A babbling Georgie Georgie

Over the past few weeks George has found his voice. He started with the occasional "mumumum" which came out when he was sad and hungry. And then he worked out "dada" and was so delighted with the reaction he got from Alby and me "silly Georgie, daddy's at work", that he has continued to say it. Sometimes non stop for ten minutes. Sometimes non stop for thirty minutes. Obviously as the one who has given up work to devote all my time with him I am thrilled.

When he was first learning to make the sound he had to really think about it, you could see him working his mouth trying to get his tongue and jaw around the sound. It was like he was chomping out the sound. Too cute. Too funny.

"Dadadadada" is his favourite but we're also getting the random "bababa", "yayayaya", "pp" and "hiya". At really chatty times you get the occasional squeal and squeak too much to mine and Alby's amusement.

One of the hard things with an Albug around is that George often gets shouted down. Albs hasn't quite worked out that you have to let Georgie speak and then echo back the sounds, despite me constantly trying to teach him. He gets too excited laughing at Georgie and shouting back "Dada's at work Georgie, Dada's at work." Poor George. And poor working daddy.

What I love most is that George will stay quiet for hours, for almost the whole day and then we take him for the evening dog walk or get him in the bath and he just doesn't shut up. As Albs would say "he's just so hilarious."

For the past two days as well as all the random noises George has started blowing raspberries again. Lordy knows why. Similar to talking he can do it for twenty minutes straight. We've put it down to teething, making a far fetched claim it must help with his gums in an effort to hide the real truth: we've got ourselves another cheeky one. And I love him to bits.

A new Christmas tradition

I have a memory from when I was about six or seven of my mum driving me through a blizzard to get to the theatre for us to watch The Nutcracker. Or maybe it was Swan Lake. Truth be told I don't remember the ballet itself at all. My memory is of my mum being a bit scared of the weather but carrying on anyway and of me being amazed that she was doing this for me. I remember thinking  'why hasn't she given up?' This is one of the many many examples of how impressive my mum is. And also explains my own grit, determination and sometimes downright ridiculous decision making at times.

We were never silly enough to drive through another blizzard but my parents did ensure dance was a part of my childhood even after I'd outgrown my tutu and hung up the ballet shoes for good. For the past decade however, my exposure to ballet has been limited to cheesy films of ballerinas joining up with street dancers (yes, they are as bad as they sound). That is until today. The day Alby and I went to see our first proper ballet at the local theatre.

Yes we did go and see 'dogs don't do ballet' in Winchester last year but as it was based on a children's book about a ballet loving dog and performed by teenagers I've decided it doesn't really count.

Waiting for the show to start

Today we watched the Snow Queen. And despite having a fidgety, whispering, tired four year old next to me, despite my view being blocked every now and then from Alby sitting in my lap and despite having to answer his questions I spent the whole performance with a smile on my face. A smile made all broader each time Trouble Monkey sat upright, gripped the arms of his seat and stared transfixed at the stage (opening scene with the Snow Quuen breaking the looking glass, when Kay gets the glass in his eye and turns punchy, when the Snow Quuen puts Kay under her spell, when  Gerda meets the witch and finally - spoiler alert, when the Snow Quuen gets killed. Oh and the scene with the Pirates too. I don't think they really were pirates but trying to whisper an explanation of what gypsies are was beyond me.)

Albug got into all the clapping after each dance. The very first time we clapped, after the very first scene he looked up at me confused and asked "is it over?" making the row in front laugh. Hee hee. Sorry chap, we've got another 90minutes to go.

I loved it. It wasn't the national ballet, the Royal ballet or Sadlers Wells but it was well done, it was simple happy making. I had a date with my little man, we have already agreed to repeat next year and once Georgie is old enough to join us we will make it a family outing. Yay.

Whilst Trouble Monkey and I had our first date of the year George had his own first in the evening - he crawled into the downstairs restroom, found a bar of soap and tried eating it. Cue a very upset, soap-scented baby desperately sucking on his sippy cup for the next ten minutes. Think we'll dodge making this one a tradition too.

George's wonder week

We've had a bit of a wow week this week from the goblin. I guess in some ways I should have been prepared for it. George is seven months old and spends his time split between two activities : crawling and pulling himself up on things. He's not yet moved onto cruising, though to be fair he had a good go at moving up and down the ledge at soft play today, but that hasn't stopped him from filling this week with firsts.
On Monday he started waving. It's still a bit sporadic but walk into the room and give him a big hello and you will more often than not be greeted with a flapping arm from the smiling boy. A woman flaps her arms any she gets told off for being in a tizz, a baby does it and we jump up and down in celebration.
On Wednesday he cut his first tooth. Bottom front left. I'd said to Mark and few days earlier when George was being particularly grizzly (for him) that we should no doubt expect a tooth in a few weeks time. Well I was almost right, just got my time management wrong, which won't surprise anyone who knows me well.
On Thursday George started clapping - sort off. He had two toys from his shape sorter in his hand and was banging them together wildly and looked pleased as punch with himself. Alby and I held a bit of conference, decided it was clapping and so begun another round of George praise.
And if clapping wasn't enough, to top off a busy week, Thursday also marks the day he started saying "da da". Or more precisely "da da da da da da da da da da". He came out with "mumumum" twice about ten days ago but never again. Da da meanwhile was said non stop for a whole afternoon and has been repeated at least a hundred times since. On Saturday morning we got a "p p p" from him too. Percy bullhound is no doubt thrilled.
All this growing does come at a cost. The little goblin is currently sleeping in my arms having woken, screaming, 45 minutes after his previous crying episode. I wouldn't describe him as s big crier but he is definitely louder than I remember Alby bring and it seems to come from nowhere which is particularly unpleasant when it happens in the middle of the night waking you up in a confused panic trying to work out who is being tortured (George claims its him but his two sleep robbed parents have chosen to interpret things slightly differently). The cries are horrible but as I sit here with my babe in my arms I can't help feeling a little smug. There are few things so wonderful as being able to rock your baby to sleep, few things that feel so good as being able to all a crying child. To know that your love helped chase away the tears. The screams are horrible but thankfully parenting us never a one way street and in our home, thank god, I'm pretty sure the smiles and huggles outweigh the screams and tears.

Colour blind no more

I remember an anti-racism poster when I was younger which featured a row of babies of all different ethnicities lying together and the caption suggesting that it was only amongst these tiny babies that colour blindness really exists.
The advert obviously resonated with me and whilst I hope never to be seen or thought of as a racist In any way, shape or form, I won't claim that I don't see colour. The society I grew up in, albeit cosmopolitan and international was still one where the colour of your skin was an identifier.
I've often looked at Alby over the past few years with admiration for how lovely it must be to be truly colour blind. To refer to people by how fast they run, how many dragons they can fight, how polite they are or how quickly they eat rather than turning to skin colour to describe a friend. (I won't pretend Alby's rural English nursery offers the variety of backgrounds found in London but it's not a total sea of white thank goodness.)
But now those days are gone. For the past few days Alby has made random comments about the colour of people's skin. No embarrassing stories to report of inappropriate comments in the supermarket or anything but a few words here of there that show my little man is no longer as innocent as the babies in the poster.  "Our cousins have the same skin colour as us."  "Why in the olden days were all English people white?"
Obviously having studied anthropology at university I am well equipped to tackle such questions and statements perfectly! Yeah right. Sadly I stumble through my answers most of the time wishing that my words will return me to a racially blind bliss and fearing that in some unintended way they will actually do the opposite (who knows where a conversation with a toddler will take you). Whatever the outcome will be it turns out that by 4 years old you no longer qualify for the poster. Maybe I should be impressed. Perhaps  two hundred years ago not even those poster babies would have been coloured blind. I don't know. But I can't say I'm not a little saddened that the innocence on that one has started to go. I know I can't turn back time but how I wish I could, for all of us on this one.

Four years of The Bug

Yesterday my little man turned four. Gone are the days of being "three and three quarters" he is now four and bloomin' proud of it. Bless him and his cotton socks. Or more accurately bless him and his bare feet.
He's had a good birthday and it's not over with yet. The celebrations started on Friday with the Halloween party at nursery. On his actual birthday he woke to a house of decorations, Frosties for breakfast (something he's been looking forward to since August) and a good selection of new toys (with prize for best gift going to Auntie Katie for her formula one remote controlled car). The morning dog walk past Tesco included a free face painting (green monster) and then he headed off with daddy to a friend's party. Next stop a quick costume change and out for his first ever trick or treating outing where our neighbours did us good. Plenty of pumpkins and fellow trick or treaters out and about reminding us we do live in a community and a friendly community at that. Conscious of how quickly his bucket filled up with sweets we had to bypass a number of houses for fear of ending up with two years worth of lollipops and candies.
Back home to bed and more celebrations today with Alby's grandparents coming over for Sunday lunch (fish pie at Alby's request) and a misty walk up the hill. As it turns out being four is really hard work and the little man crashed out on the sofa after lunch only being roused by promise of birthday ice cream - soft scoop vanilla in a cone with smarties and a candle in the middle.
Alby went in the back pouch for the first part of the walk and I carried him. It's been a long time since I last carried him for that long and up hill and my goodness he has grown. My thighs were killing. Thankfully his legs had energy again for the flat and downhill parts and once a suitable stick was found the ninja boy was off and away.
Next week we've got his birthday party and so the fun continues as it should do - he's an awesome little fella. Yes he has his moments but they are usually down to my mummy fails than him (a hard truth but a truth nonetheless and something I need to remember each day). He is a good kid, a great kid,  and celebrating the moment that the world changed from not having Alby in it to having Alby in it seems obvious. I love him. All four years of him.

Happy birthday my Halloween hug bubble

Let the record show I do not approve

George started crawling when he was five months and one week old. First we had rolling and I was fine with that. Soon after he worked out how to get onto all fours and again I was okay with that. But then he started moving. He'd rock and stretch and lose balance a topple and squirm but slowly he started moving forwards. Then the muscles got stronger and the coordination improved. Unlike Alby he never went backwards instead he's come up with this bunny hop technique with his legs propelling him forwards when he gets tired. He hasn't totally mastered it yet and the effort can wear him out but he' reached the six month milestone having learnt to crawl before he could properly sit up and I do not approve.

And then on Thursday, the day he turned six months, I disapproved some more when he mastered sitting up unaided. I remember sitting a lot with Alby helping him to get his balance in those early months so he wouldn't just face plant but I can't claim the same memories with George. He's basically sorted it out himself. He worked out how to tuck his legs under him and push back when crawling to get into the sitting position and over the past week has become increasingly upright so now he sits fine. And I do not approve.

I went to a wedding yesterday where there was a little girl two weeks older than George who can't sit at all let alone crawl. That I fully approve of. Time moves too quickly anyway without George rushing it along little goblin.

Of course we've had a good number of accidents with this early learning silliness. In the past week he crawled off the bed (my bad really for leaving Alby to supervise for the two minutes I turned my back on them both) he rolled against a hot pipe and burnt his skin, he got trapped under the bunk beds, the tv unit and his swing seat and has banged his head in every possible corner in the house. I guess I should claim a silver lining in the fact that all the bumps give me extra cuddle time but I'm afraid I'm too busy disapproving.

A spoonful of Alby...

Mary Poppins called for a spoonful of sugar, for others it's all about chicken soup for the soul. To get a smile on my face I just need a little time with my boys.

There's Percy with his down ears, wagging stump, play bows and random bashy paw. He is so cute it's no wonder we were stopped by an artist the other day who wanted him as her model (I obviously said yes).
There's Mark who knows how to enjoy every day and how to be nice to those around him better than anyone else I know. Mark, who finds himself the funniest man around, especially today it would seem when he laughed at his own hilarity about ten times in just a few hours.

And then there's the little ones.

George my cute, adorable,cheeky little baby whose face lights up when he smiles. George who just this week learnt how to sit up unaided (rather then toppling to the side or showing off his yoga moves getting head to floor with legs outstretched).  Who can now crawl all around the house and who is as pleased as punch with himself for such even with the occasional bunny hops or topples thrown in.  George who had his first taste of solids on Thursday (apple slices) followed promptly with baby rice making a mess I had forgotten was possible.

And finally Alby. My daily (sometimes hourly) spoonful of sugar.

Alby was watching a film the other day and came away from it with the saying "you mess with him, you mess with me." Not very cute or funny when spoken out loud by me but have an almost four year old say it whilst gesticulating wildly with both hands and you discover your day is now complete.
Alby who learnt that in America they call 'Autumn' 'fall' because that's when the leaves fall and who responded with "yes, and they don't call it golf in America they call it molf. No. No actually mummy they call it hitter". Alby who is very excited about his upcoming "formally one" party but hopes all the children understand that it will be very loud as racing cars are very loud. Alby who loves to sing / scream along to the most cheesiest of Disney songs in the car with me and then concludes by saying "we're very clever aren't we mummy."  Yes Alby, yes we are.

Educating Alby

Educating Alby at the Hawk Conservancy

The two most overused words in the English language, in my humble opinion, are “it’s complicated”.  These two innocent little words get banded about by adults all the time as an excuse not to get things done or not to have to explain themselves.  “It’s complicated” isn’t an answer to anything – it’s a get out of jail card to cover the fact that the individual is either stupid or lazy. 

So deep is my frustration of this term that I make a conscious effort not to use it in any of my conversations, especially those with Alby. 

Let’s not go pretending that this decision has in anyway made life easy for me.  It’s led to some very interesting questions about religion:  “why didn’t God just put everyone in prison [instead of flooding the earth]?”  And some interesting conclusions too: “I’m going to have my birthday party at Stonehenge and share a birthday cake with the God of the Sun.  But the Sun will be too hot so it has to stay in the sky and can’t have a balloon.”  And it hasn’t always had the result I’ve been after.  I’ve recently been talking to Alby about where his food comes from in hope that my vegetarian diet may rub off on him.  He is clearly is father’s son however as he informed me yesterday that “my favourite food is killed pig because I love ham and that’s killed pig.”  For anybody questioning my profession, no I am not a teacher and I think we can all see why.

Alby and mummy head to head (with ice cream - good brain food)

Every now and then however the extra time to tackle any question reaps its rewards.  Like when Alby walks into the kitchen to announce “gravity is a force on the earth that you can’t see that stops us from floating away” (although his Isaac Newton role play with Grandad still needs a bit of work with Alby messing up his line “Eureka! Gravity” and instead pointing at Brooks whilst shouting “Your gravity”.)  Or more simply when he understand the importance of recycling and not wasting food or water, not filling up on junk food or Mark’s favourite, when he chants “you’ve got to tidy as you go” every time we cook together (a lesson I have yet to learn).

Yes sometimes the request of “let’s talk about prison” or “let’s talk about war” can be tiring.  But he listens, he’s interested, he engages and soon we’ll manage to shift his attention onto another topic. 

Not quite genius material just yet!

And then there are those times when regardless of how much time and effort you have put in to explain a topic you get thwacked in the face with the reality that you are dealing with a mind that is still very much a work in progress.  That the brain isn’t complete yet, that the pathways aren’t all developed and that logic doesn’t come into play for another year or so.

It’s these times when I realise that no matter how much time I put aside educating Alby isn’t always a success.  Those days when he tells me that I’m wrong and Everest isn’t actually tall.  Or when he tells me that giants are taller than Everest.  Or that Everest is the second biggest mountain in the world.  Beverst is the tallest.

On other days he’ll tell me all about Lewison Hamilton and Bastian Vettell having a Formally One race (he’s close to the proper answer on these ones) and then goes completely off track with talk of Benson Button and his twin brother Menson Button in their space car that’s faster than a concord because it can go at twenty-one two which is the biggest number.

Ah well, at least educating Alby isn’t complicated.  Ridiculous, frustrating, hilarious and exhausting?  Yes.  But complicated – nah. 

And when Alby starts educating George?  Well, that's when the fun will really begin, 

See the little Goblin…

See his little feet.  See his little nosey wosey, isn’t the Goblin sweet?

Goblin!

Earlier this week Mark renamed George as Goblin.  At four months he is this cute, smiling, gabbling, shrieking, head wobbling, rolling, grumbling goblin. He’s not quite as big as Alby was at this age but he has acquired a big Buddha belly and plenty of fat rolls along his legs and arms.  He smiles with his whole face, his chin touching his chest when he is at his most happy. He is a goblin. 

He started rolling over a few weeks ago (Monday 20 July at the soft play to be exact).  In typical baby fashion it happened when I wasn't looking and wasn't repeated for another few days but now he can’t stop himself.  Also in typical baby style he hasn't learnt to roll back yet so keeps getting stuck, getting tired and then starts shouting until he is rescued. Normally by Mark or myself but let’s not pretend that big brother hasn't offered his help on occasions, such as earlier this morning when I walking into the living room to find Goblin lying on top of Albug.  That is absolutely not how I left him!

Why stay on your mat when you can roll off and end up with handfuls and mouthfuls of grass?

I do find it quite ridiculous – you put George on the floor and he almost instantly rolls.  To begin with he's happy, unhooks his arm, looks around and sometimes even manages to squirm about a bit by kicking his legs.  And then he gets tired and starts shouting and you save him by rolling him back and before you've stood up he has rolled again and is having a good shout.  It takes 80 repetitions to teach a bulldog a new trick but goblin is making Percy looks positively genius with his refusal to learn not to roll over if it’s only going to make you shout.

I haven’t got round to videoing our little chat sessions yet but I really must as they make me smile so much.  He’s like a little monkey as he oohs and tries to mimic your facial expressions and make new sounds.  Alby loves it when George talks, giggling madly and running over asking “what are you talking about Chatty McChatsterble?” He often becomes a bit over excited, getting right in George’s face but bless him, the little fella doesn't seem to mind and there are times every day when I'm so grateful for having Alby to help teach and entertain George: today I needed to finish unpacking from out holiday and had George propped up on the pillows on the bed hoping he wouldn't get too bored too quickly.  In comes Alby who then does various forward rolls / random throwing himself from one corner of the bed to the other and George was mesmerised.  He sat there for a good fifteen minutes dribbling down his stomach, head moving from one side of the bed to the other as he tracked his crazy brother around.

The best thing about little Goblin is Goblin with daddy.  Mark missed out on loads during the early months with Alby. Playtimes were often cut short by him having to pack or unpack and it interrupted things.  Seeing Daddy with his Goblin makes my heart smile.  And there’s something really lovely that I actually find myself missing George during the day because he’s spending so much time with daddy.  

Snuggled in and fast asleep

I always wanted us to be equal parents and the summer holidays give Daddy the chance to really be there with his boys and the pay off is immediate – not always with Alby who becomes a little bugger at times when he is tired (being three can be hard) but Goblin is easy and all love.  And Mark gets to be involved in all sorts of George firsts that I'm not always sure he did with Albs, like yesterday when he sorted Goblin out for a doorway bounce (and dribble). 

First bounce

You'll never hear me say that being a mother is easy.  Being a good wife isn't always easy either.  (And I'm sure being a daddy and a husband is just as hard) but I wouldn't swap my Bug, my Goblin and my Love Love for anything.  Just look at them all; their so sweet.

My goblins

Stabilisers are for sissies

For the past week the Beebe family has been praising the brilliance of balance bikes.  Well actually we’ve been praising their brilliance for the past 18 months.  Alby’s bike means he can keep up on every dog walk and it keeps him challenged and entertained – as witnessed last weekend at the Rundle Cup when Alby went kamikaze down the steep bank squealing for delight.

Just before George was born Alby broke the back wheel of his balance bike, Runner.  Mark stepped in with Daddy DIY and seven cable ties and a generous application of gorilla glue later the wheel was saved.  Realising that Alby cycles around 10 – 15 miles a week and that Runner, a £25 bike from Lidl, probably wouldn’t last much longer had us quickly searching through the internet for a replacement.  And a good job too as just a few weeks later a downhill race ended with Alby in a hedge, leaves in his hair, dirt on his shorts and a very sad expression on his face: “I was just looking backwards to see you and I went crash.”

I think it is fair to say that Alby regarded Runner as a true friend.  When we first discussed the idea of getting a replacement balance bike he started crying, Runner was just too important.  Thankfully he’s a resilient young chap and his new balance bike (which, showing an untypical lack of imagination for Alby, he has called Runner) has been warmly welcomed – helped no doubt by the existence of a stand “just like motorbikes have”.

And then, Mark’s assistant at work came in the other day with a pedal bike with stabilisers her children and have grown out of in case Alby wants it. And yes he does!  It’s red and has “Fire Chief” written across it which makes it super cool with or without pedals.  And so we tried him on it and he struggled. It’s heavy and turning was really difficult and he got frustrated.  So Mark took the stabilisers off and the boy is a natural. He needs the tiniest bit of help getting started and then there’s no stopping him.  I’ll say it again, balance bikes are brilliant.  No way would he be able to do this without all the practice he’s had on Runner. 

And obviously I’m just swelling with pride for my awesome little man.  Love him to pieces. 

And for the record, Alby is thrilled with himself too.  Every time he sees the stabilisers in the back garden he says "I don't need those mummy.  I don't need stabilisers.  I don't need them."

Twelve weeks

In just a few hours time George will have been on this earth for twelve whole weeks. I can't believe it. With every passing week this loud shrieky siren goes off in my head blasting me with the news: "X WEEKS, X WEEKS, X WEEKS".
It's such a terrifying sound I'm can only guess that it's trying to shock me into a state of suspended animation, something it is sadly failing to do.

Already I feel like George isn't a little baby anymore. He wears proper clothes (though not much this week as the current heat wave is ensuring plenty of naked time for my smooth bottomed lad). He has doubled in size (as proven by the health visitors scales). He can follow you with his eyes, has some control over his arms and legs and cannot stop stuffing his whole fist into his mouth (ahh teething how I've missed you).
George likes having little gurgling conversations where we mimic each other for a good twenty minutes or so a couple time each day. Sure we're not putting the world to rights or anything so grand but I mimic his gurgles and coos and we generally make noises at each other. After that he's bored of my chat and moves on to more feeding / sleeping / fist eating but there's something magical knowing these are my first conversations with my littlest fella. (And the quality isn't that far off my chats with Mark if Friday night's drunken fun is anything to go by.)
He's got better with his activity gym and will happily lie under it kicking the different dangling toys about. He's also started moving himself - nothing do dramatic as rolling but his legs are strong and he pushed himself about so whenever I leave him to put the kettle on / pop to the loo... he's always facing a different wag when I return.

I thought having two children would be tough and yes it is but the overwhelming feeling I've had for the past week or so is of pure, unadulterated joy. Obviously the arrival of summer, and what a glorious summer it is proving to be, has put an extra spring in my step. But as I break through the brain fog of the first three months I'm just feeling utterly blessed. George highlights how brilliant being a mum is. Sometimes the combination of work and toddler demands can skew ones perspective and having a new baby, having my priorities shift, having the space to focus so much on my family and being blessed with such a good family - and a little shout out for George here as I don't give him half as much credit as I should for his well behaved he is, has put a real smile on my face. For me this is true happiness and I feel very content and complete.

Time is movng far too fast but if that's my only complaint after twelve weeks then I think I must be one of the truely lucky ones out there.

Oh hello guilt

Eleven weeks today.  George has been with us for eleven weeks today. I won’t write down the profanities currently swirling around my head over the fact that my littlest fella has been on the planet for almost three whole months now but suffice to say that I’m baffled bewildered at how a whole eleven weeks have passed.

For George, the story so far has been one of sleeping, feeding, changing, little sick ups and being ferried about after his big brother.  Over the past two weeks the awake moments now include actual looking – following his black and white mobile which he seems to enjoy, tracking faces and turning towards noises (or away from them when it all gets too much). And we’ve got the smiles of course, the smiles that started as fleeting twitches of the face in the morning and are now big grins that can be found at all hours of the day. ­­­

Whether he knows it or not the story so far has also included being lied to on a daily basis by his mother.  Throughout the day I will, all too easily, shout out “mummy’s just coming George” or “don’t worry George I’ll be there in just a second” when such is absolutely not true. Based on the introduction I’ve given him so far I doubt if he’ll ever truly understand what honesty, time or time management really are. 

Such dishonest declarations are issued frequently every single day: I shout it in the front of the car when we’re off to collect Alby, when I’m cooking dinner and am desperate not to overcook the food for once, when I’m pulling duvet covers out of the washing machine, when I’m trying (for the love of God) to get Alby to put his shoes on so we can get out the door. 

Each lie is followed soon after with me doing my best headless chicken impression as I run to you clucking “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” but by then the damage is done.  The lie has been told and the feeling of utter abandonment by you is no doubt complete.

Ahh guilt – let’s not go pretending that you’ve been absent the past few years but oh boy do you like to let yourself be known in the early baby days.

Oh and let second time mothers know that hearing your baby cry is just as horrible, heart wrenching, stomach turning a sound as it was the first time round.  Even worse when the crying is caused by something stupid you did – bumping his tiny head as you weren’t paying total and utter attention getting him out of the car, splashing water on him as you do the dishes whilst bouncing up and down as he hangs from you in his sling or forgetting to lay a towel down on the cold changing mat so that when he lies naked on it the coldness startles him, his falling reflex overtakes him and he completely loses it. 

An absence of mummy fail titled blog posts should under no circumstance whatsoever be regarded as an absence of mummy fails around the house.  We’re eleven weeks in and I cried down the phone to the GP surgery after splashing him with my hot drink, have rearranged the bedroom after he rolled out of bed (who knew he’d managed to get enough body control to roll on a soft surface????) and I won’t go into some of the moments we’ve had in the car for fear of incriminating myself.  In summary, perfect mother I am not. But if you’re looking to pass a guilty verdict you’ll find me in the corner waving my white flag of surrender.

To keep things nice and fair it’s worth noting that George isn’t the only one that helps bring up this lovely emotion. When George is crying and Alby is trying to ask me something or tell me something and I just can’t cope with the double noise and end up responding to his speech about how a giant standing on Everest is the biggest thing in the whole wide world with “we just need to be quiet for a moment” said in my most firm voice, I use the following 6 seconds of silence to reacquaint myself with my old pal guilt.  It comes up again when I lose patience with Alby when he insists I take off his left shoe and start again because I did it the wrong way round, this time with the right foot. 

And I won’t even start on how neglected I’ve left poor Percy pooch.  How he hasn’t gone bald yet from lack of love baffles me.

Was I guilty of the same things with Alby when he was a baby?  I have no idea.  There was no other sibling then and for a large part, sad as it was, there was no daddy around either so I wasn’t having to juggle my little one around anyone else other than myself.  I take some comfort in the fact that if it wasn’t daily lies making me feel guilty it would probably have been something 

Unfinished business

There is a card sending love and joy in celebration of George's arrival on my bedside table. Another on the stairs. Another on the bar. They all need putting away.
The plants in my bedroom need watering.
I've successfully ironed around 30 shirts, trousers and tops today but Mark's uniform still needs doing and the ironing board and iron remain in position in the living room. Tomorrow morning they will symbolise optimism. By Friday they will be mocking me.
The dishwasher and washing machine were both loaded and turned on today. They need emptying. As does the tumble drier which has a load in it that was finished on Monday.
The mop has been standing in its bucket at the top of the stairs since Sunday. I finally emptied the bucket of old water yesterday. I was planning on putting it away today but no. By tomorrow we'll have reached the point that it needs to be used again. But I'm making no promises on when that will actually happen.
There are dresses hanging behind the study door intended for eBay. They'll make a lovely summer wardrobe for the lucky bidder but if I don't get move on the leaves are going to start falling from the trees once again and I'll have to put them away until the sun comes back next year by which time they'll be auctioned alongside all our moving house clearance items - get a summer halter neck and a cake stand in just one click!
I'm not going to touch on the rest of the study except to say that it resembles a teenager's bedroom - there is just stuff everywhere. I'm sure all of it has an easily reachable home but follow through is not my strong point these days.

For me this is what life with two trouble monkeys currently looks like. I've never been the best at finishing a job - that's Mark's strong point and I regularly wonder at hoe he doesn't lose it at my failure to complete (wonder and say a prayer of thanks). I'm more of an 80% girl - I'll do the most important part and then move on to something else rather than finishing something off completely. Or at least that's how I used to be. Now I think I'm more at the 50% mark, definitely creating more chaos each day than I'm clearing.
I've spent the last week or so a big confused as I'm sure things weren't like this with Alby. But then it dawned on me that last time I wasn't tidying around a 'fornally one' race or a dragon versus dinosaur war. I wasn't interrupted by questions on why people thought the world was flat (that's a can of worms I'm thrilled at having opened) or how people used to be monkeys and then they were people and next they will be kangaroos/dragons/Concorde jet planes. (Again, I'm equally delighted at having started conversations on evolution with a three year old. Clearly I'm not suited to this whole educating thing.) Three years ago jobs weren't stalled by having to fetch a glass of milk or get a snack, followed by opening every cupboard to reveal the foods we actually do have when asked to magic up a chicken pie or sausages with a moments notice.

And so as we celebrate George making it to nine weeks and doubling in size in the process we pause and give a nod of acknowledgement to all the unfinished business surrounding me (just in case people are starting to think that I hadn't noticed any of it). I know you're there. And I actually do care. A little bit. But you ain't going to get done any quicker any time soon.

A smiler at six weeks

Granted new born baby smiles are incredibly elusive requiring perfect timing and crazy hard work but George does smile. He celebrated his six week anniversary by giving me an enormous, gorgeous grim first thing in the morning. I have no idea what I did to deserve such a welcome to the day but Alby and I now spend a significant amount of time smiling and coo-I got like idiots (or more accurately in Alby's case pulling funny faces just multimeters from George's face) in hope of getting another smile. More often than not we fail completely but every now and then success. And so brilliant is it that it spurs us on to continue to crazy face ritual for the next few days.
Truth be told George finds his dreams far more enjoyable than my face - a pint proven by the fact that he often gives a huge smile when falling asleep but that I reckon that's pretty reasonable.
When George smiles in his sleep it is completely natural, going from a plain face to a beautiful smile. When he smiles when he is awake you get a totally different thing as he consciously tries to get his mouth in the correct shape in his attempt to imitate you. It starts with a crooked open mouth that slowly and briefly lifts at one side and then the other before the smile is finally found. I remember Alby doing the same but as newborn smiles are so scarce I have no idea if that's just some odd thing my boys do if it's what all little ones start with.
If you are really lucky you get a happy gurgle of coo along with the smile which presents itself as a special gift reserved for favourites.

Whilst George's smiles may be rare Alby continues to privude plenty of giggles every day. His new thing is to ask did giggles: "mummy where have the giggles gone?" until you tickle him and blow raspberries on his tummy. And then he begs for you to stop and so you do only for him to jump up and ask again and again where the giggles have got to stopping only when you finally pounce.

George's first botbot...

...and first sick up on daddy.

We've had a lovely day today. We went over to some friends of ours from Yorkshire days for lunch. They are another army family now living just twenty minutes away, she works for a charity and their youngest is just four weeks older than Alby ensuring lots of shared experiences and understanding regarding just about any conversation topic. George did his typical thing if sleeping for a large part of the day, feeding a fair amount and sharing a good few grizzles with us all too. That says I'm convinced we're starting to get the beginnings of smiles - just glimpses once or twice a day which albeit brief and half formed still make my heart beat faster.
We've got the starting a if a good routine going on. George is proving more of a dirty stop out than his brother and whilst Alby is generally asleep by 7.30pm (usually earlier) George prefers a 9.30pm bedtime, something I've taken a bit of time adjusting to considering that it robs me if what used to be my most productive time of the day in regards to any household chores. Anyway, once Alby is out did the night I put George in the bath - if he insists on being awake he might as well have the chance to kick about and wash off the dribble / wee / nappy rash cream... of the day. After bathtime comes a cuddle, a followed by a feed when he starts crying and then he's rocked to sleep in the genius Phil 'n' teds carry cot we bought (thank you eBay).
Tonight daddy did bathtime and to ensure a bit more daddy time I warned up the bottle that had been sitting in the fridge so father and son could do some more bonding. As with most things concerning the second child I wasn't quite organised enough (I'll start feeds without having grabbed a book for Alby, start nappy changes without water or a clean nappy - we're doing a lot of the cuff with baby number two). So realising that the first daddy bottle feed is quite the milestone when you are only 5 weeks old I ran off to find the camera and then ran off again to let Percy out. Coming back upstairs I learnt I missed everything when I heard Mark say, in a very relaxed, loving voice "shall we burp you know?" This was followed by a gurgling noise and Mark shouting "woah" as George then threw up all over Mark's leg. Being the supportive partner that I am I reacted by bursting into laughter. I love my husband, honest.
So a double milestone evening for Mark and George. And maybe I don't have a photo record of if but I'm still smiling at the whole drama - nothing like children to keep you grounded.

Four weeks of George

In typical parent cliche fashion I can't believe four weeks have passed already. Where the bloomin' heck did the time go?
Four weeks since the chaos of paramedics and the dining room feeling like a sauna and looking like a crime scene.
Four weeks of big brother cuddles, kisses and requests to hold "my baby brother".
Four weeks of laundry, nappies and missed household chores.
Four weeks of flowers, cards and showing off the little fella (as Alby has named him) to friends, family and colleagues.
Four weeks of being amazed by how much Alby's heart has grown, how besotted he is and how tolerant he can be - I can't imagine I would be so accepting of a crying baby during my bedtime stories.
Four weeks of feeding, changes, co-sleeping, rubbing my cheek against newborn soft skin, staring at his ever changing face and admiring new fat creases.
Four weeks of humming, mewing, squeaking, grizzling, grunting and crying.
Four weeks of guilt, guilt that comes with every cry or twofold with a distressed shriek. Guilt that I don't cuddle him as much as I cuddled Alby, that I haven't spent as much time staring at his face as I did with Alby, that I might be doing it all wrong.
Four weeks of near identical photos.
Four weeks of living in a blur.
Four weeks of love.

Hello George

On Wednesday life as we know it completely changed as we welcomed baby George into our lives. It's been three years since we had a newborn around. Last time the great challenges were negotiating broken sleep for the first time and worrying about whether or not staring at your newborn for seven hours a day was healthy love or dodgy obsession. This time we've got Al-bug to keep us on our toes. Our wonderful, demanding, cheeky, brilliant three year old who only last week was our cute little toddler.  Now, compared to George, is a loud, giant size ball of energy.
Juggling the hormonal changes of the last few days, trying to get through some of the jobs George's early arrival cut short, trying to get my head around the crazy story that was his birth and trying to remain a good mum to Alby and George, wife to Mark and owner to Percy has dented my newborn staring time somewhat but I'm pleased to report I'm still getting in a good quota of daily joys.
I love his noises. Alby used to him with every breath; I never had to worry about whether he was breathing or not as I could always hear it. George sometimes does that too - and is now as he sleeps on my chest. But he also squeaks his short, high pitched squeak which comes from nowhere and disappears instantly once or twice a day which always makes me smile.
I love how much he adores skin to skin. Face nuzzled into your chest, arm, tummy he likes to be as close up as possible.
I love his ugly bug ways. He has thick ears, a dimpled chin, long fingers and feet, skinny little arms and legs and a tongue that sometimes refuses to go in. I don't know where he gets these traits from. But he also has Alby's eyes and general look so that sometimes I feel like I'm calling him by the wrong name.
I love having him sleep on my chest. Alby used to love lying on my legs but with George it's as though he's pretending to still be in my belly.
I love how soft his hair and skin are. Who knew skin was made this soft? You can't stop admiring it.
I love how he tucks himself up. Knees bent, head nuzzle in, hands tucked up under his chin.
I love how the new born tucked up back bend that they do when you lift them out of a seat or off the floor. One big rigid curve.
I love how little he is. How calm he is. How gorgeous he is. Alby is one smitten big brother and I am one smitten mummy. Xx

My favourite sound

Mondays and Wednesdays are Alby and mummy days.  It’s no lie to say that I really appreciate having two whole days every week with my little man and that I’m fortunate enough to be able to work part time is something that I truly don’t take for granted.

When Mark comes home from work and asks about our day it’s often a case more of what haven’t we done than what have we done.  Today we took Percy for a walk, went to music class, visited the doctor’s, topped up on groceries at the supermarket, got the car washed, headed home to watch a film together, did some chores around the house, took Percy for a walk stopping at the pharmacy, library and post office along the way, came home for dinner, puzzles, stories and finally bed. 

Along the way we sang songs, told stories, talked about racing cars (a lot) discussed our plans for the rest of the week and shared snacks.  Let’s not go pretending that the day is a breeze with Alby and I in total harmony.  There were several mummy fails and toddler fails along the way as there always are (the first one today being when I had the audacity to turn off my bedroom light whilst Alby was in the toilet.  As he was quick to inform me, with much flailing of the arms and stomping of the legs, that is his job).   But there were also cuddles, giggles, kisses, silliness and giggles too.  Alby’s laughter nourishes the soul.  It keeps me smiling and I love him for the happiness that he has and the happiness that he shares.  

Alby at 3 years and 3 months

Conscious that I don’t write anywhere near as much as I’m used to I wanted to spend a little moment summing up Alby as a three year old.  Cos he’s a great little kid really, full of character and in ten years time when I’m dealing with a stroppy teenager I hope that I can look back on this and smile at the little boy who was.  And very possibly pick up on a number of things from now that already reveal the type of person he will grow up to be.

Alby’s vocabulary continues to grow at a crazy pace and he keeps coming out with things that make me laugh.  Today after baking fairy cakes I thanked Alby for his help to which he replied “it was my pleasure”.  I’ve never heard him say that before. 

Whilst two year old Alby appreciated a “good idea” nowadays ideas are more likely to be “great” or even “brilliant”.  Things are no longer big but rather “huge” or even “enormous”. 

Alby has a bit of an obsession over height.  He talks a lot about when he will be taller and how tall he will be.  In response I’ve become the clichéd adult begging him to enjoy being small and a child for as long as possible and not being so concerned about growing up already.  But despite my comments, being tall is still the ultimate prize.  And so from sticks to cutlery to pens to books we get the constant question “which one’s taller”?  Or, more frequently, the statement “my spoons bigger compared to yours” or “my sticks bigger compared to yours” (keeping the gender stereotypes alive and well here).  To Mark’s constant amusement Alby can’t actually say the word “compared” however and instead it comes out as “bedared to” and so our house is filled with chatter like “I’m taller bedared to little Milly” or “King’s bigger bedared to Lightening McQueen”. 

And when I say the house is filled with chatter I’m not joking.  Alby keeps a running commentary going during car and train races, dragon fighting, duplo construction and playdough squishing.  Or even when just walking around the house.  Mark’s giggled a good few times having asked Alby what he’s talking about Alby replies “I’m just talking to myself daddy.”  For this I am no doubt completely responsible.  Before Alby could talk car journeys were generally spent with me just talking at him – more than to myself than anybody else – and it’s only now that he asks “what are you talking about mummy” that I’ve started shutting up.

As well as stumbling over the word “compared” Alby’s also yet to get his tongue around “pretend” and instead tells us frequently that “I’m just tending mummy / daddy”.  And we do a lot of “tending” each day.  We “tend fight”, we “tend to fly” (when we’re tending to be Superman), we “tend” to cook our playdough and sometimes we even “tend to eat” it too.

Superman has somehow flown into our lives and we’ve no idea how or why but he’s proving quite fun.  Alby’s superman t-shirt and cape that he got for Christmas stayed on for 3 whole days (I had to stay up late and wash it in the night to prevent my child from being too disgusting come Boxing Day).  Being Superman can be hard work and Alby finds himself having to do a lot of rescuing and flying around.  Thankfully he has his friends to help him: Spiderman aka Daddy and Batman aka mummy (having recently been promoted from the position of “other Superman”).  Sometimes Superdog Percy also gets to join in the fun.  Don’t think for a moment that this is just a fun little game.  Alby takes it very seriously.  I’ve been told off on numerous occasions for calling Alby by his name: “I’m not Alby, I’m Superman”.  Similarly, referring to Mark as Daddy rather than Spiderman has had me equally chastised and there have been times when Alby will only play with Mark if he’s taken on his superhero persona.   We are big fans of the Shirley Hughes Alfie stories but, to make them more special, we change Alfie to Alby when reading.  Recently Alby decided to take this a step further and insisted Mark read Alfie as Superman in every story instead.  No doubt a way to keep him on his toes.

Alby is fascinated by feelings and any books relating to emotions that we’ve taken out of the library are always incredibly popular.  When I pick him up from nursery he enjoys telling me how bossy Indah has been or how bossy another child has been, though he appears quite blind to his own bossy tendencies.  Something which makes Mark and I laugh, especially when he tells us off for being a “bossy boots”.  We get bossed about for everything.  If we do a running races we get told where the starting line is, who is going to win (always Alby), and who is going to do the countdown (always Alby).  Failure to follow his instructions or even preventing him from going through all instructions can result in a meltdown.  We get bossed about what spoon he is going to eat with, which cup he is going to drink from, what colour counter we can be when we play his new (and only) boardgame: Orchard Toys, the three little pigs.  Even putting him into the bath (bottom first, always) requires direct and repeated instruction.

He loves riding his bike, climbing, bouncing on the bed and throwing himself off things (bed, stairs, sofas) into your arms.  He often finds he runs low on energy when out riding his bike.  Usually this can be fixed with a quick pit stop (parking his bike on the curb for a moment) though sometimes only going on shoulders is the only solution).

He loves a sword fight, Peter Pan, Captain Hook, pirates generally alongside knights and dragons.  You can fight normally but every now and then, for a bit of fun, he demands “crab fighting” which basically involves taking more of a jousting stance rather than straight on which Alby has yet to realise makes you a more efficient fighter.  He just thinks it’s funny as you look like a scuttling crab.  

Sword fights can also be interrupted by the need for a quick Swashbuckle salute (CBeebies you have a lot to answer for): “Hand on your heart.  Okay, eye patch, eye patch, pirate hat, pirate hat, Swashbuckle cheer, Arrrgggghhhhh”.

He is pretty good eating vegetables provided they are carrots, broccoli, beans, peas or sweetcorn.  Often finds that his tummy “isn’t filled up yet”.  Would happily eat six pots of yoghurt a day if only he got the change.  Loves the idea of cake but doesn’t actually eat it, believing that licking off the icing is all that he needs to do.  That said, he’s recently come to identify that some foods are sweet and others aren’t and spends a great deal of his time demanding “something sweet to fill up my tummy”.  Only occasionally will he accept that apples and carrots are sweet foods.

He loves hiding under the duvet in our bedroom aka Daddy’s tent and we’re currently getting dragged into daily games of hide and seek.  He’s not bad at it – he actually properly hides rather than just sitting in the middle of the dining room floor as he did six months ago and waits for you to find him rather than jumping out the minute you walk into the room.  However, he enjoys hiding so much that he giggles like crazy and the duvet / cushion or curtain that he’s hiding behind shakes like mad the closer you get and the more you pretend to struggle to find him.

Alby has a big heart.  He’s good at huggles and when tired often leaves his toys to come and see me and request a huggle.  It makes my heart melt.  He tells us often that he loves us “to the moon and back”.  Again, another heart melting moment.  Over Christmas I told Alby to kiss Mark on his honker, meaning his nose and Alby thought I said “tonker” so now we get daily kisses on the tonker as Alby’s special treat for his hard working parents.  Mark can’t leave the house for work without three kisses, three huggles and three high fives and at bedtime I have to give him a kiss for every room of the house as well as doing a circle of kisses around his face before he takes my hand and falls asleep.

He’s a ball of energy and whilst I’ve refrained from talk of tantrums I assure you that we are no stranger to them.  Sleep is still broken fairly frequently and he’s as particular about things as Percy.  His hair won’t lie flat, he takes pride in how good he’s become at getting dressed by himself (mostly just pants and trousers but still a big improvement on a few months back) and he loves telling me all about the world.  He sings like nobody can hear him (we all can), dances like nobody’s watching (we are and we’re laughing) and smiles often.  He’s a joy, a Trouble Monkey, a Cheeky Monkey and one of our most favourite people in the world. 

A flamily venture

My super boys

 Today we turned our back on the pile of clothes waiting to be ironed, the living room floor in desperate need of a hoover and Alby’s latest unfinished art project and headed off for a family walk on Salisbury Plain.

Adventure bullhound

We started the walk under a grey cloudy sky being buffeted by strong, oh so cold winds and… it was glorious.  Too often we fail to give enough time to actually spend time together as a family. Weekends can pass in a blur of chores, dog walks and grocery shopping.  Whilst we do whatever we can together, working alongside each other (Alby is becoming a dab hand at dusting, cooking, loading the dishwasher and woe betide the fool who tries to feed Percy without allowing Alby to help out) we collapse into bed on a Sunday evening wondered where the weekend went.  Or at least I do.

Not today though.  Today we went out together, we worked our way across the undulating landscape left from the Stone Age, claimed a hill, listened to Mark’s stories of training nights out in the area during Sandhurst days, map read, found sticks to tackle thorns with and even tickled Highland cattle (well Mark did).

Fluffy friends found on the way

In Alby speak, it was a great Flamily Venture.  I don’t know when the next one will come. No doubt as the new year gets further underway work craziness will come knocking at our door once more which is to say nothing of the fact that in around 15 weeks we’ll be dealing with the brilliant, challenging ridiculousness that is life with a new born.  And to be honest I don’t really care when the next one comes.  Today we took a break from living alongside each other to being together and it was lovely.