New kit

So, obviously Alby doesn’t have anywhere near enough toys.  The additional storage I had to buy a couple of months ago certainly had nothing to do with toy v. space issues in our house.  Indeed, what even is too many toys? 

With this great philosophical question at the forefront of my mind I trotted down to the local toy store last month (who am I kidding, it was Argos, but as it turns out they have the best range of affordable toys this side of the M25) and purchased a toy garage and kitchen for Alby. 

I hope everybody appreciates my efforts at gender equality – no bias going on in this house.  (If we could all turn a momentary blind eye to the one doll and fifty cars currently in my living room I’d be very grateful).

The car garage was put up the minute we got home and was quick to establish itself as a favourite in the house.  Yes, it’s a bit on the big side but only a bit, and how else do you get a three storey garage and slide without it being on the big side? 

The kitchen has been hiding out in it’s box in the garage for the past few weeks, after it transpired that resurrecting a three storey plastic toy garage more than filled my angry-with-cheap-DIY quota for the month.  Today however, I braved hard plastic and cheap stickers to construct Alby’s first kitchen.  Let’s not be under any false illusions – it’s no A La Carte Kitchen circa 1984, however it’s not too bad.  It’s got an oven and fridge and a good number of utensils which can be bashed / bitten / thrown down the stairs. 

In truth, I most certainly do believe that there is such a thing as too many toys.  And I currently think that I am close to that limit.  However, I also appreciate the brilliance of toys – they keep my little man happy, engaged and preoccupied.  There is nothing more I wish for.

46 Reasons for a toddler freak out

I was recently sent a link to this article by American comedian Jason Good.  As Alby approaches the "terrible twos" we seem to find ourselves increasingly on the receiving end of small tantrums.  Now I've done the Toddler Calm training, I've read the books, I've researched child psychology so I'm fairly comfortable with the why's and what's of tantrums and I know the text book responses I should give - and why doing so is of crucial importance.  But, let's be honest, when you are tired and/or busy (which some weeks feels like always) or you just want to take some time out for yourself (I know, I'm a selfish, selfish parent), it doesn't matter how justified the tantrum is, it's just draining.  What's more, I'm fairly convinced he saves up tantrums just for me - and no, don't try and convince me that's because of Trouble Monkey and I have such a close bond as I'm not buying that argument for a second. 

Anyway, as a parent on the cusp of "real tantrums" this provides some lovely light relief...

http://jasongood.net/365/2012/12/46-reasons-why-my-three-year-old-might-be-freaking-out/

46 Reasons My Three Year Old Might be Freaking Out

December 13, 2012

Some of these are total guesses. Educated guesses, but guesses nonetheless. Seems like it’s hard being a kid:

His sock is on wrong.
His lip tastes salty.
His shirt has a tag on it.
The car seat is weird.
He’s hungry, but can’t remember the word “hungry.”
Someone touched his knee.
He’s not allowed in the oven.
I picked out the wrong pants.
His brother looked at him.
His brother didn’t look at him.
His hair is heavy.
We don’t understand what he said.
He doesn’t want to get out of the car.
He wants to get out of the car by himself.
The iPad has a password.
His sleeve is touching his thumb.
He doesn’t understand how popsicles are made.
The inside of his nose stinks.
Chicken is gross.
A balloon he got six months ago is missing.
A puzzle piece won’t fit in upside down.
I gave him the wrong blue crayon.
The gummi vitamin is too firm.
Netflix is slow.
He jumped off the sofa and we weren’t watching.
He’s not allowed to touch fire.
Everything is wrong with his coat.
There’s a dog within a 70 mile radius.
A shoe should fit either foot.
I asked him a question.
His brother is talking.
He can’t lift a pumpkin.
He can’t have my keys.
The cat is in his way.
The cat won’t let him touch its eyeball.
The inside of his cheek feels rough.
Things take too long to cook.
He has too much food in his mouth.
He sneezed.
He doesn’t know how to type.
The DustBuster is going to eat him.
His mom is taking a shower.
Someone knocked over his tower.
He got powdered sugar on his pants.
The yogurt won’t stay on his spoon.
EVERYTHING IS TOO HOT.

A follow up article to this was posted in the Huffington Post in February: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/02/27/tantrums-toddlers_n_2774399.html#slide=901733.  Not the best article I've ever read (yes, yes I know I'm not really somebody to talk) but I do love the Cave man analogy and think I may well take to calling Little Man "Little Cave Man" in future.

Short back and sides

From babysitting dramas to something far lighter, going through photos with Mark’s mum earlier today we stumbled across those of Alby at his first hair cut…

When Mark came home for his two week R&R half-way through his tour he commented on how long Alby’s hair was.  Actually, not so much commented but complained.  With a long enough list of Alby care requirements already to attend to I decide to ignore these complaints wholeheartedly and with the exception of a few snips of his fringe so he could see, when Mark’s tour finished Alby was dangerously close to fashioning a mullet.  

As a respectable Officer of Her Majesty’s Forces and showing his private school up-bringing through and through, Mark marched Alby down to the local hairdressers for a clean up.  

The whole event was planned with military precision – first Mark took Alby to his weekly swimming lesson so as to knacker the little man.  From there, armed with a selection of his favourite snacks, toys and books they went to the salon.

 

As it turned out, Alby was far more accepting of the whole experience than we’d imagined he’d be.  He sat patiently and still throughout whilst Mark clicked away with the camera and the junior stylist snipped away at his golden locks. 

Random Ramblings: The babysitting saga

It took me 15 months before I found somebody other than Alby’s grandparents or odd-ma to take care of him.  Up until then, with the exception of one hen party and two weddings, all other Alby minding had focused on childcare whilst I was at work.  Unbeknownst to my pre-baby self finding a local babysitter presented a huge challenge to me, one that involved hours of internal discussion and soul searching.

It took two fairly powerful forces to clash before I was able to take the plunge – an immovable work event taking place one Saturday presenting an ever closer deadline and my guilt / responsibility fueled inability to ask the grandparents to once again stop their lives and drive to Yorkshire.

As it turns out, getting Shannon to give up her Saturday to spend 10 hours with Alby was no trouble at all.  A quick, nervous enquiry to the head of Alby’s nursery led me into the Baby Room and five minutes later the deal was done. Shannon cared for Alby every day during the week at that time, has childcare and first aid qualifications, charged a reasonable rate and was more than happy to spend yet more time with Trouble Monkey. What’s more, she loves Percy.

Two months later Shannon has moved onto pastures new taking up a fantastic job opportunity, but not before setting me up with her best friend who also works in the nursery.  Whilst Natasha wasn’t in the same room as Alby, she often rotated rooms and so was familiar with my little bundle of craziness as was he with her.  Again, I cannot stress enough how wonderful it was leaving Alby with a professional child carer.  A truth highlighted last month when we left both Alby and his friend with Natasha, and despite both children running us ragged all day, she had them asleep in their own beds by 8pm.

Rewind back to last weekend though and it was like the past five months hadn’t happened at all.  In light of some personal stuff, Natasha is also moving on and with the news I, somewhat selfishly considering all the mess Natasha has had to deal with, went into a spiral of panic wondering who in the world I would get to babysit for us next month.  To provide a little bit of context, next month is the Regiment’s Summer Ball.  It’s the biggest party of the year and we have four friends coming with us.  Four friends who come with two babies.  And so, I’m not just finding somebody to care for Alby but for two of his buddies – whoever I choose I give my seal of approval too.  Natasha recommended a couple of friends of hers but in light of them not knowing me, not knowing Alby, not having any childcare qualifications and me being a somewhat crazy lady when it comes to by first born, I rejected both and instead prattled away to Mark for hours about why neither was suitable.

And then, like a bolt of lightening a brain wave hit me.  One of Alby’s first carers in the nursery is, because of work visa issues, having to take a forced sabbatical from the nursery.  Whilst Nelly doesn’t officially do babysitting, in light of me loving her I took a cheeky gamble and asked the nursery to pass a message onto her.  It was presumptuous, laced with bribery and overly polite.  Happy happy days, my cheek had paid off and Nelly texted me today to confirm she would do the job.  Honestly, I’m deliriously happy.  Nelly is a big smiley personality, a miracle worker with babies and was even clever enough to call my son gorgeous when confirming her availability.

I know that Nelly helping out on this occasion is no guarantee that she will help out in future.  And one day we will move from Yorkshire and the whole thing will start again.  Discussing the whole thing with my mum at the weekend I was struck by how vividly she remembers the burden of responsibility and guilt that came with finding babysitters for us.  It’s odd I suppose, cuddling a newborn didn’t make me feel like a parent or anymore grown up than I was as a teenager, but it’s the little tasks like this which press on you the responsibilities which come with the little, scrawny, pink, crying bundle they put in your arms on the delivery ward.

Mummy fail #589

One of the best parenting books I’ve bought is the Mum’s net guide to Toddlers.  Now, having read intensively in this area I feel it is fair of me to say that the majority of parenting books follow a similar pattern: down trodden mother receives a dose of self-imposed tough love and comes up with a number of random tools and tricks which turned their troublesome baby into an angel overnight.  Now, on a mission to save all other new mums from the horrors of parenthood they have chosen to publish their very sound, advice.  The main skill I find with a number of authors is not so much in their parenting but how they manage to balance a tone which managed to be simultaneously self-deprecating and patronizing.

Anyway, the Mum’s net guide is a totally different kettle of fish.  As with all books it covers the same main problem areas -sleeping, eating, discipline, health… but rather than giving a ten-step programme or to do list, it just shares the random stories and experiences of all those who use the message boards.  And the genius in that is that it makes you feel normal.  In fact, I’d go as far to say that on many occasion I’ve felt like a pretty good mum after reading some of the entries.

Today however, and this is where the mummy fail comes in, I’m afraid I was one of the bad mothers.  In the past when Alby has scoffed at his dinner or only eaten half a yoghurt pot, I take comfort in the fact that at least that’s more than the lady whose child ate two dry ice cream cones for breakfast.  Or the lady whose daughter had half a kit kat for dinner and nothing else.

To my shame, today I join these ladies as this evening my son’s dinner consisted of…

…a stick of cheese and four cocktail sausages.

Wow – I didn’t think it could happen, but writing it down makes it all the worse. And what’s worse (yes it does get worse) is that this wasn’t the result of me offering him a range of other delicious treats.  Nope.  We were in town doing errands, I lost track of time and just grabbed from Marks and Spencer's a few things I thought he’d eat. 

Yes yes, I hang my head in shame.  I’d like to pretend tomorrow will be better but you know what, who can say?!

Stronger together

I joined a choir recently.  It wasn’t something I was necessarily after dong but some of the other ladies on my patch encouraged me to get involved and with Mark now home my excuses had run out.  In all honesty, a part of me is really enjoying it.  It’s run by a very friendly brunch of people and the choir is super busy so plenty of opportunities to perform to an audience if that’s what I’m after (but also to hide in the shadows if that suits me better).  The one hassle with it is that I loose an evening every week for rehearsals, which I’m still having to adjust to.  Soon though I’m sure my regular trips down the road to practice will start to become second nature.

Anyway, my joining the choir isn’t really what I want to be sharing, instead it’s one of the songs which just gets me every time.  The song is called Stronger Together and I think the chorus is just lovely.  It’s no secret to say that Mark’s return home has, on occasion, totally thrown me.  The closest way I can come to explaining it is when a friend asked me recently if I was thinking about having a second child, even I was a bit surprised by how honest my response felt; having Mark home is like having another child. That’s not in anyway to suggest that my husband is juvenile (although, obviously he does have his moments) but more that’s how much it has shaken up my life.  And in just the same way as you completely adore a new baby and are just filled with joy at having them in your life, there is a big adjustment period as you get to know each other. 

But Mark and I aren’t starting from scratch.  And as the song says, despite the learning curve of recent weeks, we are stronger together. 

And so, the chorus so you know what I’m waffling on about:

Together we are stronger, we can overcome

We can walk this road together, we can stand as one

And now nothing can divide us we are stronger together.

Together we below, together we are strong.

Just lovely.

Holiday memories

I am currently trapped in the guest room whilst Mark puts Alby to bed. It’s the first time Mark’s done this solo for a good few weeks now and whilst I have total confidence in them both seeing as Alby has already checked the house twice to find me, I’m not moving until I know he’s asleep. The upside of this trapping is that it gives a perfect opportunity to update the blog.

I’ve just been going through a load of photos of Trouble Monkey from our recent holiday. I could provide you with a photo gallery made up of all the holiday snaps giving a day by day account of where we went and which street we walked along, but even I don’t have the motivation to do that. So instead, I just want to highlight two Alby magic moments during our week away.

Sandcastles

There is a sandpit at Alby’s nursery and, in celebration of the recent sunshine England has been blessed with, he has spent many an hour at nursery smacking the sand with a spade, flinging it over friends and burying his hands in it. With access to a sandpit every day I didn't think he would be all that bothered about sandcastles on the beach. I was wrong.

It seems that I failed to pay attention in sandcastle building school but Mark was quick to explain the basics of a perfect sandcastle - dig deep and heavily pack the sand. Whilst I'm better at sitting in the sand than sculpting it, Alby found that his niche lay in providing the penultimate magic three taps before the sandcastle was finally revealed.

The first time a sandcastle was revealed Alby spontaneously burst into a happy dance so extreme that he lost the ability to stand and collapsed backwards into the sand. Five sandcastles on and he was just as impressed - arms flapping, legs stamping and a minor dose of hyperventilating to boot.

Water fountains

The south of France loves a good water fountain. They were everywhere - in market squares, down little back streets and even adding a bit of splendour on every other roundabout. And Alby wanted to touch every single one. I've always known he was a water babe but I hadn't appreciated that his love of water extended so far as to include slightly dodgy smelling water dripping from a jagged edged, rusty pipe. Ahh well, I guess I should just be pleased with the fact that 19 months on and he's still immune to discrimination.

The fountain at the campsite had four different spouts. Obviously it was located in a central place meaning we'd pass it several times a day and obviously Alby had to not only touch it every time, but dangle his hand under every spout. And yes, every time the hand would go straight in the mouth. I'm seriously considering putting Alby forward for scientific research as he seems to have some type of super immune system.

The roundabout fountains proved a particular challenge to Mark and I are we juggled an overexcited Alby who alternated between throwing himself off the pavement in an attempt to get across the road to throwing himself onto the floor and bursting into tears each time we saved him from on coming traffic.

The pinnacle of the fountain loving occurred in the beautiful town Pezanes where we discovered a floor water fountain. Alby simply did not know what to do with himself. Torn between stamping on the water jets, bashing them with his hands or head butting them he essentially settled on doing all three. No doubt the highlight of his holiday and certainly, combined with the sandcastles, the highlight of ours.

Keeping motivated

If April wasn’t a great month for this blog, May was truly terrible.  Following two weeks away I arrived home late last night filled with not just determination but a comforting pile of motivation to get back into blogging. Truth be told, that same motivation was also eager to see itself succeed in household chores, productivity at work, managing finances and getting back into shape – ahh it’s impressive what the mind dreams up in the small hours of the morning.

Sadly, if not somewhat inevitably, my usual Monday zeal has been undercut somewhat by the fact I only managed to get five hours sleep last night.  As such, my day has been spent in the surreal delusional state where I feel perfectly awake but can’t actually put my mind to anything.  I stare around me at all the jobs that need doing, take each one in, dwell on it for a moment and then move on to staring at the next job.  Last night I imagined myself sitting here writing away filled with the type of writing prowess Shakespeare wouldn’t have been a stranger too.  As it is, I’m zonked.  I got no funny.  I got no drama.  I’ve just got a keyboard and me. 

My boys are as shattered as me. You’d think a long journey last night and running around nursery like a crazy for hours would ensure Trouble Monkey crashed out early tonight, apparently not.  True to his name, trouble came thick and late in the Beebe household this evening with Alby not crashing out until the wrong side of 9:30 when I finally gave up on the cuddles, lullabies, projector, books and bottle and stuck him in his pushchair.  There is nothing like a crying baby to really help you feel like a failure of a parent.  The silver lining of this bad bedtime episode however is that this time I got to go through it with my love love; a trouble shared is a trouble halved. I don’t know how I coped without him.

My motivation hasn’t quite stretched to make this blog post all that I had wanted it to be – a return with a bang accompanied by many a story of the adventures I’ve been getting up to with my boys. However, focusing on the positive, I’ve at least managed to get a post published and considering my blog drought of recent weeks, that’s going to have to be good enough for today.   

With sleepy love from me and my monkey