Haribo, Halloween and holding on for fireworks . . .

I have a confession to make . . .

I've got little time for Halloween. 

In truth, I never have had. Yet each October, as this Haribo-sponsored spook-fest becomes even more invasive, the aversion that I have to it grows just a little bit stronger.

Listen, I don't mind telling The B&G ghost stories. I've helped them to carve pumpkin lanterns and I even bought them a Halloween-themed biscuit from our local baker (The G chose a classic iced spectre, The B an amusing cream-filled monster).

But dragging them door-to-door, demanding sweets? Dressing them in Freddie Krueger costumes? Draping fake spiderwebs all over the house?
Call me a killjoy, but it's just not us.

Yesterday, in the supermarket, I noticed that there is an aisle - an entire aisle - devoted to Halloween and all its associated wares.
These are, in the main, sugar-based and sold in huge drum-shaped containers; this is, in itself, a rather haunting sight.

The B&G have done all their Halloween activities - her at nursery, him at school - so this evening I shall be lighting our pumpkins, closing the curtains and ignoring the doorbell. 

Roll on Bonfire Night . . .

Bad ears & blockages: Banana Medicine is back . . .

Just back from seeing the GP . . .
It's The B's ears. They've stopped working again.
It has been going on for some time, this loss of hearing. I've always tended to attribute it to the chronic inattentiveness in which The B specialises. It has become clear of late, however, that there is something else going on also.
The right ear in particular is proving problematic, meaning that conversations are best conducted on his left side. He is becoming quite adept at turning his head in order to use his superior ear to maximise his hearing potential . . .
That this isn't a long-term solution is obvious.
So to see the doctor, the diagnosis that, somewhere deep inside, there is a blockage of some description. The next step, antibiotics (the all-conquering Banana Medicine), a course that has to be administered for the next seven days.
If this pharmaceutical superhero doesn't do the trick, we'll be referred to a specialist for further investigation.
But this all seeming to be quite routine, I doubt it's going to come to that . . .

Half-term, Halloween & having him home again . . .

It's just like old times here . . .
You see, it's half-term, meaning that, for the first time since September 4, The B isn't going to be spending the week at school. Considering his exhausted state, this is a major relief. Not that I'm expecting the coming days to be all that restful.
Places to go, people to see, it's possible we're going to be busier than ever . . .
There's Halloween and fireworks to fit in, a fifth birthday party to attend and various other social commitments to contend with. There are appointments with the GP and the vet to keep, buses and trains to ride and all the stuff that the school schedule doesn't give us time to do has to be squeezed in somewhere too. If that isn't enough, there's also The G to look after, never the most relaxing task.
I suspect that, once the week is out, The B is going to be relishing his return to the classroom. The chances are, all things considered, it'll be quieter and less tiring there . . .

Reading, writing and kissing in the classroom . . .

So, about that parents' evening . . .

The B received, as expected, a positive report from his teacher, who - it is obvious - could not be more pleased with his performance thus far.

One or two surprises, the main one being that his fast-developing reading and writing skills are not, as I'd imagined, the thing that has impressed the staff the most.

Instead, that thing - as Dr Z discovered - is a mathematical aptitude that hasn't gone unnoticed during his first few weeks in the classroom. I'd hoped he might take after me, but unlike Dr Z, I'm useless at anything number-related . . .

Perhaps the most pleasing thing to come from his first-ever parents' evening is confirmation that he has settled in well, is making friends and that, in social terms, the staff have no concerns.

On the contrary, it seems he has been perhaps rather too friendly. You see, it turns out that, on more than one occasion, The B and his closest female friend have had to be asked to stop kissing in the classroom.
I'd always assumed I'd have a little longer to prepare for our first man-to-man talk . . .

Time alone, toys and making a mess . . .

Remember The G's new bedroom?

Lovely, it was. Until The G moved back in.

She has, in recent days, demonstrated a growing penchant for spending time alone in her room. Reading books, drawing pictures (on her desk) and playing with her toys, this has been nice, quiet, reflective time, and something to be encouraged. Or at least, so I thought.

The scene I encountered at bath time tonight suggests that, as pastimes go, this particular one might just prove to be shortlived . . .

Bad timing and the overtired twosome . . .

The B's first parents' evening tonight . . .

Not that I'm going.

This non-attendance isn't intentional, trust me. It's just that the scheduling couldn't be a great deal worse, our allocated time slot the far from ideal (and even further from our requested 5.30-6.30pm) 7.20pm.

This is more than a little on the late side for The B&G, an overtired twosome whose earlier than normal retirement at 6.45pm last night came as a considerable relief for all parties. 

If anything, having been to Piccolo this morning and gymnastics this afternoon, The G is even more tired tonight.

It's not as though I'm not going to be represented this evening . . .

You see, for this task I'm deploying Dr Z, whose own scheduling issues mean that, under normal circumstances, she doesn't often get to do the school stuff. 

I'm expecting, upon her return, a glowing report. Yesterday's developments - and the obvious progress The B is making - suggests there is nothing to be concerned about . . .

Behaviour, The B and The PhD . . .

There has been some bad behaviour at The B's school in recent times . . .
Not from The B, I hasten to add. Still, when his teacher asked if I'd stick around for a 'quick chat' this afternoon, I must admit that, for a moment, I did fear the worst.
The topic of the subsequent conversation did, indeed, centre around discipline in the classroom. You see, a student from a local university is planning to spend time at our school as part of a PhD project that is researching children and their behavioural patterns.
The B, guinea pig number one, has been earmarked for an important role in a forthcoming experiment because - as his teacher confided in hushed tones - he has been so good.
This made me feel bad for thinking that he might have been causing problems in the classroom. In hindsight, I should have known better . . .

Beware of the Desk Monster . . .

Desk mad around here . . .

The B has just acquired his first-ever one, leading The G to remember that, from deep within the mechanism of her Swiss Army Bed, one can, upon pulling the correct combination of pulleys and levers, be deployed.

Neither has time for much else at the minute . . .

It takes toys and games to entertain most children. For The B&G, it seems as though office furniture holds far more allure.

Both have spent countless hours at their desks in recent days, engaged in their 'work'. 

Not that said furniture doesn't have a darker, more dangerous side.

You see, last night at bedtime, The B complained that, in the dark, his desk looks like a monster or, perhaps, an ogre (this a stage that he is going through at the minute).

On reflection, our planned outing to Staples might not be such a good idea . . .

The B's bottle breaks the camel's back . . .

The B has a bottle . . .

School rules state that he has to take said vessel with him - filled to the brim with water - each and every day. The regulations also dictate that the bottle must NEVER be carried inside the official school-issue bag (something, I think, to do with the risk of its contents leaking out and ruining the books that are permitted to be placed inside the special sack's protected inner-sanctum).

That means that someone has to carry it to and from school five days a week. That means that it must be carried by me.

I don't mind this in principle, fetching and carrying being, after all, chief amongst my duties these days.

But on afternoons such as this, when, in addition to attempting to keep up with The B on his bike, I found myself also clutching The G, her cycle helmet, his bag, a model space rocket (this fashioned from a four-pint milk bottle, cardboard, plastic cups and masking tape) and a newspaper pirate hat, it can be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Especially - and this, perhaps, is the crux of the issue here - given that The B seems never to take even a single sip from a bottle that returns every night as full as when it left the house, some six-and-a-half hours earlier . . .

Gymnastic giraffes and the Goose Step . . .

Just back from gymnastics . . .

The next class up, that is. The one for bigger boys and girls, The G having squashed all the smaller participants at last week's starter session.

This morning, at the breakfast table, The B enquired as to the reason for his sister's impending promotion.

The G considered the question for a moment.

'Because I'm so good at it,' she replied, as modest as ever.

The thing is, she is good at it, this a pastime far more suited to her all-action approach to life than, for instance, ballet.

This afternoon's session presented some significant challenges, but The G rose to them all, using the apparatus with all her usual gusto and fearing no equipment, no matter its size.

There is one thing I noticed during the floor-based introduction that might require a little attention, however. 

The instructor demonstrated a long-legged stride, one that she described as a Giraffe Step, and then asked the junior gymnasts gathered around her to all give it a go. The G's attempts, I'm afraid to report, proved to be more Goose Step than Giraffe, something that is going to need to be addressed at future sessions . . .

Speaking Spanish, school trips & soup . . .

Zanahoria . . .
That's Spanish for carrot. This is knowledge I have acquired from The B, who - to our great surprise - has begun to learn a second language at school.
In recent days, he has also been taught basic soup-making skills. For a play-based curriculum, the classroom programme that he is experiencing is covering some unexected bases.
Tomorrow, The B has his first school outing (just to the local park, one that we've visited together a thousand times, but he is still excited). Last week, we found ourselves required to do a little home baking so that he had something to contribute to the school's latest cake sale. Such things are in addition to making friends, learning (and adhering to) all the rules and regulations, developing reading and writing skills, and participating in regular PE sessions, and classes in computers and music. Hectic doesn't quite cover it.
Factor in his current cold and it's little surprise that The B is so tired that, this evening, he retired at 6.45pm. Being rather agotado* myself, I don't think it's going to be too long before I head to bed either . . .

* That's Spanish for exhausted.

Colds, Calpol & counting coughs . . .

Disaster has struck . . .

It's The B. He has a cold.

It's nothing serious. Not for a regular person, that is. Indeed, Dr Z and I have both suffered similar symptoms in recent days. The G too, although as always, her stoicism puts her older brother to shame.

Each cough and splutter has to be counted and commented upon, The B - as aggrieved as ever - indignant that the germ responsible for his condition has chosen to pick on him.

Calpol, hot Ribena and blankets, we've done everything possible to ease his 'suffering' and, in fairness, he did improve (as always) as the morning progressed having risen (as always) in a fettle that I think it's fair to describe as joyless.

The condition that has come to be known as Man Flu gets a bad press. It has, however, nothing on The B version . . .

***

Following bath time this evening, further evidence that The B isn't operating at full capacity . . . 

He spent a good five minutes looking for his pyjama trousers. Following a frantic search, it turned out that he was already wearing them . . .

Perspective, Piccolo and acceptable in-car audio . . .

Sometimes, it's all just a matter of perspective . . .
Take, for instance, the latest problem to beset our much-abused Audi.
From my point of view, the fact that a CD has become wedged inside the stereo and can't be removed is news that has to be considered bad.
For The B&G, however, the fact that said disc is their favourite Piccolo compliation (Shake, Rattle & Sing) means that this particular development - one that ensures that Daddy's music gets not the merest air time - couldn't be much better.
That the stuck CD still plays is, I suppose, a silver lining as it means that The B&G's musical needs can still be met during journeys in the car. The bottom line is that, given that the view from the backseat is that Piccolo is the only acceptable in-car audio these days, not an awful lot has changed . . .

Bumps, bruises and being The G . . .

The G's clumsiness knows no bounds . . .

In the last 24 hours, she has fallen into a swimming pool (and it was quite a drop from the poolside to the water which, at the point of impact, was around four feet in depth), tripped and gone sprawling, face-down, into a sizeable puddle during a sodden school run and jumped head-first from a high beam, landing on top of a much smaller participant, squashing her flat, during her latest gymnastics lesson. 

The instructor later informed us that The G has, all of a sudden, become eligible for the next class up and will, as of next week, be able to put her acrobatic talents to the test alongside the bigger boys and girls.

I'm still trying to decide if her unexpected promotion is based on meritorious performance, or whether it is founded on the obvious need to start safeguarding the younger, more delicate children in the class . . .