What Eddie Did Next

Eddie has, outside of the house, been behaving as a model pre-schooler.  (Notice the qualifying sub-clause there.) The nursery has been praising his helpfulness and there hasn't been a complaint for a while. He was the also the holder of the 'gymnastics teddybear' for two weeks for very good concentration in class.

And, with the retirement of Michael Flatley, our own little Lord of the Dance has been working hard at his Irish dancing, and will perform in the dance team as part of the May Day celebrations. I was breathing regular sighs of relief.  He is five months from starting school and things are going well.

Except that yesterday he was in trouble again: For 'giving the finger' to a fellow dancer.  He is four. And a bit.

Whilst the child inside me found this amusing, the parent and the teacher was disturbed.  He can't have the faintest idea what it means, but he must know that it is frowned upon by adults and is choosing to do it anyway.  We were kept behind at the end of the workshop.

Parents of naughty children feel the shame that the naughty child ought to feel.

Currently reading: Fire Colour One by Jenny Valentine

How Long Before Robot Gets It?

Junk modelling.

It's got a lot to answer for.

Every day that Eddie goes to preschool I find his 'picture bag' bulging with objets d'art. Jet-packs, light sabers, swords, shields, things cut from magazines and stuck, inexplicably, on thick cardboard. We need Pickfords just to get out of the building.

Each lovingly crafted item then comes in for further complex additions and embellishments. Tonight, for example, we had to make paper flames to protrude from the end of the Button Moon inspired rocket (itself made from two flowerpots, a cardboard tube and two tonnes of sellotape).

These are not neat little pictures that can easily be stored away for posterity. They are giant mountains of junk.  Take robot, for example, in the picture below.

So how long, realistically, should these items be on display? Is half an hour enough?

Our neighbours must think that we are super-green due to the amount our recycling has increased in recent months.

And I have got very good at feigning surprise when we can't find something the following morning.  Though I can't help casting a guilty look in the direction of the fire...

So, how long before robot gets it?

Currently reading: All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

Potty Book

I saw this and it made me smile.  And then I saw Martin D's 'post' and immediately thought of Eddie.

Because, and here's the thing:  I decided at half term that, since I would be home with the kids, it would be the time to potty train Eddie.  He seemed keen, the weather forecast was good (outdoor activities planned as part of carpet protection scheme) and it would be the summer before I had that kind of time to spare again.

It was an unmitigated disaster.  Day one went something like 8-0 (Carpet v Potty).  Day two was like war.  There was screaming, and tantrums, and Eddie wasn't particularly well-behaved, either.  By day three the plan was abandoned, and we remortgaged the house to pay for the additional nappies needed for the next few months.

And then, the following Friday, he announced at nursery entirely unprompted that he would be, "wearing big boy pants today, thank you".  They duly phoned us for permission to oblige; we laughed down the receiver and thought of the washing he'd be bringing home.

Nope.  Not a bit of it.  No accidents.  Not one. Perfectly potty-trained.  The nursery congratulated us on what a good job we'd been doing.

And that just about sums up Eddie: Nobody is going to tell him what to do or when to do it.

Ever, I suspect.

Anyone want to buy a truckload of nappies?



Currently Reading: The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

Mummy Isn't Magic (But There Are Enough Cuddles)

Given that Gilby is very much a mummy's boy, we weren't entirely sure how he would take to his new little baby brother, Eddie. In fact, nursery had warned us that he had been saying that he wasn't sure if Mummy would have enough cuddles for him too (how to make your heart hurt!)

So it was with some care that we made the introductions. One-day-old Eddie was very generous in his gifts to his siblings, and showed a remarkable awareness for what they might like. That started things off well, but when I went to feed Eddie, Gilby came over and yanked my breast away, declaring firmly, "No Mummy, Eddie doesn't like that."

When Eddie subsequently started crying at having his supper interrupted, Gilby did make a little concession and suggested that I sing him 'Rainbow' (Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Gilby's favourite when he is feeling sad) so I guess there was some degree of empathy there.

Meanwhile Gertie (4 going on 40) was quite happy to mother her new baby brother, fussing over him with the muslin and demanding cuddles. My sister brought over a hamper of loveliness filled with nice things for Mummy including chocolates, wine and various pampering products, but it also had a little book in called 'My Mummy is Magic'. This is a lovely little tale guaranteed to bring a tear to the eye of a hormonal new mum, all about the little things that mummy does that seem like magic. Unfortunately there is no pulling the wool over Gertie's eyes with the new-found independence that school has given her. I read to them both in my best Listen With Mother voice:

"If I whisper a secret in my mummy's ear, she guesses it before I've finished telling her! That's magic."

"Well, no, that's not really magic, is it?!

I carried on, not wishing to break the 'spell'.

"When I hurt myself, my mummy kisses the sore bit, and ta-da! It's all better. That's magic."

"Um, well, that's not actually magic, either, is it?"

I suppose not...

Later on, Gertie was encouraging her little cousin to interact with her new baby brother. "Go on, he won't bite." There was a short pause before she added, "He hasn't got any teeth."

Gilby got into the spirit of it all eventually, and even came up with a gift-wrapped present for his mother. The fact that it was a packaged sanitary towel from the bathroom was irrelevant, as I believe it is the thought that counts.

And there were plenty of cuddles to go round!

There's A Lot Of It About

I have neglected by blog lately; the household has been plagued with sickness for the last ten days. Apparently, There's A Lot Of It About. Isn't there always? Only Gertie has so far escaped.

At first, Gilby had a number of what can at best be described as 'unhappy nappies'. I put this down to teething, and we had a couple of more-than-usually-unsettled nights.

When I started feeling unwell on Saturday with stomach cramps, I thought nothing much at first. With number three now on the way, I had expected a little nausea. I got worse. To the point where I started thinking about phoning midwives or doctors. I didn't remember experiencing this amount of pain with the previous two pregnancies.

Then Daddy started throwing up. I've never been so delighted to see anyone else being sick! (Sorry Daddy, but this meant an ordinary bug rather than something more sinister and complicated relating to the baby.) So - hooray! All was well. If you see what I mean.

But poor old Gilby was going downhill, and was in too much pain to let his extremely raw nappy skin be touched. "No-oo-oo-ooo," he squealed, trying to hold his body away. "It's all right, it's all right," I kept repeating, aiming to soothe the little man. This became his tearful mantra for a few days: "It's all right. It's all right." He tried to convince himself. Not even the Sock Game could perk him up. (This is the one where they both sit on the bed and Daddy bowls rolled up socks at the pair of them repeatedly amidst much squeals and laughter. I don't really understand it, myself.)

"There's a lot of it about," said the doctor, when we finally took Gilby along to be checked out.

"There's a lot of it about," said the nursery staff, as we explained why Gilby wouldn't be there this week.

And, "There's a lot of it about," said my boss, as I told him I was expecting.

The End of the Affair

Gertie was a bit sad when she came home from pre-school this week.

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly, arms outstretched in a curiously adult gesture as she told us that Harrison, corduroy-clad love of her life for nearly a whole year now, 'didn't want to get married'. In fact, he 'didn't want to be in love, or anything.'

Oh. "Did you have an argument?"
"No, mummy, don't be silly."
(That told me.)
"So is he still your boyfriend?"
"I suppose. We're still going to sit together at lunchtime."
I see. "Just no love and marriage?"
"No." She shook her head, sadly; an aged head on three-and-a-half year old shoulders.

One of life's lessons, learned very early.

She seemed to have got over it by the weekend, though.

Alternative Nursery Rhymes

Gilby is talking non-stop. He has reached the 'repeating-every-single-thing-he-hears' stage. The phase where you have to be extremely careful about what you say. This has so far not, thankfully, produced any howlers.

Though he has a great vocabulary now, he seems quite lazy with his pronunciation. In particular he seems to have some problems enunciating the letter 'p' clearly, sometimes turning it into a 'b', sometimes at 't'. His grandfather frequently goes to the 'bub' for a drink; I have to change his 'nathy' after a 'boo'.

But the worst, by far, is his rendition of the popular nursery rhyme, whose first line sounds, in Gilby's mouth, like 'Bra Bra Back sh$t'. He is fond of declaiming this loudly and publicly at every opportunity. He doesn't seem to be able to get past the first line, either, so he just repeats this over and over.

In front of teachers, nursery staff, and even the parish priest we just have to smile, talk loudly and hope that they haven't noticed. I promise I have not taught him this!

Discussions in Lilliput

Parents' evening.

As a teacher I'm usually on the other side of the desk for parents' evening, but this week it was my turn to hear about the shortcomings or otherwise of my children. Except that at three-and-a-half and one-and-a-third respectively you might expect the issues to be a little different.

My husband and I dutifully squash ourselves down into the low mini-chairs that the children use, flesh oozing unattractively over the sides, to hear that all is wonderful in the pre-school world of Gertie (apart from the fact that they are not allowed to encourage her literacy, but we didn't seem to be able to bring that up). She is good and listens and is extremely helpful and always polite. Oh. Do they have the right child? We look through her 'Learning Journal' at all the boxes that have been ticked. There are a scary amount of categories in which she is expected to succeed, but she, and consequently we, appear to have passed most of the tests.

So the first meeting goes well. Smiling, we move on to Gilby. And we learn that he will be staying behind in the Baby Room (oh dear, being kept back already) because though he is due to move up to 'Toddlers' in six weeks time, he's not yet walking so it wouldn't be safe. So his Learning Journal has not so many boxes ticked and he seems to be a little, well, below average, in a few sections.

I try to explain that his elder sister was just as slow at getting to her feet, and that perhaps Gilby is compensating by, um, being good at words. Whilst his 'key-worker' is smiling and nodding sympathetically, I can't help feeling as though I have somehow engineered this slow-walking situation and am responsible for his disappointing behaviour.

So he's gone from being the youngest baby in the nursery by a good few months to being the oldest by some way. Still, the ratio of staff to children is better in this room, so every cloud...

We eventually make it to our feet, escaping from the Lilliputian chairs, and wonder what parents' evening will be like when they are both actually in school; when there are many, many more boxes to be ticked and tests to be passed.

And it seems that perhaps the issues aren't so very different after all.

Hot Cross Mum

A week ago I was delighted by Gertie's reading development. That was half term, and now that she is back at pre-school, I am cross.

She has a little 'communication' book, you see. The idea is that we write stuff in there relating to Gertie: special requirements, concerns, anything that her carers might need to know about. It's a good idea, though I don't really know how it works because I've never had occasion to use it before. But with the young lady making a sudden breakthough with her reading, I thought I should alert the staff so that they might encourage her to spell or sound out words if she was sitting with a book. So I made a little note to that effect.

Oh dear.

Because then I had THE SUMMONS. And THE TALK. About how the staff are not allowed to 'do' any letters or numbers or anything that might remotely be considered educational with the children. At all. Under any circumstances. Regardless of how excited they might seem to be about it. Oh.

And now I seem to have had my 'communication book' confiscated. Which seems to have put an end to any...communication.

Still, I did get to go swimming with Gertie over half term, which meant that I also got to smile as I heard her complain about how her ears were 'turned off' afterwards and she couldn't listen properly. She kept pressing them like buttons to turn them back on, so I guess that might have helped the water to drain away, because she announced in the car on the way home, to everyone's great relief, that they were 'back on'.

The Porthole Affair

The year is 1935 and we are travelling across the Atlantic in RMS Olympic, sister ship to the Titanic. Yes, last weekend we hosted a murder mystery evening: The Porthole Affair.

Never done one before, and to be fair, we don't do a great deal of entertaining these days, so it became quite a big deal. I was playing the maid, 'Dawn Trodden' (oh, how appropriate) and my husband was playing the butler, 'Eamonn Etonion'. That gives a flavour of the calibre of the characterisation. Frilly apron and bowler hat at the ready, respectively, and three courses of food prepared the day before; we were ready to go. I had laid the table in the dining room early in the morning, and whilst we had perhaps not quite achieved the 'feel of Edwardian splendour' indicated in the murder mystery box of instructions, the scene was set.

But of course we hadn't factored in the little people. I picked Gilby and Gertie up from nursery on Friday afternoon as usual. Gertie had won a special prize for being a good helper and volunteering to buddy up with a new boy to help him settle in at pre-school, and the staff told me what a wonderful day Gilby had had, 'chatting' away to everyone with his baby-babble and general being very contented. Excellent. All going according to plan. I can work, have happy children and entertain. Go me.

On the way back we had to collect two of our guests from the train station: Auntie Bob (don't ask) and 1-year old cousin Milly. Uncle was arriving later on with Daddy, and all three were staying. Gertie had to give up her bedroom to allow this level of hospitality, but she did so with good grace and it was all turning into a happy adventure.

5pm. Now just to feed all three kids supper, get them into bed, and jump into ridiculous costume prior to the arrival of the other guests. Still going swimmingly.

It was at that point that Gilby decided to start vomiting, violently, in the fashion of a large hydrant gushing on free-flow. I got covered, and changed, three times. The kitchen floor took a battering. Auntie Bob was brilliant at entertaining the girls while I cleared up successive waves of sick. This, surely, was an unnecessarily realistic degree of preparation for the role of 'Dawn Trodden'?

Since I now had more than just carrot in my hair, a shower was required. I couldn't put Gilby down even for a second as he had gone all sort of floppy and pathetic as they do. He also wouldn't touch any food (understandably) but did want to suckle at the breast without taking very much milk. Brilliant. Torn between concern for my baby and the imminent arrival of five more guests, including the wealthy heiress 'Angeline Desguys', and the Russian-German-Jewish emigre, 'Esau Hytall', I didn't know what to do. Should we cancel? Call a doctor? Pour a large glass of wine? Laugh hysterically?

Well of course, then the door went. Toby O'Notoby and Ed Butte had arrived. Cancelling was now not an option. The phone rang almost simultaneously. Enid Ann Hallaby needed to know where to park her car as the driveway was full. The surgery was closing; no doctor until Monday morning. Large wine and laughter the only remaining options. We weren't a sinking ship yet. Threw some crisps in a bowl to keep the guests happy. Eventually got Gertie and Gilby to sleep. Rustled up a toffee sauce for the sticky toffee pudding. Hid wet hair behind frilly maid cap and got on with it. One moment scrubbing baby sick from the floor, the next dining amidst the great splendour of the Captain's quarters amidst one of the most fabulous ships ever built. Ish.

P.S. Gilby recovering well.

Sunshine on a Perfect Day

Thank you so much to Make do Mum for this Sunshine Award. Exactly what I needed to get the half term week off to a great start.

And it worked.

It's been a lovely day.

We did a quality little underwater photo shoot with both children first thing this morning.

After the first flash at Gilby, seemingly fully recovered after a lingering ear infection, the photographer took a look at the image and said, "Well, that's perfect. You won't get a better one." Job done.

And Gertie strongly objected (a euphemism for 'had a screaming tantrum') the last time I tried to take photos of her underwater, but was seduced today by the props - lots of fairy dresses, wings and magic wands to choose from. So he managed to take a good one of her too.

And the final shot was of Gertie holding her baby brother under water. It is more comic than, er, beautiful, but will be special nevertheless. Big Sis was terribly proud of herself for being entrusted with such an important task and managing to carry it out. In fact, by the time we got to nursery later on, it had turned into, "I rescued my brother under water."

So I got to take both children to nursery afterwards, leaving me with my very first time of no children and no work since Gilby was born. I went to my gym (the one where I pay monthly and never get to use it so when I do go it ends up being the most ridiculously expensive visit; I think today's cost £36...) and then I went and sat in a coffee shop, watched the world go by and worked on some writing. It was amazing.

And now I have to spread the sunshine to some fantastic blogs. Too many to mention, but here are some that have made me smile lately:

Mum's Survival Guide

Where's Your Other Sock Gone?

Hungry But Happy Mummy

No Wine on Wednesdays

The Life of the Twenty Something Mum

Wahm Bam

Withenay Wanders

And to accept the little ray of sunshine you merely need to pass it on to twelve other lovely blogs and let them know. Hooray!

Young Love

Oh God. It's begun. Already. And what timing, on the weekend of Valentine's Day.

On the way home from nursery in the car tonight Gertie gave me a quick sideways glance and struck up a conversation.
"Mummy, I want to tell you some-sing." (Her adult tone was offset by the funny lisp she has on 'th' words.)
"What's that?"
"Do you know Harrison?"
"Er, yes, I think so," I answered, rapidly trying to work out which one of the corduroy-clad toddlers she meant.
"Harrison is my boyfriend."
"Oh...?"
"I love him," she sighed, simply.

She's two!

I'm Too Civilised!

Gertie's transfer from 'toddlers' to 'pre-school' at nursery has been a little fraught, since she is inconveniently a few months younger than all her friends. There was initial talk of her joining them despite being a few weeks too young, but that has not happened; so she has been left behind and is sometimes unhappy about it.

But depending on numbers, there are odd days she is allowed to go into pre-school and be with them. Today was one such day. Gertie was really happy about it when I collected her, telling me proudly,
"I'm too civilised to be in toddlers, Mummy."
I wasn't sure that I had heard correctly.
"Sorry, darling - you're too what?
"Too civilised."
"Really. And who told you that?"
"Andrew." (One of the carers there.)

I tried, and failed, to hide my amusement, and the damage was well and truly done after making her repeat it several times, then broadcasting it to Daddy as soon as he arrived home.

She realised that there was some value in whatever she was saying, and began running around the sitting room screaming, "I'M TOO CILVILISED! I'M TOO CIVILISED!" at the top of her voice whilst repeatedly bumping into different articles of furniture.

What a shame she is too young to appreciate the irony.

Eventually this metamorphosed into "I'm too 'fizilised'; I'm too 'fizilised'."
Far more appropriate, I think.

To Tell, or Not to Sleep? That is the Question

Gilby doesn't really sleep at nursery.

I need to put this in perspective by saying that at home he sleeps a lot. Probaby sixteen hours a day, even though he is nearly six months old.

He doesn't appear to be able to stay awake for any longer than two hours at a time when he is in the comfort of his own cot. It is quite likely that he will sleep for most of the morning, and then take an afternoon nap for an hour or two following a strenuous lunchtime, when he evidently uses up all his energy in eating.

So when I collected him on Monday and they said to me, "He's done really well today - he slept for nearly three quarters of an hour!" I couldn't really share their excitement. Nor could I explain his inability to settle properly at nursery. If sleeping during the day was an Olympic sport, this baby would definitely be in with a medal chance.

Initially I thought that it must just be due to the noise and distractions - but I have been to visit during 'quiet time' and it is really peaceful.

And as I put my baby down tonight, it suddenly dawned on me why he is not able to sleep. Because of course, the lovely carers at the nursery would not dream of settling Gilby on his tummy, which is where he is most comfortable. It has become so normal to us, in spite of the horror expressed by the health visitor, and so I didn't think to mention it. And now I don't know whether to or not - because of course, it is not the done thing at all. I am an extremely naughty Mummy.

So I don't know whether to risk the wrath of the nursery by explaining, or continue letting Gilby exist on a fraction of his normal sleep requirements.

Chicken Scraps, Anyone?

Despite the snow's best efforts to prevent me, I have managed to get Gilby to his first few settling in sessions at nursery this week, in preparation for my return to work.

Feeling guilty about the whole process anyway, I have taken extra care with packing his bag and preparing his lunch and bottles. Everything is carefully named; special 'dishwasher-proof' labels on the plastic items and his cot sheets have his name sewn in. I never do sewing! It is as though all this extra detail will somehow make up for the fact that I will not be with him through the day soon.

Anyway, he went off for his first half-day yesterday, and the one thing I had forgotten to get was a lunch-box for him. So I just took an old ice-cream container, put his name on the top and filled it with all his goodies. He's only just weaning so we are still at the mush and puree stage.

Now, I also keep an old ice-cream container near the sink to fill with scraps for the chickens. It makes me feel good to throw out less rubbish, and the chickens feast on Gertie's left over porridge, the vegetable peelings, the remains of supper. You know where this is going, don't you?

My husband did the nursery run yesterday morning, taking Gertie and Gilby in together for the first time. He was explaining all the timings carefully to the nursery carer who would have responsibilty for Gilby.

"And my wife has made him a delicious lunch..." and he lifted the lid of the carton with a flourish - to reveal the extremely unappetising chicken scraps. You quite literally would not feed them to a dog.

Failed again!

(Much laughter ensued, and he did come back and get the right box but I have a feeling that I will not be allowed to forget this...)

One Large Parcel of Guilt, Perfectly Wrapped

I'm carrying around a large parcel of guilt and it's not just a result of the Catholic education, though I'm sure that features.

I was set to go back to work on Friday. Full time. Gilby is not quite sixth months, but given term times, exam classes, financial considerations and all the rest of it, this seemed like the moment.

He was booked in for 'familiarisation' sessions at the local nursery. He will be going three days a week. His sister is already there and she will be attending on the same days. So far so good. On the other days I have an ex-student coming over from Australia to look after them, and Daddy will have one of those mornings off too, to take them both to their swimming lessons. And the grandparents are all very supportive. Great.

But the snow interfered with Gilby having his practice gos at nursery as it was closed last week. So now I am supposed to return to work without even being sure that he is settled. My Australian friend has problems with her visa and has not yet booked flights. And to make things worse, when we visited this morning, I discovered that he is the youngest baby at the nursery by three months.

What on earth does that say?

So all in all, for what would be a difficult time anyway, my guilt and anxiety are growing by the second. It's not feeling very happy-new-yearish any more!