So long 2012 - you've been a good friend

So long 2012 you’ve been a good year.  Challenging – of course, dramatic – certainly, emotional – you bet, stressful – at times, enjoyable – constantly, educational – definitely, exhausting – of course (but that is more Alby’s fault than yours).

This year saw Alby’s first teeth, first steps, first hugs, first sounds, first giggles, first birthday.  This will sound really stupid but it’s very odd to think that with 2013 will, eventually come Alby’s second birthday.  I’ve barely got my head around him being a one year old, two sounds incredibly old.

This year saw 7 of our friends tying the knot and one very special friend getting engaged.  Friends who we’ve worked with, studied with and grown up with.  And ultimately, who we’ve partied with.

In addition to bringing romance we also saw the arrival of even more bundles of joy – most significantly to me with the birth of my wonderful nephew and my friend’s darling little girl who took us all by surprise with her early appearance but who has quickly shrugged off her premature entrance to be a right little trooper. 

And of course, 2012 marks my love’s second tour of Afghanistan.  As I type they have just shown footage of some of the serving troops celebrating the arrival of the New Year over there.  No sign of Mark but the footage still put a smile on my face – it warms me to know how happy they all look.  And how well.  Whilst I’m in no denial about the difficult and challenging circumstances he is in, any worries I have are always negated by how proud I am of him to be doing a job which gives him purpose, enjoyment, development and pride.  2012 has certainly been the most challenging for us career wise but I’m surrounded by plenty of others sharing this bizarre reality and really it’s not so bad. 

True, I wasn’t saying such yesterday – but with the morning comes a whole New Year.  The ultimate clean slate.  I love Mondays because they give my a fresh start – you can only imaging therefore how much I love New Year.  Admittedly, late nights lead to a slow start meaning resolutions generally aren’t written until the middle of January, but that doesn’t matter.  I’ve lost by the end of February anyway. 

This is the time for inspiration.  This is the time for self-review, improvement, development and good intention.  I will do my best to grab it with both hands, to be the best wife I can, the best mother I can and the best friend I can.

Keeping me in smiles

Today has been a tough day.  In fact, it’s been a tough weekend and as I’ve sat down to write this post I’ve found myself irritatingly caught up in the emotions and frustrations of the day. 

Yes, this Blog is about challenging myself to keep writing and yes, it is in part about providing me with a bit of a therapeutic relief in light of not having my love to share my day with.  But I hate self pity, especially if undeserved and as my frustrations are grounded in nothing more than tiredness and disorganisation on a grand scale, undeserved is the word.

Anyway, for all the wider purposes of the Blog, it’s raison d’etre is to keep my love updated on life with his little man and truth be told, little man has done his best to keep a smile on my face all day. 

He spent the morning showing off his high intellect.  This began with a simple exercise with his shape sorter car.  Much to my great applause Alby correctly identified the difference between a triangle and a square.  I was thoroughly impressed with this display of Toddler genius, though quickly realised that he had lured me into a false sense of security – just thirty minutes later he put Aristotle to shame as he dropped a selection of toys, bottles and clothing through the banister to the hallway below thus doing his part to disprove the theory that heavier objects fall faster.

Later on he paid my cooking the utmost compliment by slurping up his noodles in double quick time.  Video to follow shortly -  Alby has yet to watch Lady and the Tramp so I have no idea where he gets his technique from but it is equally impressive and hilarious.   

After lunch it was time to Alby to catch up on his business calls.  Nudging my phone off the dining room table he turned the screen on and wandered off to a quiet corner (phone held just behind the ear) so that he could shout to the invisible person on the other end of the phone in peace. Again, video to follow shortly.

And then finally for some moronic laughter.  Alby has taken to randomly bursting into fake laughter which involves him throwing his head back and guffawing for a few minutes before carrying on with whatever he had been doing.  I can only conclude that this has come about from him falling off the bed too many times, but whatever the cause hearing and watching a one year fake laugh with the energy he puts into it will guarantee a smile on any face and today I am so grateful for all his bizarre and silly ways.  

Whilst I may not always be the mother, wife and dog owner that I want to be, Alby is always ten times the son I could ever wish for.  Three weeks today Mark gets to see what a little man Trouble Monkey has grown into.  I hope he gets as much laughter from it as I do.

Alberistics - Happy Clapper

Alby is never shy in congratulating himself.  He is fast learning when he has done something right – climbing a stair, stacking a brick or cup, placing a correct puzzle piece… and will often be congratulating himself with a hearty round of applause before his devoted on lookers have even noticed. 

As with all things Alby he picks up on things far quicker than I expect him too.  And, if recent events are anything to go by, not only does he love to applaud himself but is also happy to join in with applauding everybody else.

The first piece of evidence to support this happened two hours into the drive back to Yorkshire last night.  After Alby had fallen asleep I had forgone the nursery rhyme CD for Radio 4 and a series of lectures was just starting.  The speaker was announced, the crowd applauded and so did Trouble Monkey – pale, wide eyed and pretty much still asleep Alby’s little hands clapped together along with the radio.  Ten minutes later he was fast asleep again.

The second piece of evidence took place this morning.  I was watching the news whilst Alby charged about with his walker.  The Queen has just announced her New Year’s Honours list and the usual coverage celebrating all winners was given including Bradley Wiggins crossing the finishing line with arms raised in one of his many impressive wins of 2012.  As this was happening Alby walked towards the TV, and raised both arms in the air with a huge grin on his face. 

It didn’t stop there, each time somebody whooped or cheered or clapped Alby joined in!

Trouble Sleep Monkey

Tonight it took an hour and a half to settle Alby to sleep.  The first hour being mostly dedicated to getting him back to liking being in his cot (bribery in the form of books and puzzles finally winning out). One hour later and I was back in his room settling him again.

I’m not surprised that tonight has been difficult  Not that such eased my frustrations much, but Little man has slept in five different beds over the past three weeks, each time with me no more than three feet away from him.  Morning lie ins have led to late nights and whilst I have tried to keep the routine as normal as possible, Christmas cheer and busy times have certainly had an impact and I expect it will take at least a week to get us back to where we were before.

There’s a lot to be said about using this time to adapt and fine tune the routine to make it more “Toddler Friendly”.  Not only but also more “Daddy Friendly”.  Before, with Mark off every other week and with the deployment on the horizon it seemed sensible to just leave bedtime to me and focus on having mama as the constant factor.  But time has a habit of speeding by still these days and before I know it the tour will be coming to an end and it will be important to make sure that bedtime is something Mark can be equally involved in.  No doubt I should have given this all much greater thought over recent weeks rather than trying to work it out whilst also unpacking from, recovering from Christmas and preparing for work but I’ve never been known to be sensible before and there’s no point feigning good sense and moderation now I guess.

My house isn't a home, it's a toy box

I have just spent the last half hour looking up toy boxes and children’s storage having come home with:

- a shape sorting car

- a construction trio

- a harmonica

- a set of musical bells (my fault)

- a xylophone

- one teddy bear (which tells a story – don’t ask)

- two monkeys (not including Percy or Alby)

- a pull dog (my fault again)

- four books

- an ostrich (thank you Uncle Eddie)

- a bouncy rabbit

- three jigsaw puzzles

- one swing

- a train

- a monster truck

plus two jackets, a jumper, a shirt, a policeman top, socks, wellies (which are awesome), a waterproof snowsuit and some new pyjamas. 

Christmas has been kind to Alby.  Sadly, it has not been so kind to my attempts at unpacking.  Percy’s bed is like a little “dog island” amongst stacking cups, bricks, cars and musical instruments. 

My parents are visiting in three days, work starts in four days and Mark comes home in 22 days (woop woop).  I need storage.  I need to rethink things.  I need my house to look like a home and not TVs Fun House after the children have ransacked it.   

Things that go bump...

Alby mastered walking up stairs a good few months ago but coming down the stairs has proved a far greater challenge.  Whilst friend’s babies happily slide down on their stomachs Alby has always tried to walk down the stairs as I do.  He’s certainly fearless, I’ll give him that, with his early attempts all focused on pointing one leg out in front of him and then just letting himself fall down, testing my nerve and reflexes to the full! Under my mother’s expert guidance however, this week has led to Alby finding a controlled way to come down the stairs – bumping down on his bottom step by step.

I’m not entirely sure what campaign groups against Shaken Baby Syndrome would say about Alby’s new method which causes his spine to reverberate, jaw to quiver and head to bobble with each bump, but it gets him from A to B giggling all the way! 

The only problem is when we get to the bottom three steps – at that point you better make sure you are in front of him as he stands up, puts his arms up, extends his leg and let’s himself fall forwards into your arms. 

As his walking improves and his sense of mischief grows we are seeing occasionally changes being made to how he gets up the stairs.  If you are foolish enough to give him a helping hand on the way up he will cling onto you as he propellers his legs up, swinging up one leg per step in a mad rush to the top.

Growing sense of self, growing sense of trouble

This evening as I was running the bath Alby headed out of the bathroom and straight for the stairs. I hadn’t closed the stair gate and so was just a step behind him. Swinging and locking the gate in his face, Alby promptly burst into tears. 

Before you ring social services I would like to mount a defence – albeit a rather feeble and raw one.  The tears weren’t caused by shock, or pain.  Alby saw me coming and at no point did I or the stair gate make contact with him.  Rather these tears were due to him not getting his way.

This isn’t the first time such a dramatic and sudden outburst has happened.  Just this morning I was cried at for removing a pencil from his hand.  The other day when I was rushing to get out of the house I removed Alby from his toys and quickly learnt that such was not what he wanted.

Before Mark starts to panic and puts his name down for correctional school, I would like to highlight that the crying is very short lived (tears usually haven’t had time to form before he is pacified), but clearly Alby’s sense of self is growing.

The books recommend that we respond to tears with understanding.  (It seems that the stiff upper lip of British past is being challenged by a more emotionally sensitive school of parenting which I generally agree with).  No doubt my words are currently falling on uncomprehending ears, but I try to reassure myself with reminders that I’ve stuck to my guns and one day he will understand (he may have a full on tantrum and slam a door in my face, but he’ll understand). 

Learning through Percy

Fully aware of my highly limited ball skills I promise that I have made no active effort to teach Alby how to throw and yet it has come to be a skill which he excels in.  These days he has moved on from the sitting chuck to the double throw (which can involve holding two small things in one hand and lobbing them across the room or an item in each hand for synchronised hurling) and the running throw (suggesting a future profession in the noble sport of cricket if only he can learn to let go of the ball more than a foot away from the intended recipient's face).  

Clearly watching me throw toys about for Percy day in and day out has rubbed off on Alby.  And such learning through the medium of bulldog has recently entered new territory as Alby takes on the role of family dog walker.

The other day I found him hanging around the hallway pulling on Percy’s lead.  As it turns out I was mistaken in thinking that it was time for lunch, it was in fact time to take Percy for a walk…

The love doesn’t stop there.  Albert’s favourite toy at the moment is his pull train which he drags all around the house (much as I drag a reluctant Percy out the front door).  Yesterday we caught him trying to pull Percy along by the collar.  Sadly for Trouble Monkey junior, despite the wrist creases highlighting his masculinity, he hasn’t yet got the strength to move the brick wall that is Percy.  So, we attached the lead and collar to my brother’s old toy dog and Alby spent a good 15 minutes taking Jessie for a walk around the house.  Unfortunately I only thought to get the camera at the very end, but he was still going relatively strong. 

Apparently not only have I inadvertently taught Alby to throw and dog walk but also to talk to himself – all the time he was moving he was nattering away happy as anything.  I'm going to have to keep a closer eye on myself as he is clearer vulnerable at the moment and I'm feeling a little guilty about my subconscious having taken advantage of this!

Life is nothing without friendship

Today is the birthday of a very special lady.  Sadly, I can’t be with her to raise a glass in celebration and so instead I write this post in hope of sending a virtual toast to my bestest.

It may be said that seeing as this is a blog essentially about my son it isn’t the appropriate place – to such comments I say blah!  This particular birthday girl has been an inspiration, support and everything else you wish in a friend from before Alby appeared on the scene.  During my pregnancy she was the voice of calm reassurance and every day thereafter she has encouraged me, supported me and laughed with me.  Despite all sorts of drama going on in her own life she has always been there.

(In spite of the fact that in my madness to get South I left her wrapped up and packaged birthday gift on the dining room table instead of taking it to the post office as planned / needed).

They say that the special thing about great friends is that they understand you and give you the freedom to be stupid and to be yourself (even though sometimes that is one and the same thing).  That they support you through thick and thin with sincerity and justness and love. 

For the girl who is all of that to me – I say Happy Birthday. xoxoxo

The move to fully weaned

When Mark left Alby was still enjoying several feeds a la mama each day in addition to during the night. 

As I’ve no doubt mentioned before I never thought I would still be breastfeeding one year in.  In my ignorant head I thought that at six months in comes food, out goes milk and that would be that. I also didn’t know how much I would enjoy feeding Alby, how easy it would be nor how much of a sucker I was going to be for the anti-formula propaganda. (I’m so easily influenced it’s a real worry). 

For all it’s ease and all the benefits however, I’m not looking to be one of the serious breastfeeding advocates who are still feeding their five year old children.  On Alby’s birthday I stopped expressing once and for all and replaced Alby’s nursery bottle with cow’s milk.  Four weeks ago, alongside sleeping in, Alby dropped his mid-morning feed and for the past two weeks he has also forgone his mid-afternoon feed – meaning that from 9am until 6pm he is milk free. 

I’m personally really pleased that we have managed to get to this point without intervention, instead it is driven completely and utterly by Alby.  And it works for me.  You often hear stories of mother’s who continue feeding their child (or co-sleeping) etc based on their own needs and wants rather than that of the child.  Personally I’m so wrapped up in watching him grow up and acquire new skills and cheeky ways that I don’t have the time nor the inclination to want to keep him as a baby.  As such, since Alby hit the nine month mark I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the end of feeding.  I know we’ve still got a bit of a way to go, but Alby seems to have a knack of putting the both of us on a sensible pace and with that in mind I’m happy to follow his lead.  

Pleased as punch (with himself)

As my dad pointed out at dinner the other night Alby adores being the centre of attention.  I’ve been told by his nursery workers in the past that when he was starting to walk he would often pull himself up at the table or window and wait until all eyes were on him before he’d move his feet. 

Well, from those already narcissistic beginnings I’m sorry to report that his ego has simply continued to grow. 

There is a little step down from the living room to the sun room in my parents house.  The step is less than ten inches tall, but for somebody who has only just learnt to walk on the flat is poses a significant challenge.

My son is nothing if not determined and my parents and I spent a good hour the other day sitting at the bottom of the step as he mastered it.  It began with him holding onto one of our hands to step down and then slowly learning to put one tentative foot in front of the other sliding his foot over the edge of the step and onto the carpet below until finally he was, albeit still very slowly, walking down the step confidently and unaided. 

Alongside this came much praise from us by way of plenty of clapping after each successful attempt.  Alby, who never passes on a moment to self-praise joined in with each clapping session with enthusiasm.  After a couple of minutes of this, the self-admiration stepped up with Trouble Monkey being the one to start the clapping – not only when he successfully walked down the step, but also when he walked up the step (something he is already highly skilled at).  As if that wasn’t enough, so pleased was he with himself that he added in his happy dance – bouncing on the spot at the top of the step, then the bottom of the step, then the top of the step, then the bottom of the step…all alongside the usual cheering and clapping.

My mum has interpreted it as him bowing to the applause of his captivated audience – whatever it is it takes place with a sparkle in the eye, a grin on the face and every time he is in the vicinity of a step.  

Little Man as Tourist extraordinaire

I have a little apology to make to my lovely blog readers regarding the recent lack of posts – this has largely been caused by my laptop deciding to disconnect itself from the internet and as such ruining my efforts to upload what I thought were particularly amusing videos of Alby.  Unfortunately I’m still not able to get the videos up onto the blog, but having stolen my mum’s computer for the evening I’m back up and running.

With the power of apple, I can finally upload the pictures I took on my phone last week when Alby and I did our best to stand out as bolshy Brits in Paris…

On y va!

Unimpressed by the outside of Le Louvre

Off to find Mona

Oh la la - omlette et frites! 

Play time at Paris airport

Self-feeding like a pro

Today my mum informed me that Alby insisted on feeding himself his morning porridge.  Displaying more grace than he did this afternoon for me (shovelling rice into his mouth by the fist full) he used his spoon to scoop up the oaty deliciousness and then shovel into his mouth.

A bit of egg noodle before bed

Whilst almost everything Alby does impresses me, this isn’t actually a new skill.  Alby has been involved with spoon feeding himself from day one and seven months on he's proving to be very good at it (when he chooses to be). 

Finally a spoon on par with Alby's appetite

I decided fairly early on to go the finger food route.  I’m not at all a fan of the Baby-led weaning book, which I personally found incredibly patronising, but I do support the notion of meal times being as much about exploration as they are about nourishment. 

Yes this involves a great deal of mess – in my most lax state Alby’s exploration has been allowed to include scooping runny yoghurt out of the pot, flinging noodles across the living room and patting cheese sandwiches into the table top.  My curtains have been baptized with pasta sauce, my bar cemented with avocado cheese spread and Percy has never known it so good.

But mealtimes have been fun – no trenches dug or enforcements called in at our house.  They’ve involved play, fine motor skills, not so fine motor skills and discovery – not just by way of taste but sight, touch and smell too. 

Grumpy and tired – but not at bedtime

Alby’s afternoon nap today stretched from 2:15pm to 5:20pm.  Let’s not go pretending that this was one chilled out nap time, he woke three times over that period, each in a heightened state of utter distress which wouldn’t be pacified until he was snuggled in and latched on in the peace of the bedroom. 

At the time I was feeling very sorry for him; despite keeping him on UK time when in Paris the move from Yorkshire to Surrey to France to Surrey has clearly knocked the little man out and he is suffering from serious jet lag.

Come 9:30 tonight when he was still awake and busy emptying the rubbish bin in the bedroom my sympathy had begun to wane.  I know that a 3hour nap in the middle of the day is too long and it will have a knock on effect but what’s a mama to do? The first time he woke I got him up, took him downstairs and he just cried and cried and cried.  He was totally floppy (I sat him on the kitchen table and his head flopped forward until it was touching the table top like he used to do before he could sit up properly).  So we went back upstairs and he slept in my arms, waking upset each time I tried to move him for at least 30 minutes before he could finally be put down and left and half an hour after that we continued the process again.

Whilst there is something very precious about having my son curled up in my arms the moment is ruined by two bigger concerns: firstly, and more immediate, the awareness that his long nap and late bedtime today will no doubt have a knock on effect over his sleep tomorrow which I need to crack down on a.s.a.p as best as I possibly can.

Secondly, I seem to once again be in the two-monthly cycle of thinking I’m doing it all wrong.  Alby only settled when latched.  I swear he would have loved a dummy if only I’d allowed him one.  If I think of myself as being a human dummy then I don’t really mind but I wonder how long it will go on for and if the supposed experts are right when they say you can’t spoil or teach bad habits to a baby – Alby’s character is developing so much in other areas it’s very hard to accept the notion that he doesn’t have rational thought yet.

For the moment it is late and I have an early start on the M25 so my ponderings must be kept short, but this will no doubt be a theme that I return to again and again in coming months – what fun!

It’s toddlers like Alby what cause unrest

It seems as though Alby is picking up a new way to be cheeky/naughty/mischievous every few hours. 

Today’s trouble began in the morning when Alby had a little cough.  I’m not entirely sure where he learnt this bit of etiquette from, but Alby has a habit of putting his hand over his mouth when he coughs.  (To be truly accurate he puts the tips of his fingers between his lips when he coughs, but the overall effect is the same).  It was all very cute.  My mum then started coughing and Alby, keen to give his sympathy and support (and a bit of cheeky mimicry) then started to fake cough.  Hand on heart the boy can fake cough.  And as if that wasn’t cheeky enough, he topped it off with still putting his hands to his mouth but pausing and grinning between each little coughing session.

His next moment of cheekiness came when my dad shared some buttered toast with him over breakfast.  Alby was given strict instructions not to share the toast with Percy.  On receipt of these instructions he took the piece of toast out of his mouth, looked over the chair and dropped the food directly down to where Percy was sitting.  And then he giggled.

And then he blew raspberries – showing off a new skill with today’s raspberries involving a stuck out tongue which I confess I hadn’t been treated to before.

Alby is just pure inquisitiveness these days.  All the baby books recommend that parents try not to use the word “no” too often, instead distracting babies away from undesirable behaviour towards desirable behaviour.  Easier said than done I say to that.  Trouble Monkey has taken a liking to one of the kitchen cupboards at my parent’s house – the one that contains all the herb and spice jars.  We have tried closing the door and tempting him with a toy, taking him into another room, blocking it with a chair (which ended up with lots of tears after he pulled the chair down on himself), distracting him with other kitchen bits (this resulted in the living room becoming home to a couple of colanders and the cutlery holder from the dishwasher) but still he returns to the cupboard.  And, in true Alby fashion (bearing in mind that his throwing skills have been fine tuned over several weeks now) he picked up the jar of marjoram and threw it with all his might onto the floor in front of him where it promptly smashed.  Good oh!  Well, at least I’m not saying “no” too often. 

Tomorrow we’re off to B&Q to buy a child proofing kit.

With all this bottle smashing excitement, Alby was in no mood for bed and instead crawled out of my arms and over to the wardrobe mirror where he started to cluck.  I’ve never heard Alby cluck before so I was unreservedly joyous about this new sound (far more acceptable than the squeal he has taken to conjuring out of thin air every now and then).  Alby seemed as impressed by this new noise as I was, really staring at himself in the mirror as if trying to work out how he was making his mouth work the way it was.  So excited was he by this that he completely deserted the idea of bedtime by grabbing his pull train and pulling it in and out of every room upstairs giggling all the way (or clapping himself) for at least twenty minutes.  It wasn’t until he cashed into the door that he finally allowed himself to be bundled into my arms and put to bed.  Fair enough I suppose, trouble is tiring.

Sneaky McSneakerston...

...went and grew two teeth without even telling me.  Okay, okay, the fever and sickness a couple of weeks back was suggestive of teeth growing a la Albert, but I‘m after at least a dash of pearly whites. 

Over the past few days Alby’s cheeks have been burning red in the evenings.  Eager to see if there were any bumps on those tiny gums I rubbed my fingers over top and bottom only to discover two top molars (one left, one right) which likely cut over a week ago and are now proper white teeth bumps.

My sister in law told me awhile ago that her son had cut a molar without her even knowing and I thought she was just trying to be some trendy, nonchalant parent.  Well, that leaves me conclusively shown I believe.

Sneaky.

Living in denial

I was feeling pretty good about myself at 6pm yesterday.  I’d managed to tackle the Paris metro system from our hotel to the airport arriving before check in had even opened so as to ensure that we had plenty of time for a proper lunch and big run around the airport so that Alby would be knackered by the time our plane took off.  I glided through check in, security and boarding (Alby attempted to crawl behind the check in desks, walked through security by himself and started to get grizzly at the boarding gate ensuring we were put to the front of the queue and ushered to our seats in a very swift manner).  Despite rain and wind causing a twenty minute delay at either end of our flight, plus some brilliant turbulence causing the lovely young girl next to me to get covered in orange juice, Alby was quiet for the whole journey. (He slept the first half of the flight and spent the remaining 40 minutes looking out of the window, closing the window, high fiving our sticky neighbour, pulling apart the magazine and using the tray table as a drum).

I got us off the place in one piece and was able to keep a bored Bear entertained and contained during the thirty minute wait for our luggage and the buggy.

Bearing all of this in mind I was feeling rather good about myself as I headed into M&S to buy us some dinner.  And then reality popped up and smacked me in the face.  It reared it’s ugly head, pulled the rug out from under my feet and did all sorts of equally clichéd nasties as I realised that somewhere between the newsagents at Charles de Gaulle airport and M&S my wallet had gone walkabout. 

My gut instinct was that it had fallen out in the overhead locker or as I was stuffing Alby’s shoes back into the bag just before going through passport control but who knows, it could still be in Paris. 

So, we went to airport information who sent us to the “white phone” who sent us to gate E who phoned the plane to have it checked but the plane had already gone so who sent us to lost property who told us to go online and complete a form.

The lose of the wallet is an annoyance – it had money in it, not loads but enough that I would rather it be in my pocket at the moment and not somebody else’s.  It had some precious photos in it which can’t be easily replaced.  It had a range of bank and store loyalty cards which have to be cancelled and reissued.  However it wasn’t the physical loss which frustrated me, it was the symbolism because losing the wallet was proof that no matter how on top of things I thought I was, I wasn’t. 

It was a conversation with my Dad later that evening which really grounded me though.  To set the scene, I had phoned him before leaving Heathrow asking if he could get the bank emergency numbers for me so I could get the cards cancelled quickly.  He had been very sympathetic and supportive on the phone.  Once I was home, Alby was settled in bed and he had checked that I’d manage to successfully cancel all cards he allowed his funny funny wit to shine through.  In the space of five seconds he reminded me that not only had I lost my wallet but I’d also not known which airport I was flying into (true – on the flight over I didn’t realise until I was at Heathrow checking which gate to go to that I discovered I was headed to Orly and not CDG, having confused my inbound and outbound airports.) I had also not known what time I was flying either going out (I thought my outbound flight was at 11:35am, turns out that was when it landed) or coming back (I told my mum I was getting in at 2:30pm but my flight didn’t actually land until 4:30pm). So really, the wallet was only the tip of the iceberg.  Ah well, I may be poorer and a bit more dishevelled around the edges but at least I have family who keep me grounded.

Paris: my new teacher

Today Alby and I visited the Eifel Tower, the Champs Elysees and L’Arc de Triomphe and Le Louvre before catching the metro home. 

Over the course of the day I’ve learnt that the key to the Parisian elegant and sophisticated look is a pair of skinny black trousers, black heels and a long black coat or a fur coat.  If you must accessorize do so with an oversized scarf and designer handbag, again black.  The only time I saw colour was in Le Louvre and as the ultimate tourist destination I’m fairly confident that there wasn’t a single French person in the whole museum.

Whilst I was fashioning a lovely black cloak I failed the style test in my blue jeans and new white trainers – whoops. Despite that, I must have some French air to me having been asked by directions from one tourist, and instructed on motherhood by two ladies.

The tourist asking for directions was made comical by the fact that despite us carrying out a short conversation in broken French I suspect he was English.

My first piece of mothering advice came yesterday when a stern looking lady informed me (in French) that if I didn’t put a hat on my son he would get ill.  Unfortunately any pride I had in having understood her little speech was quickly quashed as I gave my response – this was met with a hard stare and a quick “Pardon?”  Blurting our “Je suis Anglais” I hurried on – no easy feat with my backpack and city traffic slowing my down.

My second mothering moment occurred with one of the attendants in Le Louvre.  As a treat I had let Alby out of the buggy to waddle around with his rucksack on.  The marble floors proved a bit of a challenge to his socked feet. (No shoes for Alby as I could only find one this morning  - the other he had helpfully put in the bath I later discovered).  He fell down twice in the space of about five seconds, no unusual thing for him but it caused the attendant to rush over to make sure his mouth wasn’t full of blood. I tried to explain that him falling down was common but only got a hard stare and the feeling that French mothers don’t think much of me.  Eager to move on I rushed away – unfortunately Alby wasn’t quite on the same page as me and responded to my efforts by falling down again!  Brilliant.

Tomorrow we take on Notre Dame and Le Marais.  I’ve got my black trousers and my black boots all ready.  I’ve located his shoes to give sturdy stepping and ensured both jumpers are packed along with his snowsuit.  Bring on Day 3 - let's see if I've learnt anything.