I bought a book for Alby when he was a tiny baby called “No!” It’s the story of a dog called No whose owners love very much and love to say his name. They say it when he helps them get to places faster (pulling on the lead), when he helps with the laundry (mud on everything) and when he feeds himself (having ripped into the rubbish bin).
Alby is the toddler version of “No!”
He helps me choose the bedtime story (by emptying the book shelf).
He helps me find highbrow programmes when I slob in front of the telly (by stealing the remote for a bit of channel surfing).
He helps me keep the bathroom clean (who knew splashing in the bath was such an effective way of washing the floor?)
He helps me with the cooking (getting me saucepans, Tupperware and the grill pan which he can now very aptly pull out of the stove. I have a bar stool in the corner of the kitchen to block access to the china plates and bowls).
He helps me with me with the recycling (although I would rather read the newspaper before he rips it to shreds).
He helps to ensure Percy doesn’t starve (this he does well - if I give Alby a rice cake or breadstick he instantly waddles about looking for Percy and then stuffs it in his mouth. Percy spends his days torn between Alby sticking food up his nose and me telling Percy to leave off).
He helps me with the laundry (his Magic Finger is having a field day at the moment having found the “on/pause” button on the washing machine. Twice now my clothes have been cleaned twice over as I haven’t managed to turn the machine off before Alby gets it started again).
He takes care to see that he eats his five a day (stealing my apples and frozen peas. Enough has been said on that already. I don't want to go opened old wounds).
He makes sure that he shares (in a taxi on my way to a Board meeting in London last week I discovered I had cream cheese smeared down my left leg. Thanks Alby).
He takes care to see that he eats his five a day (stealing my apples and frozen peas. Enough has been said on that already. I don't want to go opened old wounds).
He makes sure that he shares (in a taxi on my way to a Board meeting in London last week I discovered I had cream cheese smeared down my left leg. Thanks Alby).
He helps me with my hand eye coordination. Not since I was about six years old and forced to play goalie to my brother’s striker have I had balls coming at me so relentlessly. Throwing is most definitely his favourite thing. My efforts at a friend's son's first birthday at the weekend to keep the other children safe were totally in vain as the grandparents sought to engage Alby in play by handing him cars, bricks and stacking cups. Every single one got lobed across the kitchen floor as he squealed with laughter and held his arms up waiting for applause. That he didn’t hit another child was pure fluke and I’m preparing myself for the day that nursery calls to tell me he’s taken another baby’s eye out.
He genuinely helps with the hoovering (whenever I hoover downstairs he goes and gets his walker and follows me around - kitchen, living room, hallway he will be there waddling backwards and forwards to ensure not one bit of carpet is missed).
I realised the other day that I have spent every day of the past 13 months with this little boy at me side. I don't know if that puts a smile on his face but it certainly does mine. Bless his grubby, falling off socks.
He genuinely helps with the hoovering (whenever I hoover downstairs he goes and gets his walker and follows me around - kitchen, living room, hallway he will be there waddling backwards and forwards to ensure not one bit of carpet is missed).
I realised the other day that I have spent every day of the past 13 months with this little boy at me side. I don't know if that puts a smile on his face but it certainly does mine. Bless his grubby, falling off socks.
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