Letters for Father Christmas . . .

Christmas is coming . . .

Letters to Santa have been penned and everything.

Dr Z helped The G, who has requested an umbrella (Hello Kitty, of course), a bike, books, hair clips and Girl Lego. The B, accomplished scribe that he is these days, did his own.

His is notable not for the gifts that he has asked for (pens, cars, a sleeper train) but for the conversational tone of his correspondence.

For instance, at one point he writes (this a letter to Father Christmas, remember), 'Are you alright in the North Pole?' There follows 'Are the elves happy working?' and 'Have fun making the presents'. 

I can't help but be impressed, although - as I've spent this afternoon attempting to explain to The B - being rather busy, Santa might not be in the market for a pen-pal just now . . .

Shepherd-talk and camel legs . . .

The B has got a line . . .
In the school Christmas play, that is.
It's not much of a line, granted.
Just six short words, in fact ('Please can we see the baby?'). Come the big night, however, this being his first theatrical performance, I suspect this might not be such a bad thing.
I'm just pleased that he has secured a speaking part and that the role that he has been assigned (Shepherd 2) is 1) Quite significant in the overall plot; and 2) Human in nature.
I had him down for (at best) a sheep or (at worst) the rear quarters of a camel.
It might not be the lead role, but I don't mind. Considering the alternatives, I reckon Shepherd 2 is quite respectable . . .

Baking cakes, making mistakes . . .

On Mondays, The G and I like to bake . . .

Cupcakes are our speciality, although the results often don't indicate the slightest degree of expertise.

It seems to be a given that, whenever we decide to put our cake-making skills to the test, I can be relied upon to contribute one error that proves fatal to the process.

Last week, for instance, I used butter instead of Stork. The week before, I turned the oven to a temperature more appropriate for a cremation than for cooking.

Our latest batch, however, appear to be error-free. Perhaps this is because The G has begun to take a more active role in production.

This morning, for example, she did the weighing out and whisking and took charge, as always, of toppings (six different kinds) and decoration.

She left me the bits in and around the oven and all the cleaning up. 

I also managed to retain control of the icing.  

I don't expect this to remain the case for all that much longer.

Given that, of all the processes involved, it is the icing that looks the most as though a three-year-old has done it, it might be no bad thing . . .

The G's Manky Doo-Doo . . .

The G loves to sing . . .

She can't always be relied upon to get the words right. But she never lets her loose grip on the lyrics spoil her growing penchant for musical performance.

Her current favourite song is Mary, Mary, quite contrary, although she does tend to lose it a little around the silver bells/cockle shells section.

Still, she is better at this number than she is at Yankee Doodle . . .

Yesterday, whilst out and about in the car, I heard her attempting to master the latter. 

'What are you singing?' I asked.

The G thought about this for a moment.

'Manky Doo-Doo,' she replied.

Following hot on the heels of the Plop goes the weasel affair, this couldn't have been a more unfortunate interpretation . . .

Beach or bleach? It's really no contest . . .

The B back at school, The G and I have had a hectic day . . .
This morning, we headed to the beach (the sun shining, we spent two hours digging holes, clambering across the rocks, throwing stones into deep pools and patting all the passing dogs). This afternoon, it was our regular swimming session, including much splashing around, jumping in, waves and innumerable other aquatic activities.
In-between times, we got stuck into one or two household chores - in particular, scrubbing the bathroom floor. This still caked in surplus grout following a recent re-tile, it has been an epic undertaking but thanks, in the main, to The G's industrious efforts (and having soaked her trousers almost immediately, she tackled this task in her underwear), I think it's almost complete.
I'm sure there's no need for me to reveal the thing that The G, whose penchant for cleaning is astonishing, enjoyed the most. There's no accounting for taste . . .

Polling Stations, Piccolo & the Prodigal's return . . .

No school today . . .

Something about an election.

Not that I made it to the classroom-cum-polling-station. Bad as that might sound, looking after The B&G doesn't leave much time for such things. 

This morning, The G dispatched to nursery, I took The B to Piccolo. Having attended, as always, just 24 hours earlier, this made it a double-header for me. 

His educational commitments having prevented his participation since the summer, The B's excitement en route proved difficult to contain.

He soon quietened down upon our arrival. Indeed, I think he found his long-awaited comeback rather overwhelming. Receiving abundant attention and realising that, being five, he stood out at a pre-school pastime brimming with babies and toddlers, he became quite self-conscious and sheepish.

The B had thought that this morning's session - rather than being a regular event - had been arranged just because he had a free morning to fill.

But once he accepted that countless other parents and their children had also decided to attend, and that he wasn't, in fact, the guest of honour, he soon settled down and got into the spirit.

Singing our favourite songs and doing all the usual actions - clapping, swaying, shuffling and tickling - it didn't take him long to forget himself. 

The session leader (or, as The B calls her, 'one of the Piccolo Ladies') at one stage announced that the time had come to change the accompanying gestures.

'Can anyone do shrugging?' she asked.

I had to suppress a giggle at that point. You see, in addition to sighing (and there doesn't seem to be a song about this, I'm afraid), it's something that The B has become rather good at in recent times.
Not that he had a great deal to sigh about this morning.
'That was brilliant,' he said in the car afterwards.
Having been just like old times, I had to agree . . .

Religion, culture and speaking Spanish . . .

The B is becoming quite multicultural . . .

Yesterday, for instance, whilst heading home from school, he wished me a Happy Diwali. Not being au fait in regard to the Hindu festivals, I must admit that I hadn't realised the time had come around again.

Then this morning, a further surprise, this time The B showing me that he is starting to learn not just about different cultures, but also about languages.

It came at the school gates, as The G and I prepared to bid him farewell.

'Goodbye,' I said to him, just like always.

The B thought about this for a moment.

'Adios,' he replied.

I looked at him in bafflement.

'I'm speaking Spanish,' he explained, before disappearing into the classroom . . .

Rats, raccoons & unimaginative monikers . . .

The B&G, it must be said, have never been the best at naming their soft toys . . .

The B, for instance, has owned his black-and-white monkey for at least three years now. It is still called, well, Monkey.

Some toys, it's a relief to report, come pre-named, Rollo being the best example.

The G does a little better than her brother and, since returning from Center Parcs with Princess Mabel Cat, things have begun to improve on this front.

PMC, as I call her, has spawned a franchise. The G, for instance, has renamed existing toys, so that her collection includes Princess Mabel Dog and Princess Mabel Bear.

She doesn't always get it right, however . . .

The other day, I found her playing with a raccoon that, despite having long been a household favourite, has never had a name. 

The G looked up at me and smiled.

"It's Princess Mabel Rat," she said . . .

Exasperated and impatient: the same as always . . .

So, I've been trying to figure out if The B has changed much since he started school . . . .
There is, I suppose, the obvious developmental stuff: he can read and write; his mathematics skills have improved; his drawings are starting to resemble actual things and, in social terms, he is beginning to make great strides.
In other aspects, he seems to be much the same as always, although I have begun to notice that certain things are creeping in.
Sighing, for instance, seems to have become de rigueur around here. I'm reluctant to use the word 'attitude', but at times there is a certain edge that I don't remember from the pre-school period.
Earlier today, for instance, he asked me to construct a complicated paper aeroplane. I obliged, as always, although, to his obvious exasperation, I proved unable to complete the prescribed task in the timeframe that, unbeknownst to me, he had allotted.
'Hurry up,' he muttered wearily, before sighing a great sigh. It isn't an isolated episode.
Later on, for example, I noticed he had started drawing a picture and so, keen to take an interest, I enquired about the subject matter.
Once again, he emitted the exaggerated sigh. 'Just wait and see,' he murmured under his breath, his annoyance at the perceived intrusion quite clear.
I thought for a time that he had picked up such impertinence from school. But The G, her own bossiness knowing no bounds, has, if anything, been even more impatient this afternoon, demonstrating that, when it comes to huffing and puffing, her brother doesn't hold the exclusive rights.
So for now, the answer is no, I don't think The B has changed since he started school. 
The truth is, I reckon he has always been like this . . .

High-priced pastimes: the extortionate aquarium . . .

Earlier this morning, The G and I took a trip to our local aquarium . . .

I haven't taken her for quite some time, but she has been asking to go for the last month or so. The B dispatched to school and several spare hours at our disposal, I decided the time to return had come.

It's quite good at the aquarium and, in terms of marine species, it ticks all the important boxes. It isn't big, however and, as-per-usual, spinning our visit out to a full half-an-hour proved to be quite a challenge.

For The G, the main attraction, as always, wasn't the fish or the seals or the otters (all asleep), but the 50p-a-go ride-on Peppa Pig car in the foyer.

It costs £15.50 for The G and I to go to the aquarium, the admission price for three-year-olds set at a rather ambitious £6.50. Bearing all this in mind - and considering two hours of soft play costs just £3 - I just remembered why we don't visit more often . . .

The B&G: bad news for trees . . .

Deforestation is a serious subject . . .

This is something I keep trying to stress, to no avail, to The B&G, whose consumption of paper in recent times has been quite astonishing.

Dr Z brings it home in enormous quantities, sheets salvaged from the printers and photocopiers at work, these used on one side, still blank on the other and, in the main, destined for the bin.

These are perfect for The B&G, who can go through paper at a quite remarkable rate.

If they're not using it for drawing, painting or general scribbling, they're practising their letters and numbers. 

The B has taken to copying out the words from his favourite train timetables, maps and books. This morning, he reproduced the BigJigs catalogue. Yesterday, it was the nutritional information from a cereal box. The G is keen on gluing random things to A4 sheets and loves to use her scissors to hack her creations into interesting shapes. 

Both are partial to a paper plane.

On a particularly-productive day, several reams can be consumed, the paper pile in the playroom forever shrinking. Dr Z keeps bringing it home - but even she is struggling to keep up.

In terms educational and imaginative, this is all good, and The B&G's paper-based pastimes are to be encouraged. But it can't be considered good news for trees . . .

Nintendo-style schooling & education by proxy . . .

You know, the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that I'm not going to need to send The G to school . . .

I'm not claiming that The G is a genius. But given her unfathomable interest in everything that The B does, she is receiving quite an education by proxy.

She listens to everything he says and, whenever he sits down to practice his letters or numbers or finds a book to read, she does exactly the same. She knows all the classroom rules and regulations and has learnt all the teachers' names. She can write her name (and his), can work out the first letter of most words and, in the bath the other night, she counted to 100. She even knows all the planets.

The B is quite clever but the knowledge that The G has acquired from their time together means that she is far more advanced - in intellectual terms, at least - than he was at this age.

Keen to push her boundaries a littler further the other day, I fired up our long-forgotten Nintendo Wii. The 'game' I chose is called Big Brain Academy, a collection of tests and puzzles that, it is claimed on the packaging, is designed to calculate brain power.

This isn't intended for children. Still, it came as no surprise to discover that The G soon had it all sussed out . . .

Dieting, dinner & taking drastic action . . .

The G is on a diet . . .

This isn't a response to issues weight-related, or anything like that. It's more that her eating habits have become so ridiculous that something drastic had to be done.

I believe it's known as calling her bluff.

In recent days, the list of prohibited foodstuffs has grown, with baked beans and sausages becoming the latest things she says she no longer likes. The G, you'll remember, has a rule that nothing that has grown on a tree or a bush or in the ground (save, perhaps, the occasional potato) shall ever pass her lips.

Countless dinners having been dispatched to the bin in recent days, I've decided to act.

So, for the duration of this week, tea is going to be two fishfingers, a small potato (mashed) and a modest squeeze from the ketchup bottle. 

The objectives are two-fold:

1) That she'll actually eat an entire evening meal (albeit one so lacking in taste, imagination or genuine nutritional benefit), ensuring that the time I spend in the kitchen can't be considered a complete waste.

2) That, in time, she'll become so sick-to-the-back-teeth of fishfingers that, once normal service resumes, she might, for once, agree to eat something else . . .

Half-term, hard work . . .

Back to school tomorrow . . .
Thank goodness.
Don't get me wrong - it has been nice to have The B at home during the half-term period. But I'd be lying if I claimed it hadn't been hard work.
It turns out that - in full-time parenting terms, at least - I'm a little out of shape. 
It might be just nine weeks since he started school, but I'd forgotten what it's like to look after The B&G both, on my own, for several days at a time.
It has been quite a difficult week to manage and I've found myself torn between trying to give The B some much-needed downtime, allowing him to engage in the pursuits that our normal schedule doesn't enable us to do, and attempting to entertain The G, who has become accustomed to having me all to herself in recent times.
The balance has been achieved - just about - but I am relishing the quieter days ahead.
I'm not convinced The B is much less tired as a result of his time off. 
One thing is certain: I'm as exhausted as ever . . .

Fireworks, friends & unpredictable pyrotechnics . . .

Just finished our fireworks . . .

Supermarket specials, out in the back garden, a mid-sized selection box, sparklers, small bonfire and additional rockets. Oh, and the all-important finale firework, a 21-shot multi-burst cake, an explosive guaranteed to send all in attendance running for cover.

No major problems to report, although one unpredictable pyrotechnic did take an unexpected trajectory, just clearing the fence en route to a neighbouring garden. No damage done - at least, I don't think so; the smoke didn't last too long.

The B&G and their friends loved it, as always, although as-per-usual, most retreated inside before allowing us to light the last one, this louder than all the others put together, a firework that recommends that spectators be kept at a distance of at least 25 metres.

This isn't quite possible in our garden, although I did take precautions to make the evening as safe as possible. Indeed, all those hours spent watching Fireman Sam can't be considered time wasted on occasions such as these . . .

Tickling, talking & having a half-term haircut . . .

The B has had a half-term haircut . . .
This might not sound all that notable. But given that he has never before been to see a hairdresser, this is quite a big deal around here.
In the past, his hair has been cut at home. Dr Z used to do it with scissors before I took over said duties, using the clippers and the number two attachment.
Two main problems here:
1) The results have always been unpredictable.
2) I specialise a US Marine-style buzzcut, which is not ideal for the colder months.
Before The B started school, such things could just about be overlooked. It seems unfair, however, to send him back next week sporting an uneven haircut or maybe missing an ear (and the last time I tackled this particular task, I did almost shave one off).
So to the salon, a proper old-school barbers, no-frills but sufficient skills to give The B the short-back-and-sides that has always eluded us at-home amateur hairdressers.
He loved it - the pump-up chair, the 'tickling brush' and the lollipop that he received as a reward for sitting, as his stylist put it, 'as still as a statue'.
Heading home afterwards, I asked The B if he'd enjoyed the experience.
He thought about this for a moment.
'She talked a lot,' he said, an amused expression on his face.
'Hairdressers do that,' I replied. 
It's an important lesson to learn . . .