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

More Shelves, Please, I'm Winning

I seem to be a little bit preoccupied by my eldest child at the moment.  I do have other children, I remember, but lots seems to be revolving around Gertie. This is the fifth post in a row in which she is the main event.

I will find other subject matter, but just one last little thing.  She does Irish dancing.  Mostly because this was a thing that I had to do when I was little.  She was at the CAID British Open Championships in Farnham in Surrey a couple of weekends ago where she won her light jig and came third in the championship overall, which generated a sizeable piece of silverware.

I did a reasonable job of hiding the remnants of Scissorgate:

Her comment? "Mummy, I know that you've only just decorated my room, but I think I'm going to need another shelf."

Currently reading: The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin

Magic Number Seven

Seven is a magic number.

It is a lot of candles on a cake.

It is the difference between a cake that looks like a cake - something that grown-ups might like to eat too - and one that looks like this, from last year:

It is the difference between having a tea party with cup cakes and jelly and ice-cream, and going out to the cinema with a few mates from school, which was this year's 'party' choice.

It is a long time in years and it makes for one very grown up little girl.

Things have begun to happen very fast indeed.  She had a sleepover with two friends.  And they were entirely sensible, asking to brush their teeth after their 'midnight' feast, and all asleep by 10pm.

Her present from us was a tablet (much debate and agonising).  We haven't sorted out the internet controls yet, but she has, unfortunately already downloaded 'Candy Crush Saga'. On the upside, it means that presents are getting smaller.  More expensive, yes, but less plastic, bulky and ugly. She is more self contained.  She had a friend round to play earlier in the week and they sat quietly and made bangles for an hour and a half.

She doesn't volunteer for anything anymore.  She used to be the 'pick me, pick me' person, unable to stay in her seat with the effort of thrusting her hand upwards.  She was forever up on stage as the helper in the pantomime or magic show.  Now she would rather sit back and watch other people make fools of themselves, which is a little sad.

But we giggle together at something shared.  Often.  I do a lot of laughing with the boys, too, but it's usually at something they've said or done.

How do I feel?  Proud of my so clever and confident and beautiful girl.  Slightly wistful for the innocent bygone days of pleasures that don't involve a screen and downloading stuff.  A tiny bit frightened by how fast it is all changing...


Currently reading: Strange Music by Laura Fish.

Have the Bumps Gone Out of Fashion?

I only ask because it has never once occurred to me to give any of my children the bumps on their birthday.
In fact, I'd forgotten that they even existed until my memory was jolted by the sight of Arsene Wenger receiving them courtesy of his team following their FA Cup win.

Seeing this white-haired man in his mid-sixties being casually tossed aloft - and looking both delighted and slightly sheepish at the same time -  reminded me of that mixture of fear and exhilaration that came with getting the bumps on your birthday.  It was part of the whole deal...cake, candles, making a wish, presents, musical statues, the bumps.

So where did they go?  We've attended dozens of children's parties in over the last seven years.  Not even a sniff of them.  Wikipedia described them as one of a number of 'birthday torments' that might be inflicted.  I wondered if contemporary health and safety fears have banished them to the annals of history.

So, ignoring all that, we decided to reinstate them for Gertie's seventh birthday.

I think she enjoyed herself!

Currently reading: Death at Wentwater Court by Carola Dunn
Don't judge...it's half term!

Changing Rooms

Gertie's room is having a makeover.

The deal was that if she could keep her room tidy for the entire month of February, she could choose wallpaper, see Guerilla Littering, and if she continued the tidiness through Lent then she could have the whole room done.

Given her propensity to create mess, I didn't expect to be in the position that we are in now.  Hearth-father is busy with the sander; the wallpaper is up on two 'feature' walls; the remaining walls are painted in 'silver mist', and we are rid of three sacks of clothes and toys.

All good.  Except that the designs Gertie has chosen suggest that she has gone from a six-year-old to a teenager overnight.

Here's the old one:

Sweet, girly, pink (probably too much, but hey ho) innocent, doll-filled, pretty.

Here's the new one (unfinished):

It needs a rug to cover those pristine white floorboards (I'm wincing already as I imagine what they will look like in a few weeks time) But mostly screaming purple, grown-up, boudoir-ish.

Can someone tell me where my little girl went?


Currently reading: Heresy by SJ Parris

Scissorgate

Perhaps jealous at her brother's recent 'Niall from One Direction' haircut, Gertie decided yesterday morning to give herself a new style.  This basically involved hacking a very short fringe in the manner of a seventies popstar - perhaps Dave Hill of Slade fame. It is definitely not a good look - though mildly amusing, and we are, at least, several months away from the next set of school photographs.

What was more disturbing was the other use to which the scissors were put; namely, cutting into the upholstery on a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old chair, which I recently moved into the bathroom.  Lucky it wasn't a brand new one, or a might have been really cross.

Currently reading: A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates

Alien Goo in One Direction

Day one of the Easter holidays means a trip to the barbers for Gilby.  His thick, unruly hair just about makes it through a half term before he begins to resemble a cross between Stig of the Dump and Hagrid (minus the beard).

Usually a 'trim and tidy' will suffice.  On this occasion, however, I am not able to look the barber in the eye as I outline my four-year-old's requirements:

"So, there are two things that you need to know."  (Here I cough and clear my throat.) "Um, he has clumps of alien goo stuck into the left hand side of his head which will need cutting out..."  I pause for a moment, (thinking back to the small pocket money alien-embryo toy that we bought yesterday and regretted almost immediately) and then find that the words, "And he'd like you to cut it like Niall from One Direction," tumble out.

I know which one I feel more unsettled by.

I also never cease to be amazed by the statements I am forced to make as a parent...

Currently reading: Igboland by Jeff Gardiner