It started small, a little give here; a nursery sofa there, some allowances, some compromise... and then suddenly I woke up to realise that the spud has been getting away with murder.
He's been sleeping on the nursery futon, eating his tea on the sofa in front of the TV; demanding constant cheese toasties, icecream and bottles of milk and... well the list is pretty long.
We've managed to get him back to his own bed, cut the bottles of milk out during the day and begun to wean him off the TV however he still wouldn't eat anything that wasn't a cheese toastie and refused to sit at the table. Following a friend of mine telling me she had 'broken' her toddler with a two-hour standoff over dinner (which has worked wonders), we had our own standoff.
It was pretty hairy.
First I brought him a healthy dinner and offered it to him on the sofa. He picked it up, carried it into the kitchen, put it on the counter, announced he was 'finished' and demanded a biscuit.
I carried it back and put it on the table. He did the same. I carried it back and then put him into his chair at the table. He tried to get down. I picked him back up. He pushed himself and his chair away from the table. I pulled him in. He pushed back. I pulled in. I threatened to slap his hand if he did it again. He did it. I, god help me, slapped his hand. He did it again. So did I. He put his poor little hands over his face, rocked back and forth and moaned and moaned. Just at the point that I thought I'd done him some serious mental damage, he took his hands away and started on his next attack which was to pointedly ignore both me and his dinner. He sat with his body facing the table but his head twisted as far into the room as his neck would allow and his eyes screwed shut. I brushed some ketchup onto his lips (I'm not a real ogre, there was some ketchup involved...). He screamed, wiped his lips and then spent several minutes dramatically brushing all signs of ketchup from his tongue. He loves ketchup.
This had taken us the best part of 20 minutes and at this point I thought that skyping my parents would be a good idea; not for sympathy, no no no, this for them was the height of comedy; but for some advice perhaps - they had, after all, parented me.
The spud ignored them too, turning his head the other way just in case we hadn't noticed him ignoring us. He tried closing his eyes; putting his hands over his eyes; putting his hands over his mouth; closing his eyes AND putting his hands over his mouth - I tried reasoning with him, arguing with him and pushing tasty morsels into his mouth whenever it was open. Nada.
Half an hour into our stand off, out of total frustration I made a massive airplane/train tunnel-here-comes-the-food manoevre and, as he complained, I just laughed at him. Two giggles later he ate practically the whole damn thing - by himself, with his fork.
I guess laughter is the best medicine after all. I guess we just have to see if it worked now; I'm planning something without ketchup tomorrow, wish me well...
Monday, July 13, 2009
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Errol Flynn on a micro scooter...
It turns out that as a male, one is never too young to impress the ladies.
Recently, the spud has pretty much chucked his buggy in as a mode of transport unless he feels particularly needy or sulky and much prefers to zoom along on his micro-scooter; those urbiquitous purple things with two wheels in front and one in the back.
He's getting quite the little trickster; he squats down so the handle is over his head, pulls his bum back into a low sit and easy-rides his way down the road. Since spotting an older friend doing it he's been practicing beetling along on one leg while pulling shapes with his spare knee and foot. He's also cottoned on to how to use the little orange brake at the back by elegantly placing his spare foot on it, or doing a nifty little half-turn, jamming it onto the brake and one-handedly coasting to a stop.
The other day on the way home from nursery he insisted on cutting through the park and there, just inside the gates was a girl from nursery who he's quite keen on. I'm going to call her Lola, it's not her name but that's what Charlie calls her.
The moment he spotted her, they were off. The two of them scooted off up the hill, Lola steaming ahead while Charlie puffed behind her shouting 'Wait Lola, wait!' Her father was chuckling that she's recently been trying to copy someone at nursery who can scoot on one leg and just as he said that, the spud sailed past in full arabesque and glided smugly to a halt beside his besotted friend. Her father snorted.
As we walked up, the spud stood skate-board style on his scooter, held on with one hand and glided backwards down the hill, dismounting with a smooth two-footed jump, smiling at Lola all the way. She was visibly impressed. He re-mounted and kicked off for another arabesque past her and then scooted down the other side of the hill to the playground shouting 'come on Lola, come on Lola'.
She trailed obediently behind him as with both feet planted on the platform, he sped off down the hill, zig-zagging gently just to show that he can. They rounded a corner out of sight and we called to them to stop and began lumbering after them. They stopped and the moment we rounded the bend, again rolled off out of sight. The routine repeated a few times until we were finally nearing the playground gates. Lola was haltingly going down the hill with one foot dragging on the ground to slow herself down; the spud was nowhere in sight.
I shouted again and he appeared from behind a tree, drifting backwards down from the gate, smiling brightly.
I think she was impressed up until the very moment he glided into the bush.
Recently, the spud has pretty much chucked his buggy in as a mode of transport unless he feels particularly needy or sulky and much prefers to zoom along on his micro-scooter; those urbiquitous purple things with two wheels in front and one in the back.
He's getting quite the little trickster; he squats down so the handle is over his head, pulls his bum back into a low sit and easy-rides his way down the road. Since spotting an older friend doing it he's been practicing beetling along on one leg while pulling shapes with his spare knee and foot. He's also cottoned on to how to use the little orange brake at the back by elegantly placing his spare foot on it, or doing a nifty little half-turn, jamming it onto the brake and one-handedly coasting to a stop.
The other day on the way home from nursery he insisted on cutting through the park and there, just inside the gates was a girl from nursery who he's quite keen on. I'm going to call her Lola, it's not her name but that's what Charlie calls her.
The moment he spotted her, they were off. The two of them scooted off up the hill, Lola steaming ahead while Charlie puffed behind her shouting 'Wait Lola, wait!' Her father was chuckling that she's recently been trying to copy someone at nursery who can scoot on one leg and just as he said that, the spud sailed past in full arabesque and glided smugly to a halt beside his besotted friend. Her father snorted.
As we walked up, the spud stood skate-board style on his scooter, held on with one hand and glided backwards down the hill, dismounting with a smooth two-footed jump, smiling at Lola all the way. She was visibly impressed. He re-mounted and kicked off for another arabesque past her and then scooted down the other side of the hill to the playground shouting 'come on Lola, come on Lola'.
She trailed obediently behind him as with both feet planted on the platform, he sped off down the hill, zig-zagging gently just to show that he can. They rounded a corner out of sight and we called to them to stop and began lumbering after them. They stopped and the moment we rounded the bend, again rolled off out of sight. The routine repeated a few times until we were finally nearing the playground gates. Lola was haltingly going down the hill with one foot dragging on the ground to slow herself down; the spud was nowhere in sight.
I shouted again and he appeared from behind a tree, drifting backwards down from the gate, smiling brightly.
I think she was impressed up until the very moment he glided into the bush.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Summer t-shirt of love
I was putting things away this evening when I picked up a shirt of my son's and suddenly thought about how much I love it and realised it was probably going to be one of those things that gets kept in a box somewhere and perhaps, if things go well, handed down. This it it:
Doesn't look like much, hey? This started off life as a plain white, unwanted t-shirt. I was in Woolies (ah, Woolies... a moment of silence please...); I can't remember what I was actually in there for but as usual I was just taking a leetle cruise past the children's clothes.
Finding a child's shirt in a plain, un-logoed colour other than white is pretty near impossible and so you can imagine my joy on finding that Woolies (ah, Woolies... a big sigh please...) did a 3-pack of plain shirts - one red, one black and one white.
The unloved white one was stuffed at the back of the drawer until we got a letter from nursery informing us that they wanted to do some tie-dying with the kids and did we have a plain white tee?
I had no idea what would emerge from this mad experiment where a few harrassed keyworkers set a dozen toddlers loose with on dye bucket, but this is what we got and I just think it's the coolest thing. Apparently, the kids all chose where their ties were going to go and the grown-ups did the actual tying.
I know Charlie did his own dying because, well because of the state of his fingernails for the next three days. He loves it and it never sees the inside of a drawer; it's either in the wash, on the line, or on his back, which is why it is a crumpled mess.
Funnily enough, tie-dye shirts were popular when I was the spud's age, but that would be because it was 1967. Ahem.
Anyway, of all the crafts he's brought back from nursery - flaking collages; father's day cards that shed shiny bits everywhere; blank pieces of paper with a few lines of yellow crayon in the middle and handprint paintings that mostly ended up on his shirt - I just think this is totally genius.
Doesn't look like much, hey? This started off life as a plain white, unwanted t-shirt. I was in Woolies (ah, Woolies... a moment of silence please...); I can't remember what I was actually in there for but as usual I was just taking a leetle cruise past the children's clothes.Finding a child's shirt in a plain, un-logoed colour other than white is pretty near impossible and so you can imagine my joy on finding that Woolies (ah, Woolies... a big sigh please...) did a 3-pack of plain shirts - one red, one black and one white.
The unloved white one was stuffed at the back of the drawer until we got a letter from nursery informing us that they wanted to do some tie-dying with the kids and did we have a plain white tee?
I had no idea what would emerge from this mad experiment where a few harrassed keyworkers set a dozen toddlers loose with on dye bucket, but this is what we got and I just think it's the coolest thing. Apparently, the kids all chose where their ties were going to go and the grown-ups did the actual tying.
I know Charlie did his own dying because, well because of the state of his fingernails for the next three days. He loves it and it never sees the inside of a drawer; it's either in the wash, on the line, or on his back, which is why it is a crumpled mess.
Funnily enough, tie-dye shirts were popular when I was the spud's age, but that would be because it was 1967. Ahem.Anyway, of all the crafts he's brought back from nursery - flaking collages; father's day cards that shed shiny bits everywhere; blank pieces of paper with a few lines of yellow crayon in the middle and handprint paintings that mostly ended up on his shirt - I just think this is totally genius.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Six Degrees of Why
A couple of the spud's friends have been asking 'why' a lot recently and for a while, whenever he saw them he would mimic it a bit. This week however it's started in earnest and he's asking 'why' about nearly everything. I've been looking forward to this stage, I have to confess. I've always fancied the idea of solemnly answering all the 'whys' until my son is a veritable encyclopaedia of knowledge and never ONCE answering with 'Because I Said So' however the truth is that since I discovered that 'I don't know' puts an end to the questions I've suddenly become quite a dense person.
I have also discovered that if you ask 'why' for long enough, eventually you arrive back at either God or particle physics. I'm trying out a new game whereby I am seeing how many 'whys' it takes to get into metaphysics and beyond. Here's a recent example:
'Say goodbye to your friend'
'Why?'
'Because he's going home'
'Why?'
'Because it's bedtime'
'Why?'
'Because it's getting late'
'Why?'
'Because er, because er, because there's this thing called time and... oh, I don't know sweetie, just say goodbye'
You see? Four 'Whys' until we needed Stephen Hawking to step in and take over. It's like playing six degrees of separation. You can probably add in a few more steps such as 'because he's tired' but try that and see how far you get before you're talking about the birds and the bees and is there life after death?
There aren't actually that many ways out of the Why Conundrum because I don't think he really wants to know 'why', I think he's just thrilled at having a word that gets our full attention.
'Don't pull Sammy's tail'
'Why?'
'Because it hurts Sammy'
'Why?'
'Would you like it if I pulled your arm?'
'Why?'
Nope. Often the conversation will go in a complete circle:
'Come and help Mummy tidy up''
Why?'
'Because you made a big mess'
'Why?'
'Because you were playing'
'Why?'
'Because you were having fun'
'Why?'
'Because you were playing'
'Why?'
'Because you were... oh bollocks'
I think the key here is to try to get as much enjoyment out of this as possible and so I will be that Mum mangling gravity to her bemused toddler while his toy car rolls under the chair. It is in fact my goal, to take him from 'why' to 'cogito ergo sum' in as few steps as possible; I'll let you know how quickly his eyes glaze over.
I have also discovered that if you ask 'why' for long enough, eventually you arrive back at either God or particle physics. I'm trying out a new game whereby I am seeing how many 'whys' it takes to get into metaphysics and beyond. Here's a recent example:
'Say goodbye to your friend'
'Why?'
'Because he's going home'
'Why?'
'Because it's bedtime'
'Why?'
'Because it's getting late'
'Why?'
'Because er, because er, because there's this thing called time and... oh, I don't know sweetie, just say goodbye'
You see? Four 'Whys' until we needed Stephen Hawking to step in and take over. It's like playing six degrees of separation. You can probably add in a few more steps such as 'because he's tired' but try that and see how far you get before you're talking about the birds and the bees and is there life after death?
There aren't actually that many ways out of the Why Conundrum because I don't think he really wants to know 'why', I think he's just thrilled at having a word that gets our full attention.
'Don't pull Sammy's tail'
'Why?'
'Because it hurts Sammy'
'Why?'
'Would you like it if I pulled your arm?'
'Why?'
Nope. Often the conversation will go in a complete circle:
'Come and help Mummy tidy up''
Why?'
'Because you made a big mess'
'Why?'
'Because you were playing'
'Why?'
'Because you were having fun'
'Why?'
'Because you were playing'
'Why?'
'Because you were... oh bollocks'
I think the key here is to try to get as much enjoyment out of this as possible and so I will be that Mum mangling gravity to her bemused toddler while his toy car rolls under the chair. It is in fact my goal, to take him from 'why' to 'cogito ergo sum' in as few steps as possible; I'll let you know how quickly his eyes glaze over.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
you've got WHAT living up there?
Our son, our little white potato of a nearly-three-year old child, is navigating the waters of the 'Terrible Twos' with a reasonable amount of success.
Is he stubborn? Of course. Is he argumentative? Ohhh yes. Does he have tantrums? Sometimes. Is he completely unreasonable? Irrational? Indeed he is; but he's not awful with it for the most part.
The litmus test is how easy he is to live with and on that basis I'd say we're doing alright. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I think we've gotten away fairly lightly. The days in which he is impossible to deal with are much fewer than the days in which he is a veritable pleasure, not to mention a source of ever-increasing humour, I give you this example:
Following a misjudged comment on my part about the state of his undercarriage he is now of the belief that there are garden worms living in his bum. As this is encouraging frequent trips to the loo to tempt them out, I'm all for this idea. Today I tried to encourage him to take a trip to the loo to do a little push; he screwed up his face in a parody of someone trying to have a gay old dump, made a big 'errrgh' sound and then stuck out his tongue and blew a juicy fat raspberry at me. This rendered me completely helpless; the pair of us just rolled around on the sofa in hysterics while the Frog tried to keep a straight face.
It could be worse round our way.
Is he stubborn? Of course. Is he argumentative? Ohhh yes. Does he have tantrums? Sometimes. Is he completely unreasonable? Irrational? Indeed he is; but he's not awful with it for the most part.
The litmus test is how easy he is to live with and on that basis I'd say we're doing alright. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I think we've gotten away fairly lightly. The days in which he is impossible to deal with are much fewer than the days in which he is a veritable pleasure, not to mention a source of ever-increasing humour, I give you this example:
Following a misjudged comment on my part about the state of his undercarriage he is now of the belief that there are garden worms living in his bum. As this is encouraging frequent trips to the loo to tempt them out, I'm all for this idea. Today I tried to encourage him to take a trip to the loo to do a little push; he screwed up his face in a parody of someone trying to have a gay old dump, made a big 'errrgh' sound and then stuck out his tongue and blew a juicy fat raspberry at me. This rendered me completely helpless; the pair of us just rolled around on the sofa in hysterics while the Frog tried to keep a straight face.
It could be worse round our way.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Camp perfect
We went camping this weekend. That's right, me, the spud and the reluctant Frog. It was brilliant. Just don't ask the Frog.
We pitched tent in a field on a great sweep of chalk hill overlooked by the Uffington Horse, an Iron Age fort and the hill where allegedly St. George slew the dragon. Thunder was promised but while we heard it, saw the clouds and watched the lightening, it just rumbled past us. This has been the most glorious weekend and England in high summer is glorious without needing the sun for company, so you must just imagine it - high grass, cow parsley, buttercups, purple mallow, sudden valleys, clustered copses, hawks, crows, scudding clouds and the green of the hills leaping out against the blue of the sky just before a breeze ruffles the grass.
There were 14 of us plus 8 children under the age of 6. I know. Essentially they formed a pack which occasionally split into two mini-packs; all that is except the three littlest who were so easy to manage that it made me wonder what sort of mental I was on when I thought the spud was a handful at 10 months.
He was happy as a pancake, running around, stealing toys and playing endlessly at the stand-pipe being sprayed with water. He went to sleep last night mid-conversation: "Daddy doesn't like camping" "No sweetie, Daddy doesn't like camping... do you like camping?." "Yes, I LIKE camping." "Mummy likes camping too" "NO!!!! CHARLIE likes camping TOOOO!!! Zzzzzzz"....
He didn't get on that well with the inflatable mattress, he kept falling off, necessitating the predicted entrance into our bed and an almost completely sleepless night for me. He pushed and kicked and hogged the covers until springing wide awake at 7am demanding rice. He then walked around the tents of my sleeping friends (I want whatever it was they all gave their kids to get them to sleep in a hot bright tent past 7am) pointing at camping equipment and scattered toys and saying loudly "what's THAT Mummy? What's THAT?" for no reason other than to make conversation until eventually they all woke up toooo.
After two days of playing and living outside it took a lot of soap to remove the incremental layers of sunscreen and mud (and that was just from me). Tonight as he was drifting off after his bath I asked him again if he liked camping. "I LOVE camping!" he said. "I love my Charlie" I told him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He rolled over, wrapped an arm around my neck and said "I love my Mummy toooo" and gave me a kiss on the cheek. It's my first 'I love you'; kinda made my weekend.
We pitched tent in a field on a great sweep of chalk hill overlooked by the Uffington Horse, an Iron Age fort and the hill where allegedly St. George slew the dragon. Thunder was promised but while we heard it, saw the clouds and watched the lightening, it just rumbled past us. This has been the most glorious weekend and England in high summer is glorious without needing the sun for company, so you must just imagine it - high grass, cow parsley, buttercups, purple mallow, sudden valleys, clustered copses, hawks, crows, scudding clouds and the green of the hills leaping out against the blue of the sky just before a breeze ruffles the grass.
There were 14 of us plus 8 children under the age of 6. I know. Essentially they formed a pack which occasionally split into two mini-packs; all that is except the three littlest who were so easy to manage that it made me wonder what sort of mental I was on when I thought the spud was a handful at 10 months.
He was happy as a pancake, running around, stealing toys and playing endlessly at the stand-pipe being sprayed with water. He went to sleep last night mid-conversation: "Daddy doesn't like camping" "No sweetie, Daddy doesn't like camping... do you like camping?." "Yes, I LIKE camping." "Mummy likes camping too" "NO!!!! CHARLIE likes camping TOOOO!!! Zzzzzzz"....
He didn't get on that well with the inflatable mattress, he kept falling off, necessitating the predicted entrance into our bed and an almost completely sleepless night for me. He pushed and kicked and hogged the covers until springing wide awake at 7am demanding rice. He then walked around the tents of my sleeping friends (I want whatever it was they all gave their kids to get them to sleep in a hot bright tent past 7am) pointing at camping equipment and scattered toys and saying loudly "what's THAT Mummy? What's THAT?" for no reason other than to make conversation until eventually they all woke up toooo.
After two days of playing and living outside it took a lot of soap to remove the incremental layers of sunscreen and mud (and that was just from me). Tonight as he was drifting off after his bath I asked him again if he liked camping. "I LOVE camping!" he said. "I love my Charlie" I told him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He rolled over, wrapped an arm around my neck and said "I love my Mummy toooo" and gave me a kiss on the cheek. It's my first 'I love you'; kinda made my weekend.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Alice in Compost-land
I am neglecting my blog - and indeed everyone elses - again. All is well however my composting pledge is in the bin along with all my peelings.
I've discovered that if you don't have an actual compost bin it's pretty miserable trying to compost one's leavings. Since keeping an open compost heap within 270 yards of one's house without a license is now illegal in the UK, meaning I'd have to have my compost heap in the garden of a neighbour about 5 doors up (or apply for a special license), I am going to have to do without until I can get a proper bin. That's my excuse, anyway.
The story so far: I've been throwing our veggie-based leavings in the very far corner of the way back where of the under a bush at the back of the dark side of the garden.
Way under there, where, for all I know, the pixies actually live, I do know that there is a fox-sized hole in the fence. I know this because all the neighbourhood cats and some of the foxes regularly appear from under our ceanothus looking dazed, as if they walked into a wardrobe on the next street, pushed through a few coats and found themselves in the magic land of dead grass and tricycles.
I try to discourage this behaviour because in general foxes are bad m'kay because fox poo = Very Rank; and I have a toddler who likes to run around the garden barefoot. I also try to discourage cats because Sammy isn't exactly able to defend his territory. He'll have a go but he's 18, deaf and too weak to be vaccinated and he recently came home with a chunk taken out of his nose. He's not what you'd call 'fighting fit' so I'd be happy as hell to patch that hole. The problem is that it's a bit like the rabbit hole to Wonderland; it's deep and it's dark under that bush and I'd need a magic potion that says 'drink me' to be able to fit under there with a hammer.
I routinely throw my garden clippings in front of the hole but they just get trampled down and pushed aside. I hoped the smell of rotting vegetation would cure the prowlers but the answer is no. It doesn't. It just stinks up the garden. Mind you it has moved some of the snails away from my pepper plant so hooray for that; but sadly on balance I will be filing my kitchen waste in the bin until I have purchased a composting system that doesn't involve flinging carrot peelings under a bush and hoping for the best.
This means the floor under our furniture is going to shine for the next few weeks as I fulfil my half of the bargain. It's been an interesting experiment and the result is that I now feel heinously guilty for not composting so I will be picking up a compost bin and doing it properly at some point soon. I promise. I will do it, I've composted in many previous lives but... not QUITE yet in this one, sadly.
I've discovered that if you don't have an actual compost bin it's pretty miserable trying to compost one's leavings. Since keeping an open compost heap within 270 yards of one's house without a license is now illegal in the UK, meaning I'd have to have my compost heap in the garden of a neighbour about 5 doors up (or apply for a special license), I am going to have to do without until I can get a proper bin. That's my excuse, anyway.
The story so far: I've been throwing our veggie-based leavings in the very far corner of the way back where of the under a bush at the back of the dark side of the garden.
Way under there, where, for all I know, the pixies actually live, I do know that there is a fox-sized hole in the fence. I know this because all the neighbourhood cats and some of the foxes regularly appear from under our ceanothus looking dazed, as if they walked into a wardrobe on the next street, pushed through a few coats and found themselves in the magic land of dead grass and tricycles.
I try to discourage this behaviour because in general foxes are bad m'kay because fox poo = Very Rank; and I have a toddler who likes to run around the garden barefoot. I also try to discourage cats because Sammy isn't exactly able to defend his territory. He'll have a go but he's 18, deaf and too weak to be vaccinated and he recently came home with a chunk taken out of his nose. He's not what you'd call 'fighting fit' so I'd be happy as hell to patch that hole. The problem is that it's a bit like the rabbit hole to Wonderland; it's deep and it's dark under that bush and I'd need a magic potion that says 'drink me' to be able to fit under there with a hammer.
I routinely throw my garden clippings in front of the hole but they just get trampled down and pushed aside. I hoped the smell of rotting vegetation would cure the prowlers but the answer is no. It doesn't. It just stinks up the garden. Mind you it has moved some of the snails away from my pepper plant so hooray for that; but sadly on balance I will be filing my kitchen waste in the bin until I have purchased a composting system that doesn't involve flinging carrot peelings under a bush and hoping for the best.
This means the floor under our furniture is going to shine for the next few weeks as I fulfil my half of the bargain. It's been an interesting experiment and the result is that I now feel heinously guilty for not composting so I will be picking up a compost bin and doing it properly at some point soon. I promise. I will do it, I've composted in many previous lives but... not QUITE yet in this one, sadly.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
clash of the titans
A strange thing is happening around our house.
I am married to an extraordinar(il)y (stubborn) man. He's pretty much the immovable object when it comes to resisting things that he's not interested in doing; camping, for example, or wearing striped clothes. Our son, however, has inherited a blend of stubborn from his father and, er, me, that is, and anyway he's pretty much the irresistible force when it comes to getting what he wants. And he wants quite a lot really; he's two and the world is, as far as he can see, full of shiny new things, each one more desirable than the last.
He is however, only 32 months old and 40 inches tall. I mean, he may be as irresistible as it is possible to be for his size but when all is said and done I can still tuck him under my arm and cart him off if I have to. Or even just if I want to. Anyway, the point is that ultimately, if he has decided that he wants something which is bad for him, dangerous or designed to keep him out of bed, I just say no and accept the consequences.
The frog, however, for all his mammoth ability to resist dancing, pubs and any argument which he doesn't fancy losing is completely powerless to resist his son. Thus, I come home after an evening with friends to find the frog prone on the sofa complaining that he's knackered because 'He made me move the furniture' or 'He made me play trains until 10pm' or 'He kept making me read more books'.
I'm sorry... he made you? Your two year old made you move the furniture? What, did he threaten to turn Tebby Bear on you if you didn't?
Immovable object my foot; next time I want my husband to do something he'd normally resist I hereby vow to lie on the floor and cry until I get my way.
.
I am married to an extraordinar(il)y (stubborn) man. He's pretty much the immovable object when it comes to resisting things that he's not interested in doing; camping, for example, or wearing striped clothes. Our son, however, has inherited a blend of stubborn from his father and, er, me, that is, and anyway he's pretty much the irresistible force when it comes to getting what he wants. And he wants quite a lot really; he's two and the world is, as far as he can see, full of shiny new things, each one more desirable than the last.
He is however, only 32 months old and 40 inches tall. I mean, he may be as irresistible as it is possible to be for his size but when all is said and done I can still tuck him under my arm and cart him off if I have to. Or even just if I want to. Anyway, the point is that ultimately, if he has decided that he wants something which is bad for him, dangerous or designed to keep him out of bed, I just say no and accept the consequences.
The frog, however, for all his mammoth ability to resist dancing, pubs and any argument which he doesn't fancy losing is completely powerless to resist his son. Thus, I come home after an evening with friends to find the frog prone on the sofa complaining that he's knackered because 'He made me move the furniture' or 'He made me play trains until 10pm' or 'He kept making me read more books'.
I'm sorry... he made you? Your two year old made you move the furniture? What, did he threaten to turn Tebby Bear on you if you didn't?
Immovable object my foot; next time I want my husband to do something he'd normally resist I hereby vow to lie on the floor and cry until I get my way.
.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Recycling Week: Failure at the first post
OK, so I've already fallen down on my recycling week pledge. I made a stir-fry last night and it wasn't until I was in bed with the lights out that I remembered that I peeled the carrots right into the bin; likewise went the end of the celery from my salad.
This morning I promised myself I would go in and pick them out to put in the garden but in fact, our bin isn't exactly a breath of fresh air; Sammy insists that his food has Gone Off if he hasn't eaten it within the hour and as he is capable of making one's life truly very difficult indeed if one doesn't feed him fresh food umpteen times a day... well the dried up old food has to go somewhere.
It's incredible just how insistent he can be. He starts (as I have said before) by patting one gently. This moves to patting one quite hard, followed by the light Touch Of Claw. If this doesn't work he moves on to human mountaineering, up and down and back and forth until one is worn down to a low hill. He is capable of staring balefully at one for at least twenty minutes and if still ignored he starts yowling; as he is deaf, the decibel level he has to emit in order to hear himself is fairly astonishing. The minute one gets up he is trailing so closely that he gets a bit shoved about - sheer guilt at this point usually gets him a full bowl, the dried remains of the last getting tapped out into the bin. Lovely.
Therefore this morning, rather than brave the offal for a few bits of carrot, I have been on my knees under the armchair. I have found my ipod dock; Teddymouse and a toy car. I have also found a lot of cat hair.
Sammy has a lot to answer for today, let me tell you.
This morning I promised myself I would go in and pick them out to put in the garden but in fact, our bin isn't exactly a breath of fresh air; Sammy insists that his food has Gone Off if he hasn't eaten it within the hour and as he is capable of making one's life truly very difficult indeed if one doesn't feed him fresh food umpteen times a day... well the dried up old food has to go somewhere.
It's incredible just how insistent he can be. He starts (as I have said before) by patting one gently. This moves to patting one quite hard, followed by the light Touch Of Claw. If this doesn't work he moves on to human mountaineering, up and down and back and forth until one is worn down to a low hill. He is capable of staring balefully at one for at least twenty minutes and if still ignored he starts yowling; as he is deaf, the decibel level he has to emit in order to hear himself is fairly astonishing. The minute one gets up he is trailing so closely that he gets a bit shoved about - sheer guilt at this point usually gets him a full bowl, the dried remains of the last getting tapped out into the bin. Lovely.
Therefore this morning, rather than brave the offal for a few bits of carrot, I have been on my knees under the armchair. I have found my ipod dock; Teddymouse and a toy car. I have also found a lot of cat hair.
Sammy has a lot to answer for today, let me tell you.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
lost in translation
And that was that; we now sail off into the sunset, a family of people who have weathered chickenpox and lived to tell the tale.
The spud spent some happy moments this evening pointing at various diminishing spots and saying 'chickenpops going away!' and I wondered for a moment what he thinks about it all. I wondered if he was expecting birds to come flying out of his skin.
I do find it amazing what he manages to syphon out of our ridiculous language and I get a feeling for how my poor French in-laws must feel when they have to listen to me tiptoing through their language like a drug-addled elephant. He'll be tripping along gaily through a sentence when he'll come across a word he doesn't know and he'll sub in for it randomly with the likes of 'that one that way' or 'my blue big up there'.
It's not just my son; it's Universal Toddler Charades; I see parents playing it all the time. 'Ball? Is it ball? Bell? Bar? Bear? Bear! You want Bear! Teddy bear? Bear ball? Bear poo? Bear what? Bear book! Yesssss! Which bear book? This one? This one? This one? There are no other... JUST SHOW ME!
It's when he forgets which language he's in and starts asking me for something by its toddlerised French name that I realise that I have no hope; usually the answer is just to get the ice-cream out and have done with it. Clearly we are all back to SNAFU.
The spud spent some happy moments this evening pointing at various diminishing spots and saying 'chickenpops going away!' and I wondered for a moment what he thinks about it all. I wondered if he was expecting birds to come flying out of his skin.
I do find it amazing what he manages to syphon out of our ridiculous language and I get a feeling for how my poor French in-laws must feel when they have to listen to me tiptoing through their language like a drug-addled elephant. He'll be tripping along gaily through a sentence when he'll come across a word he doesn't know and he'll sub in for it randomly with the likes of 'that one that way' or 'my blue big up there'.
It's not just my son; it's Universal Toddler Charades; I see parents playing it all the time. 'Ball? Is it ball? Bell? Bar? Bear? Bear! You want Bear! Teddy bear? Bear ball? Bear poo? Bear what? Bear book! Yesssss! Which bear book? This one? This one? This one? There are no other... JUST SHOW ME!
It's when he forgets which language he's in and starts asking me for something by its toddlerised French name that I realise that I have no hope; usually the answer is just to get the ice-cream out and have done with it. Clearly we are all back to SNAFU.
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