Beware Ticker Foot

As blog readers may know we had a few problems with Eddie's growth and development from birth, but were finally given the all clear just over a year ago - and were mightily relieved when he began to walk just shy of his second birthday.  So I was a little worried this week when he announced emphatically that he had 'Ticker Foot'.

I racked my brain. What was this strange affliction? I asked myself.  Might it be infectious?  (Gertie is prone to Athlete's Foot at times.)  Eddie was insistent, hopping about from one foot to the other, yelling.

"Let me have a look," I said, gravely.

At which point he ran to get it.  Apparently it comes with a badge when you go up a level in swimming.

He has also asked for 'Orkshire Puddings' this weekend.  I believe they are a particular delicacy in Middle Earth.

Currently Reading: Skios by Michael Frayn

Double Bean Surprise

There wasn't much left in the fridge: half a tin of baked beans, some left over new potatoes from a few nights ago, a handful of green beans. Supper-time loomed, but we had had a lovely picnic whilst walking the dog earlier in the day, and I knew, or rather, suspected, that the kids wouldn't eat very much. What to do? Mix those three ingredients together, and call it, 'Double-bean surprise'.

I called them in from the garden, trying to muster as much enthusiasm for the dish as I could. 'Double-bean surprise' echoed Gilby with a shriek and a degree of excitement not really appropriate to the level of culinary achievement that awaited him. But, in his defence, he is at that stage where he just mimics absolutely everything I say.

A few minutes later there was silence in the kitchen. Gertie smacked her lips as her bowl emptied. "Mummy, I love Double-bean surprise," she gushed.

Oh. Right. Gilby mashed quite a lot of it into his shirt; still, 'Double-bean surprise' was clearly a hit. I probably need to be sending Annabel Karmel the recipe. Feel free to use it in the meantime!

Number Post

Gilby's vocabulary is increasing exponentially, but some of his pronunciation is causing a few problems in communication.

Gertie and Gilby are both fond of Numberjacks, a Cbeebies special that I tolerate because it purports to be vaguely educational. The numberjacks are sort of animated superhero numbers who solve mathematical problems.

So when Gilby started putting 'number' as a kind of prefix to virtually everything he said, I thought it must be a side effect of bad parenting in the form of too much television. But I tried to answer him each time.

So, for example, outside the swimming pool on Thursday, 'Number bin?' a little voice said. The uplift at the end suggested a question. There were two recycling bins outside the leisure centre. 'Um, well, there are two bins.'

As we approached the car, he pointed at one on the other side of the car park. 'Number car.' The tone of this one sounded more like a statement, but one which needed some kind of response. 'Well, let me see. My eyesight's not really good enough, but it looks like a the registration is 'HY47 XXP'. It seemed to satisfy him.

A few minutes later, as we were driving along, he pointed towards the sky. 'Number plane?' He was really quite excited now.
'Gosh, I don't really know much about planes. Probably a 737...' I trailed off, slightly defeated, thinking that CBeebies had a lot to answer for.

It was only as I re-analysed those exchanges (which continued all day long, I might add) that I realised that he was in fact attempting to say 'another' each time, and pleased with himself for making connections between the objects - another bin, another car, another plane. Gertie used 'ummer' to represent this adjective when she was learning to talk, so I was temporarily flummoxed.

Still, we are going to have to ask Grumps for a 'Number pound', as it seems he took one from his eldest grandchild when he was looking after her on Thursday afternoon. She had one in her pocket that was no longer there by the end of the afternoon. He has admitted his guilt. Stealing from a three year old? He should be ashamed of himself!

Gumps' Ossage

I often write about Gertie because at Nearly-Four-Going-on-Forty, practically everything she says or does is inherently funny to me.

But my little man is now beginning to come in to his own. He won't be two until late in the summer, but the pair of them will now sit at the kitchen table together, falling about helplessly with giggles at something only they are complicit in, and being Actually-Not-Far-Off-Forty myself, I don't have a hope of understanding.

Gilby now has a bedtime ritual to rival Her Ladyship's: placing all his 'people' one by one in the cot (Iggle Piggle, Macca Pacca, Alien, a dinosaur, a crotcheted blanket and a stuffed bee with crackly wings) then gathering them beneath him mother-hen style to sleep on top of them all. They all have poky, uncomfortable looking bits, especially the dinosaur, but this doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. I'm not entirely sure how the blanket constitutes one of the 'people', but it is at least soft. World War III breaks out if one of them is missing but as long as they are all in position, a simple, "Night, night Mummy," is followed by thumb in the mouth and lights out. This will inevitably be repeated when he still wakes for another bottle of milk somewhere between 1am and 3am.

He is exceptionally, at times, comically, polite, with an exaggerated, "No thank you Mummy," accompanying any food or activity offering not entirely to his taste. When playing he is regularly heard to insist, "My turn..." which he just looks far too little to be saying. At first this is cute and endearing, but when you realise that it is his turn straight away, always, it becomes less so. Other Mums smile at me in a congratulatory fashion the first time it happens over a disputed toy, then frown at me the next fifteen. Particularly when it is then accompanied by tears and a tantrum.

"Where's Gumps' Ossage?" is an oft-heard cry in our house too. Well, 'Gumps' only has himself to blame for this one. It has become Grumps' new nickname since their grandfather often arrives with a cling-filmed cooked sausage for each of them when he comes to visit. It may stick long beyond toddlerhood. I rather like it.

But my current favourite catchphrase and behaviour, clearly adapted from a well-known television quiz show with a distinctive presenter, is where he runs in to the room and without any preamble tells me, "You are weak! Bye!" before disappearing again.

I'm recording all this because I now know that it will change within a matter of weeks, and then I will probably forget, but I wonder about other parents' most remembered phrase and fable?

Gilby Says 'No'

In spite of Gilby's rich and varied (and newly acquired) vocabulary that includes such gems as:

- All aboard!
- baby (applied to anyone the same age or younger than himself, with absolutely no concept that he might still be considered one...)
- ballet
- balloon
- breakfast
- control (for remote control; he doesn't seem to have adopted the household's preferred term, 'blibber')
- cricket
- like it (said with a screwy-up face that actually means 'I don't like it')
- penguin
- present

along with dozens of others, many of which are uninterpretable, there is one word that rings out loud and clear, and at least 100 times a day: "No!"

At certain times he seems to get in to a cycle of 'nos' that he cannot escape from. Even if the options offered are mutually exclusive.

Are you finished? - No!
Would you like some more, then? - No!
Would you like to get down from the table? - No!
Would you like to stay there all day? - No!

Sometimes as they build, they are pronounced with increasing petulance. At others, you can forget Carol Beer's 'Computer says 'no'!' Gilby's automaton-like negatives are a force to be reckoned with.

I know it's an assertion of his rights, a testing of the boundaries, a manifestation of his growing independence and individuality, but it's bloody funny. Especially after abouth the fifth consecutive one, when I can do nothing but stand back and laugh...because he combines his responses with his cartoon-sad-face: comically protruding lips down-turned at the corners; breathing heavily downwards through his nostrils as though blowing smoke; the excessively heavy frown, large eyes peering up accusingly beneath. He just needs to make mock horns with his fingers and push his leg backwards to complete the picture of a raging bull about to charge.

So, this is how breakfast ends, this morning. It's going to be a long day.

999, 990 to Go

I remember last summer reading about the millionth word to be classified in the English language. There was some excitement prior to its announcement in the press. It was, apparently, 'Web 2.0', though there was controversy over the verification, with serious linguists challenging the count. Words like 'slumdog' and 'jai ho' were also in the running.

But back in my little world, little Gilby has reached his 10th word today - 'cuddle'.

Also on his list and just about in order of acquiring them, 'Mama', 'Dadda', 'arm', 'ball', 'badge', 'bath', 'hiya', 'bubble', and 'duck'. Ok, so the pronunciation of the final consonant isn't always entirely convincing for some of them, but he can make himself understood...to me. And yes, 'arm' and 'badge' are slightly odd choices, which I could explain and justify if I needed to.

I'm delighted that 'Mamma' was officially his first word, since Gertie's were 'duck' and, believe it or not, 'tractor', and something approximating 'Mummy' only came many months later, and long after her father had got used happily used to being named by her.

So. Ten down. Just another nine hundred thousand, nine hundred and ninety to go for the little man to learn, then.