a rather stylish ninja suit, £6.99, bargain.

Reading the description beneath said suit I came across the brilliant line nunchucks not included. 

To me, that begs an obvious question: 

Where does one go to purchase nunchucks for their children these days?

Cat stress & cockerels

Cock-a-doodle-don't

The vets this afternoon, me and The G.
The B opted out. He didn't miss much, the scales not made available to us this time around.
The G jumped at the chance to go, in the main because I'd suggested there might be one or two unusual animals to look at.
In the event, none proved stranger than our own.
Cat One, in good working order.
Cat Two, could be suffering from stress, the vet's disturbing diagnosis.
"Is there anything in particular that might be making him stressed?" the vet asked at one point.
I looked around to see The G chasing Cat Two, whooping and pulling on his tail on the occasions she managed to get close enough.
"Nothing springs to mind," I said.
Cat Two received an injection but should certain symptoms not clear up, it'll be back to the surgery for a further examination and some blood tests that are, in the vet's own words, 'expensive and unreliable'.
Not great, but at least we did better than the people before us on the appointment schedule.
Their cat went in, a confident look on his face.
Their cat did not come out again.
Ours did, at least, albeit a little on the stressed side, evidence perhaps that small children and pets are not always compatible.
Finished in the consulting room, waiting for the bill, we perused the notice board, one hand-written advertisement in particular catching the eye.
"Large cockerel seeking a good home," it read.
"Do you think we ought to get a cockerel?" I asked The G, not entirely serious.
She looked at me, then at Cat Two, a despairing look forming on her face.
The G shook her head.
"No Daddy," she sighed.

Health Visitor or Vet? It's a viable alternative

Dogs: "When you've quite finished on those scales....."

I have a confession to make, another one.
It's further to the earlier post about Health Visitors, a post that seems to have struck a certain chord out there.
The confession is this: The last person to weigh The B was not a Health Visitor.
It wasn't a doctor or even a nurse.
It was a health professional, although not a specialist in the human condition.
You see - and I'll admit that this doesn't make me proud - the last person to measure The B's weight was a vet.
I should, perhaps, explain.
Long before The B and The G came the cats, two of them, a long haired, fluff-shedding, mess-making pair.
Each year, the cats have to visit the vet for an annual check-up and their routine-but-expensive vaccinations.
Last year, I took The B along in the hope there'd be one or two amusing animals to look at in the waiting room.
There weren't, but towards the end of the consultation, he did begin to take an interest in the scales, the big ones that are used for weighing large dogs.
Noticing this, the vet offered to weigh him.
I'm all for improvisation and, you know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
To mount a defence, albeit a fragile one, it was the vet's idea, not mine.
That said, he did a grand job.
So much so that when I take the cats back to see the vet later this week, I'll be sure to take The B and perhaps The G too in the hope that he might make his kind offer again.

Mendelssohn, music & loving a lie-in

Mendelssohn: Essential lie-in listening.

Further evidence that certain people in the household are growing up at a rather rapid rate.

You see, The B has stopped getting up in the morning.

Not altogether, although I imagine that is an issue I'll have to tackle about 10 years from now.

No, just a change in routine, albeit quite a significant one.

For so long programmed to rise at 7am on the dot, The B has, for the last four days, stayed tucked up in bed until 8am.

Loving his lie-in? He gets that from his parents.

It perhaps doesn't prove growing maturity, not on its own, at least.

But consider this.

The B still has a monitor in his bedroom and, given that a four-year-old's movements are none too subtle, it's not difficult to figure out everything going on up there.

Yesterday, he woke up at around 7.45am and spent the next 10 minutes content beneath the covers.

Just after 7.56am he climbed out, opened his curtains and blackout blind, turned on the radio in his room and got back into bed.

It's tuned to Classic FM and he spent the next 10 minutes listening to the news, the day's weather forecast and a short Mendelssohn Piano Concerto before coming down to join us at the breakfast table.

Cultured? Perhaps a little. Highly-strung? For sure.

Classic FM? Classic The B.

      

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, email or carrier pigeon, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends. 

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.

Growing & the make-your-own Health Visitor kit

DIY: Performs all the same functions sans condescension.

I have a confession to make.
I don't do the whole Health Visitor thing.
I did at the start, for a short time, at least. But no longer. Enough is enough.
You see, it reached a point where we'd sit for ages in an overcrowded waiting room, overheated and horrible, all tears and tantrums, and for what? 
To have The B and The G measured and weighed, with a little gentle condescension thrown in for good measure?
It's not for me. No Sir, I figured out long ago that this is one service that I can do without.
You see, having been educated to a reasonable standard, I can work out for myself if children are growing or not.
Tape measure from the toolbox in the garage, the bathroom scales: There it is, a complete DIY make-your-own Health Visitor kit.
There are one or two other indicators that I can also use if ever I'm uncertain.
The G, for example, can now, for the first time, stand up in the small pool at swimming and keep her head above water. 
Just, that is. It's up to chin level, but still, she can stand and breathe, an important development.
Elsewhere, we just spent almost £200 on a new car seat for The B, less padding, fewer straps, using the car's own seatbelt to hold him in place, much more grown-up.
That's The B, whose sleeves are, these days, being worn much higher up his forearms.
Growing? I think so, and fast, a conclusion that I have reached all by myself, no Health Visitor required.
Final confirmation came earlier this morning at soft play, an inevitable destination given the inclement conditions that made the playground a B&G-free zone.
You see, there was a time when I had to go to great lengths to protect The B and The G from the big kids.
Nowadays, it seems, The B and The G are the big kids.

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Today, I enjoyed this from Mummy Cool. It's potty. Quite literally.

The second rule of Ferrari Club.....

So it's a total write-off.
The Ferrari, that is.
It lasted less than three weeks, not great, although there have been toys that have had even shorter lives.
It's a shame, although it's no great surprise.
If nothing else, it proves that we were right to resist the pleas for a Scalextric. If the Ferrari affair has taught us anything, it's that a Scalextric might have struggled to last the first weekend, although right now, that's not a major consolation for The B.
That said, he doesn't seem all that distraught, despite his fondness for a Ferrari that, following one or two teething problems, he soon learned to steer.
So to the accident.
Not an accident as such, for despite The B's initial fears, The G followed the rules and managed not to sit on his car.
No, the Ferrari's sad demise came following The B's decision to rip the antennae from the control unit yesterday, an action he is at a loss to explain.
Because it was there? I suppose so, for small children often do inexplicable things, just to see what happens. It's a learning mechanism.
Curiosity, I'm sure, played a part in the ill-advised experiment, and although, at first, I struggled to comprehend yesterday's developments, I began to understand a bit more a little earlier, as I cleaned cat fluff, accumulated over several months, from beneath the sofa in the lounge.
Moving the furniture, I came across a long-lost Malteser, dropped some time back and never found.
I could have picked up said chocolate and deposited it in the bin.
Instead, I chose to use the Hoover to suck it up, despite knowing that in doing so, I stood to block the vacuum cleaner and perhaps cause serious damage to its mechanism.
The reason? Because it was there, of course, because I was curious, and because I needed to find out what would happen.
Turns out we're not so different after all.

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I'm enjoying a blog called Lies I tell my kids. You can find it here. Don't forget to give @homedad a mention.

Kiwi, wee wee & plip plop

Kiwi: not a wee wee.

The dinner table, nothing but sophisticated conversation here.
The B requests something from the fruit bowl, his choice a kiwi, de-skinned, chopped into chunks and served in a bowl.
"Delicious," he declares and begins tucking in.
The G looks on, suspicious, sceptical.
"Don't like it," she says.
Once again, pause for thought.
"What is it?"
So it begins once again, Friday's Great Fruit Debate reignited.
I tell her The B is eating kiwi.
She considers this for a moment.
"Wee wee?" she asks.
From this point, I lose all grip on proceedings.
The B (in hysterics): "Not wee wee, kiwi!"
The G (chortling): "Wee wee?"
The B (beside himself): "Not wee wee, kiwi!"
Short pause for breath.
The G (feigning seriousness): "Wee wee?"
So it continues, back and forth for several moments. I attempt to interject, but cannot be heard over an ever-more raucous wee wee/kiwi conversation.
Seeing no alternative, I let it run its course and it does, in time.
Order restored, kiwi consumed, I suggest a story, The G's choice, Hello Little Ducklings.
It's going quite well until we reach page six, the line "Splishy splashy in a line, Plip plop it's swimming time."
The G thinks for a moment.
"Plip plop," she says, pausing for dramatic effect. "Just like a poo poo."
So it begins again.

      

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, email or carrier pigeon, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends. 

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.