Call it a Duck

Eddie's been...less keen...than either Gertie or Gilby to walk and talk.  The walking is down to his hyper-mobility and we'll get there in the end with the help of the physio and ingenious playing that involves having to get on his feet to reach stuff.  But with his speech there's mostly a lot of Bill and Ben going on:  Babbly conversations of nothing much in particular that have the intonation and variation of real dialogue.  But he does now have his first ten words, representative of the importance of things in his world:

Dog
Duck
Daddy
Banana
Car
Look
Mummy
That
Sock
Shark

Yes, I'm a bit bemused by that last one.  'Shark' is usually said in the bath, accompanied by a scary sort of a roar. What's going on in that little head, I'm not entirely sure.


But, though the list looks varied, most thing are 'ducks'.  In fact, 'if in doubt, call it a duck', seems to be his maxim. This applies to most animals (that aren't dogs or sharks) including our chickens in the garden abd the cat. And when we are out and about there are ducks that moo and ducks that say 'baa', apparently. It's one of the most common species in the animal kingdom, the duck.

But frankly, with two older and more communicative siblings, usually pointing and a cry of anguish gets what he wants.  Who needs words?  It was fine for Bill and Ben.  Though come to think of it, even those flower pots could walk...

Baggy Trousers

The world's 'most prolific' streaker, Mark Roberts, with 519 streaks under his...er, well not his belt, I suppose...retired last month, much to the reported relief of his children.

This is lucky in that it leaves a gap in the market for my son.  Still four months away from his fourth birthday, he is showing early signs of a vocation.  In truth, he finds any excuse to drop his trousers.  In public is best, preferably a restaurant, or somewhere equally embarassing (for his mother);  since he appears to feel no embarrassment whatsoever, but gains some kind of genuine pleasure from this exhibitionism.  And people laugh.  Which he loves. 

He usually claims that his trousers are too big.  I have resorted to adjusting every pair to the tightest setting, so that he has to breathe in to get them done up in the morning.  Nevertheless, at some point during the day, they will be round his ankles, and he'll have a mischievous look on his face, arms outstretched to absolve himself from blame. (Yes, a little bit like Mark Roberts in the picture...)

It's been going on for a couple of years.  Ever since his release from the imprisonment of nappies, I suppose, and the freedom of potty training with its inbuilt excuse to whip his pants off without prompting. His audiences are confined to Pizza Hut and the local pub at the moment, but when he makes a name for himself at Wimbledon, or Wembley, in a few years time, you heard it here first. 

It's A Shoe-On

We don't get out much. 

Even less, since the night time shenanigans began in earnest for Gilby in the run up to Christmas.  Nine weeks of interrupted sleep seems a lifetime, and I wouldn't want to inflict one of those tortured evenings on an unsuspecting baby-sitter.  But given that we have Lady Visa, our au pair, we thought we'd try it last night.  Just round to friends' for supper; a few streets away.  Easy to return if things kicked off back at home. We took the unusual precaution of pre-ordering a taxi, on the off-chance that one or two glasses of alcohol might be consumed.

We returned, relaxed(!) and refreshed at about quarter past eleven (phew - late night!) to find Gilby crying his eyes out, one shoe on, sitting by the back door trying desperately to pull the other shoe on.  Ouch.  That is the combined pain of my heart hurting, and the piercing stab of guilt. 

He was incoherent, but I'm assuming he must have wandered into our bedroom, realised that we weren't there, and, without checking Lady Visa, decided that he had been abandoned.His three year old mind had then hatched a wild plan to head out into the dark night to come and find us.  We live on a main road in the middle of nowhere.  Fast cars and no people!

Once we had calmed him down, he whispered in my ear that he was 'sorry for being naughty and for putting my shoes on, actually...'.  Ouch, ouch, ouch!

Sigh.  So there's guilt and there's...guilt.  It will be a while until we try to go out again, methinks.

First Graffiti

"Mummy, look what I've done..." There was pride tinged with anxiety in the voice.  It's a tone I know well.   It translates roughly as, 'I'm ever so excited about the thing that's just happened, but I have the teensiest tiniest suspicion that you may not share my enthusiasm for it.'

I had asked Gertie to wait by the car for a moment as we were getting ready to leave the house this morning.  In those few seconds, what she had produced, technically, was her first piece of graffiti.  In case you can't quite make it out, it reads, 'I *heart* charlie xx *heart*.

Charlie is, like Gertie, five years old. He is one of four boyfriends, she tells me with a blush.  Graffiti and polygamy.  Can't wait for the teenage years.

No comments about the state of the car, please.  It's been very, very wet here.

Two Snowmen

I think I was more excited than the students when the call came on Friday morning that school would finish at first break.  Given our rural location, large catchment area and insufficient gritting on the roads, the Head decided it was in the interests of the safety of the students to close the school...hooray! Yes, there was an element of justification in the previous sentence.

So we picked the kids up from school and nursery early and Gilby 'made' a new friend.

Though he then took great pleasure in destroying him.  More, perhaps than in building 'Frosty' in the first place, as the wild Lord of the Flies cheering whilst he was being stamped into oblivion would seem to signify.

It was also great fun to pummel 'snow-castles' into the frozen paddling pool (no, we hadn't put it away after the summer...)

Clearly, a few centimetres of snow brings out the destructive qualities in my family.  Even Daddy was cheering a direct snowball hit on his five-year-old daughter.

A smashing time was had by all...

Bedtime Blues

I remember those halcyon days (sigh) back when bedtimes were easy.  Oh, I used to nod with sympathy and understanding as other parents described their debilitating night-time woes, but all the time I was smiling smugly on the inside.

Well.  It is payback time now.

Gilby's nightly tantrums have, if anthing, increased in duration and intensity over the last five days.  I made the school girl error of googling the problem.  Inevitably I stumbled blindly into a multitude of frenzied forums where the sleep-deprived contributors seemed ready to commit infanticide.

Suggestions ranged from cuddling your troubled toddler all night long, to locking him alone in the pitch black and ignoring the screams.  Well, that's cleared that one up, then.

It did seem to me to neatly summarise the two extremes of approach to parenting, if nothing else.

We have gone for what I hope is a middle ground of calm whispering (it works, which losing my temper completely on Saturday night blatantly did not), moving bedtime forward by half an hour, a CBeebies podcast to listen to...and a stairgate beyond his door.  Yes, I know, that's the controversial bit.

Last night it only took two hours for him to go down.  A significant improvement on Saturday's six hour marathon which left us both physically and emotionally drained.  And tonight...well, it's early yet, but...no screams!

I am not smiling smugly, inwardly or outwardly.  Yet.

Feel the Fear...

Gilby has become very, very jumpy.  The terrible twos have become the terrified threes.  He is afraid of...well, everything, really. If we are at home he must be in the same room as me, and he must close the door behind us, after taking a fearful look beyond to make sure that nothing is following us in.  Windows are a cause for concern; they must be carefully scanned for any lurking monsters.  Any unexpected noise makes him very, very tense. Tears are never very far away.  This has been a sudden and rapid decline over the last six weeks or so. 

He won't admit to his fears though.  Doors must be closed because he is 'cold'.  He doesn't want to be alone because he is 'a little bit tired'.  Going to bed is a prolonged process of coaxing, but it is not because he is scared, but usually because he has a 'tummy ache'.  But he did whisper in my ear that sometimes he sees and hears things.  Like most three year old's he has a vivid imagination and is able to conjure monsters from most harmless shapes and objects. 

He helped me dismantle the tree (lights packed away in a carefully marked box, incidentally), but seemed unduly concerned about when we were getting a new one.  I thought he was sad that it was going to be a whole year to wait until all the excitement began again.

But, last night, I finally got close to the truth.  He thinks he can hear Santa's footsteps...

That bloke's got a lot to answer for! In the interests of creating magic around Christmas I have inadvertently given my son some kind of complex...