Oh no! Santa’s stuck in the chimney

George’s favourite song this Christmas is “When Santa got stuck up the chimney”.  We have probably heard it 30 times in the last 3 days on the way to and from nursery.  The second the song ends a little voice in the back of the car pipes up “again mummy, again.”

Collecting him from nursery today I was told that the children had spent the day dictating their letters for Father Christmas. George hadn’t quite grasped the concept and instead insisted that his letter tell the story of Santa being stuck in the chimney, wiggling not setting him free and him having to be saved by a special fire engine with the hose and a ladder.  And a hose. (Credit here goes to YouTube I believe, there’s no fire engine in my version of the song however I did leave him with my phone the other day when needing a distraction as I got myself sorted for the school run).

This evening coming back from nursery rather than listening to the song we discussed it.  For 15 minutes straight.  Anyone who converses regularly with a 2 year old will understand that any toddler chat lasting 15 minutes is in fact a 1 minute bit of chat in a constant loop.  Here’s how our one went:

G: Mummy.  Santa got stuck in the chimney

Me: That’s right George.  Father Christmas got stuck.

G: No.  Not Father Christmas. <pause> Maybe... Santa?!

Me: They are the same George.  Father Christmas and Santa are the same, they both got stuck.

G: Yes mummy, that’s right.  Father Christmas and Santa both got stuck in the chimney and they couldn’t get out.

Me: They ate too much chocolate.

G: They were too fat to get out. <pause> He has the toys for the boys.

Me: That’s right.  He’s got presents for all the children and they are waiting for him.

G: The children need their toys and are waiting for Father Christmas and Santa.  Father Christmas and Santa are stuck in the chimney.  The children need their toys.  And the cows need their toys.

Me: The cows?

George: The cows and the sheep and the donkeys...and the...COWS!!!

And so it continued.

We had another brilliant bit of toddler thinking just before bath time when I started referring to Santa as Santa Claus...

George: That’s right mummy.  Santa Claus.  He has terrible tusks and terrible claws. 

Me: Like the Gruffalo.

George: Terrible claws.  Grrr.  Sharp and scary!

And so there you have it.  The Christmas myth grows in our household.  Those who are good get Santa Claws.  Those who are bad better watch out, Gruffalo claws is coming for you.  

Who’s idea was it to put the clocks back?

Today has been a productive day.  A very productive today.  We / I have:

• Made rice crispy cakes with Halloween decorations ready for the birthday boy to take into school on Tuesday
• Hollowed out, designed and carved pumpkins 
• Hoovered the house and dusted upstairs
• Changed the bedding in all rooms - stripping, washing, drying and making again for the boys rooms
• Washed two cars inside and out
• Walked Percy morning and night
• Conducted 3 science experiments - homemade slime, disappearing water and homemade snow 
• Exercised 
• Read books, wrestled, made models and collapsed in front of the telly, with a two year asleep on my lap. 

This at the end of the week where I...

 









was up working until 2am Monday morning in order to crack through the to do list so I could leave work a tad early on Monday to get the train (or more precisely three trains) with boys, to London to see my brother and his little monkeys. We fitted in a trip to the park, pub dinner and philosophical socialist v capitalist discussions until 1am before crashing, me next to my two deep sleepers, him in a camp bed in the kids room. Breakfast, lego construction, two trains and a Yo Sushi lunch later and we were back on the train home. 

 

On Wednesday we unpacked and got in the food shopping before  joining our Wiltshire favourites for a picnic, wildlife walk and river splash. (Smalley testing the depth, cheeky grin on face, until the water poured in over the tops of his wellies, finished the walk trouserless and in flip flops. Albug meanwhile had been making a rock pile and sliding down dirt hills meaning he was forced to strip to his pants before being allowed back in the car.) 

 

Once home we re-packed, tidied and I got on with more work once the boys had fallen asleep to ensure I was ready for my meetings on Thursday.

By 6.30am Thursday morning we were on the motorway to my in laws, the children were deposited, and I headed into work for a day of back to back meetings. After the longest journey back to Surrey I’ve ever done (thank you half term rush hour traffic for that gem) I put the boys to bed and then stuffed and stamped 297 letters into envelopes. 

Friday saw another day of meetings before heading Back to Surrey, to walk the dog and boys to the park. At the park I did warn Smalley not to play with the swing but a Mummy Fail was clearly due and then shortly thereafter I wiped away his tears and soothed his screams after said swing had knocked him in the mouth cutting his inside lip whilst simultaneously producing two blood blisters on the outside making him look like an inside out vampire. (He was with his grandparents for two days and didn’t get a scratch or a bump on him. One hour with me and his top and sleeve are covered in tear diluted blood). Back to the house, load the car, drive home, pile into bed and then wake at 6am on Saturday to drive to Cardiff, work all day and then see two more of my favourite people for dinner at Bill’s down on the Bay.  (The waiting staff being tickled by me digging into garlic bread whilst wearing my work t-shirt, logo in bright orange across the chest.) 

Home by 11pm and then back up before dawn today for what feels like the day that wouldn’t end. 

This isn’t me trying to show off about my life. For all the jobs completed there is an even longer list of things still to start let alone complete. And alongside all the love, cuddles and giggles with week has produced, delivered by family, friends and colleagues alike, there is guilt and frustration at the jobs not done, the time efficiency not shown... 

My time management has never been strong and as work has moved into an ultra  manic stage, so much so I’m now having to take an extra day each week, this is my long winded way of saying: life is busy. 

And as one person with a crazy busy life I want to give a shout out to all the other 30 year olds out there juggling busy work schedules, social lives and family love. Child free, childless or child filled, I am absolutely not in this alone. And whilst this week is busier than normal for me, I have peers who will regard it as tame. Those travelling and networking. Those lesson planning or studying. Those working through their identity, relationships and priorities and those just getting through each day and then, like me trying to work out where their energy has gone before  looking back over their week in bemused wonder whilst muttering “was that really this week?”

And to all of those non morning people like me: yes I want more time. As shown above the extra hour today has supported a very productive day. But I don’t want it at 5:30am THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!  I mean REALLY? I almost fell over in disgust at how much we’d managed to achieve by 9:30am in a Sunday morning. Utterly unacceptable. 

To my crazy life peers - I empathise. I hear you. I’m here with shoulders for leaning on if needed. 

To everyone else - do not tell me to put my feet up or treat myself, I don’t have the time! Unless you are offering an intensive time management course, caffeine or high end make up to hide the bags under my eyes, I’m sorry, I love you but I don’t want to hear it. 

It's a Brooks thing

Those lucky people whose TV time isn't dominated by CBeebies won't be aware of Bing bunny, a toddler rabbit(ish) chap, who hangs out with his dad, Flop, neighbours and cousins doing everyday things. They might draw pictures, have lunch, build a tower out of bricks or similar. Generally something goes wrong: water is spilt on the picture, lunch is dropped on the floor, the tower is knocked over by his baby cousin... and Bing Bunny has to learn a simple but big lesson, summed up at the end and closed with the catchphrase "it's a Bing thing". You're never quite sure where the mundane story is going to take you or what Bing will claim ownership off, from "lunch; it's a Bing thing" to "Carrots; it's a Bing thing" to "Sharing; it's a Bing thing".

Increasingly I've found myself thinking about the randomness of Bing after each trip the boys spend with my folks. It starts innocent and simple enough but I'm never entirely sure where I'm going to end up.

Jump back almost three years, Alby turned up at my parent's house with a very interesting, child friendly book about recycling, based on the life story of a plastic bottle. The visit ended with Alby running around the house, pointing at my mum and shouting "she doesn't even know what polymerisation is" before bursting into hysterical laughter.
Mocking Narna; it's a Brooks thing.

Take another trip down memory lane and I come home to find Alby standing against the wall with an apple on his head shouting: GRAVITY!! EUREKA!!
Newton; it's a Bing thing.

Monkey and Pigsy, slime balls, rabbit poo, rocket blasting and sumo wrestling; it's a Brooks thing.

Jump forward to this week. Albug is playing with his Ninja Turtles, flipping and charging them about the room along to a little script mumbled out between jumps. Out comes the line "Boys are best".  Now, like my male and female peers, I label myself as a feminist. I think people should be identified, driven, valued and respected for their talent, their skills and their passions. Not by their gender. I'm proud that my views are no longer regarded as the views of rolling pin wielding, bra burning, fanatics but are decidedly mainstrsam. (Despite the wishes of my Chinese lecturer I am not the extreme, revolutionary protestor of the past.) So when a line such as "Boys are best" comes out I will challenge him: "excuse me Alby?"
As always, he is quick with his response. "It's just pretend." He goes back to playing, then pauses before piping up with: "anyway mummy, I was being ironic so it's the opposite isn't it".
Ah yes, that's right, my quick witted, fast worded son was taught about irony over breakfast with my dad. Excellent.
Irony, it's a Brooks thing.

It's out!

Following on perfectly from my last post, we are thrilled to report that after a whole month of wobbling and wibbling with finger and tongue Alby has lost his first tooth. Something he has told us about at least twenty times today in case the hole in his mouth wasn't evidence enough. God forbid we get distracted by the whole moving house ordeal (packers arrived yesterday and we've been battling boxes ever since).
For those who like the detail, Alby decided that sleep is clearly an over rated part of life. At 4am he started shouting for us - not as unusual an occurrence as we'd like, we generally find ourselves being summoned each week. This time however the call for "ANYBODY! ANYBODY! Was accompanied with "my tooth came out". What was he doing wobbling his tooth at 4am? How long had he been awake wobbling it? I dread to think. But it is out. He is happy and now eagerly anticipating the arrival of the magical, and very much real, tooth fairy. Sadly for him, he will not be getting the perfumed paper, mirror written messages from Fairy Midnight. I still feel somewhat disgusted that my mum was put through that ordeal with me. Such a cruel trick on a parent - as if just remembering to put £1 under the pillow wasn't enough!! Thankfully, Alby is all about the money and questions have been limited to just making sure his pillow is properly rewarded in the morning.

Stop the clocks...

... Albs has a wobbly tooth.

Okay, this post may now be 6 days late - I'm sorry, we are getting to the end of term, life is awesome fun but crazy exhausting and we are all in need of a summer holiday. Just log it to the ever growing list of mummy fails.  (A list which grew just two hours ago when I confiscated George's orange whistle for fear he'd wake Albug/the neighbours/the village. Obviously this led to an immediate and impressive tantrum that only the appearance of bubbles from his yet unseen party bag was able to stop.)

I digress, as always, Alby has one wobbly tooth. Possibly two. It's all a bit confusing. Mostly as it barely wobbles and I think he will be wobbling them for the whole of the summer holidays before they are even close to coming out, but for Albs this is a hugely momentous occasion. He was most disappointed that the slightly loose tooth following the bat to the face incident re-bedded and ever since he has been asking when his teeth will start to come out.

So strong has his fixation been that I'm entirely sure he hasn't wobbled this one loose himself - time will tell I guess. Realising that my previous post was about George's teeth we are clearly living a theme at the moment. Oh well. Anything to dodge the clearing and cleaning to come with our impending house move. And I was finally feeling properly settled here!

Georgie mouth coming through

It is 1am in the morning. Smalley has just walked into our room announcing: "Let's go mummy. Georgie wake up." Ahhh yes, the joys of a teething baby.

Smalley's response to teething varies hugely depending on whether it's day or night. In the day he puts his fingers in his mouth, grizzles and cries whilst announcing in the most miserable voice you can imagine: "Teeth coming through. Owwie teeth." (Most adorable, last month it was "mouth coming through" rather than teeth.) It's quite a thing to hear your two year old be able to express pain and discomfort so clearly. I don't remember Albug having the same level of clarity but that may just be sleep deprivation and clever parental amnesia at play.

In the nighttime the response is completely different. No crying, no grizzling, he is just awake. He wakes up happy, chatty and coherent. It's almost as though it's morning time and he's waking after a full night's sleep. Almost but not quite; he looks exhausted, skin pale and eyes pink. Meanwhile my parenting skills are undermined by me stumbling around in the dark, eyes glued together with sleep, brain struggling to work out where I am and what I'm doing. At times like this I say a little prayer of thanks to Disney, more specifically to the team behind "Planes". We come downstairs, he settles in the sofa or armchair and we get the DVD set up. If it's a bad night I collapse on the floor, good nights are distinguished by my brain being awake enough to remember we have a sofa bed in the living room and manage to set it up in my half awake state.
We are now in the final lap of teething; the final two molars have cut and we are just waiting for them to fully cut. One side has come through, the other side explains why I'm currently tapping away at 2am. We've got into a little routine with the film. We cheere when Dusty makes his first arrival. We point out the characters as they appear, Smalley loud and excited, me through closed eyes echoing his words in slurred, exhausted voice.

As Smalley's vocab grows and his understanding improves out come those classic "out of the mouths of babes" statements that put a smile on your face no matter the hour. During a teething midnight party last week Smalley yawned an enourmous yawn. "You're tired" I said to him. "Georgie's tired. That's right!!" He replied in a chippy, excited voice. I laughed. Kissed his forehead and pressed play on the DVD. It was almost as cute as when he'd grabbed my hand earlier in the day and pulled me into the kitchen whilst shouting "come on mummy, it's an emergency, come on." Getting into the kitchen he pointed at his toy, just out of reach on the kitchen counter: "get it mummy. Emergency." Think I might leave it a few more years to teach him to dial 999 or I'm going to be opening my door to firefighters summoned to turn on the TV.

For now, the yawns by both of us are coming quickly. My little man is lying across me, equally exhausted and excited as he watches Dusty save Bullog. It's goodnight from me and good riddance please to the teething silliness. Sleep calls me.

Surviving week one

9 days without my partner to support, help and encourage me and I've survived!! Tonight it feels like "I've survived - only just". Giving in to the boys earlier pleas of "just one more game" or "just five more minutes" led to a good few hours of struggle through dinner, dog walk and bedtime routines. George was left without a routine. When he decided to start jumping on the bed at 8pm, I decided to accept my fate and brought him back downstairs to play whilst I hoovered and did my best to turn the chaos into a house I'd be willing to let people step into. (5pm today and the furthest I'd let you get was the door step.)

Looking back over the week though the boys and I have done much more than survive. We've soaked up culture at the children's museum where they were stacked by snakes, made a ninja film, travelling to Narnia "its terrifying mummy", sat in a kennel watching Wallace and Gromit and donned dressing gowns before bedtime stories in the world's largest bed. Walking along the high street in Oxford with George in the pushchair and Alby on my shoulders probably wasn't my most glam of moments but it was most definitely necessary and i was fuelled with a delicious ice cream and scone from the Ashmolean museum cafe. (Where, I've just remembered, for a bit of tho massage, an American lady who now has two grown up sons informed me I was wonderful mother.  Go figure). 

Turning books to film

Quick nap in the bedtime room

Making story titles 

The next day George was tumble tot extraordinaire - first, as he should be, at tumble tots but later too during our after school, the sun is shining, trip to the park. As well as giving Eddie the Eagle a run for his money George coerced Alby into some light bulldog mocking . Poor Percy.  (On reflection I think he really has only just survived this week). 

It was arts week at school last week with a lion king / Africa theme with the children being treated to touring choirs and dance groups from the continent. The children did their own dance production on Wednesday afternoon, were treated to face painting on Friday (fearful of his wound Albs went for a snake on his arm) and have had a lion king inspired menu all week. There was also an art competition; every child in the school received the same picture to colour in with three different prizes being given. Yes, I was quite smug when Albs ran out of class on Friday clutching his (now laminated) picture, certificate and prize having won. As he told me: "I was just so surprised when they said my name. And then everyone clapped and I got all these sweets. I just was so surprised". Love him. 

Double superstar points actually for this little dude who also got the Headmasters award on Monday for "really good tidying up".  

Smalley meanwhile has taken to telling me how amazing the world of is. I used to think about which bits of Mark and me our children would inherit. Would they get his sense of humour? My competitiveness...? Fair enough questions with Albs but completely redundant with the littlest Monkey who gets everything from Alby. Mannerisms, laugh, sense of humour, dare devil ways and words. This week, inspired by Albug's enthusiasm for life, everything has been "amazing". He's also managed to give himself the new nickname of "Pickle" after shouting "Let's Pickle" before shooting off on his bike on pretty much every single dog walk he's been on.  I'm not sure I'll ever get him in a pushchair again. Telling him we're going to get his bike is my new go to - distracting from tantrums and episodes of not sharing almost as effectively as offering him an ice pop. 

Den and telly time

We've also had lots of testing of colours, counting to ten (- which he did all by himself when in the car with GG, what a time to perform!) singing (twinkle twinkle, incy wincy spider, heads shoulders knees and toes, rainbow world...) and a fair amount of arts and crafts - more on that later.  The boys continue to tell the most awful jokes, Albs generally offering nonsensical punchlines or ones which rhyme with the subject of the joke as if that's funny enough: why did the chicken cross the road?  Because he was licken. Hahahaha.  George has mastered the "Knock knock" format until we get the punchline which continues to be a very serious "no" no matter what has come before.  Joke making, games of eye spy and playing "what are you thinking" have probably tested me the most this week.  

What the photos don't show is how much naked there has been around the house this week.  The weather has been glorious and my boys don't need telling twice to strip down.  We've had naked racing, naked football, naked bubbles, naked daisy chain making, naked digging, naked ninjas, naked water play, naked drawing and even a naked picnic.  

Horse going in for the bulldog snog at Lydiard Park

We finished off the week with bike rides, den building, car washing, swimming lessons, shopping and, today, a trip to Lydiard Park for duck feeding, horse stroking, park playing and, you guessed it, more bike riding. If it's possible to feel both refreshed and shattered at the same time then that's me.  Buoyed by the fresh air, laughter and madness that is my life, exhausted by the cleaning, driving, cooking, late nights and broken nights that are equally my life. 

Sleeping like a baby - someone has to 

Smalley turns 2

What's that?  I'm two...?

*I wrote this entry the day after Smalley turned 2.  It has taken me until now to post.  Thanks for the chaos little fella!

We celebrated Smalley's birthday at Bocketts farm with our most favourite family and friends. The weather was glorious, the pig racing fast and furious, the play area the perfect distraction for mini people and the feeding station a disgusting mix of animal mess, long tongues and cow slobber. The pregnant sheep were visibly bouncing as they attempted to pant out the heat of the day.

We ended with a cousin and grandparent family tea back at my parents which involved a bit of orchid trampling, compost moving and ended with a full set of naked children.

It was a great day despite my five minute tantrum when my lovely top got covered in bright orange ice lolly - thank you George.

What can I tell you of Goblin at 2? 

...YAY!

Well, he's just a goblin really.

He's a vocal chap; He enjoys shouting at the end of meals. He enjoys calling for family members "where are youuuuuu Alby/daddy/mummy?"

His words are coming along and we have to watch what we say as he copies everything. There's still a good amount of baby in the mix though - probably a good 20% of what he announces is completely incomprehensible despite him tilting his head, looking into our eyes and talking slowly whilst he says it. Albug claims to be his interpreter but relying on that message generally leads to more questions than answers!

He loves singing. Mostly twinkle twinkle little star and monos rainbow song, both of which he gets caught in a round on. The former with him confusing the last line with the first so at the end of the song we go straight into "up above the world so high..." Momos rainbow song makes my heart smile. I have a two year old who will happily repeat the colours of the rainbow for twenty minutes - with one minor but vital error..."red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, vio-red, orange, yellow, green..."

And tandem 

He also loves cuddles.  Bog monkey cuddles where he wraps his arms around your neck and holds on tight.  Sometimes he snuggles into the crook of your neck or your chest in order to up the cuteness factor.  Best feeling ever.  

Solo tractor riding 

He loves his dad.  He loves his bulldog.  He loves me.  But it's probably fair to say that most of all he loves Albug.  He loves to follow Albs around, copy him, laugh at him, mimic him, look for him and even interrupt all of his games if it will get him a reaction.

The other day Smalley bumped his head in the kitchen.  Big brother was there and quickly sprung into action "show me where it hurts little one, show me your owwie.  Blow here and I'll give it a magic rub. All better?  All better."  I was in the room next door overhearing this and suffice to say my heart almost burst.  

Best buddies off to the shops 

I used to worry about the impact of adding another monkey to an already crazy household. I used to wonder how we'd find the time and the love for all.  Two years in and it's noisier, busier and even more chaotic but with laughter, love and cheekiness.  We're kept on our toes by a little chap who refuses to slow down because he wants to be involved, be included and be part of whatever everybody is laughing about.  Thanks for the past two years Smalley - they've been a blast.

Smalley bulldog

I don't feel this video actually needs an introduction however, in the spirit of generosity I shall set the scene:

The boys had been playing in the garden for about an hour. Percy included, who had been jumping about like an idiot at the mere mention of going outside. Having pushed Smalley around the garden in his car four or five times, Albs was having his own game of football. I was entertaining Percy and Smalley was doing some good people watching from the comfort of his little tikes cozy coupe. He called me over with a very serious face, pointed at Percy, giggled and this video showing Smalley's impression of a bulldog, was created shortly after...

Sadly the weather didn't keep for us, though we sneakily managed to make the most of a lull in the rain for the afternoon dog walk. I say dog walk, it was more puddle splashing whilst the bulldog looked on despairingly. By the time we got home both boys were soaked to their pants. They'd been watching a Blaze and the Monster Machines earlier - their favourite shared programme at the moment. I missed the episode but clearly it had something to do with the Monster Machine called a Pickle as Smalley spent the whole walk, and I really do mean the whole walk, shouting "let's Pickle" before charging through a puddle or trying to catch his brother.

I was hoping his love for Blaze would mean I could leave him downstairs with Percy and the telly whilst I put Albs to bed. Such was not to be. Within minutes he was crying and making his way upstairs. So, in true modern parenting fashion, I got Blaze on my phone, threw it into Alby's camper van tent, and carried on reading to Albug. At the end of the episode out waddled Smalley asking for more, then after a quick kiss from his brother, he was back in the tent again. Not quite what I had in mind but not a bad fix whilst daddy is away.

Afraid I can't finish for the day without sharing this photo of Albs enjoying chocolate cake in the cafe. Don't be fooled into thinking this was some sort of action shot. Let's be quite clear that this is his no nonsense, "oh my goodness I love this cake" face.

A note to my man

To my love,

In case you were wondering I have had quite the fun afternoon. It started with me having to be all sorts of tricksy with work in order to collect Albug from school on time (where, in case you were wondering I was chastised for only having two types of food on me rather than three and was almost cried at for the lack of water until he realised he was the one who'd left his water bottle in the classroom.) I made the boys dinners with Percy under my feet then dashed off to get Smalley before nursery fined me for late collection (hampered by the sudden realisation that Albug's car seat was still in the hallway). Back on the road to negotiate terrible driving by the locals accompanied to Smalley's shouts of "mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, tractor big driving wheel" alongside Alby's shouts of "mummy, mummy, mummy, I was talking first". Neither a train going past nor an orange digger sighting managed more than a few seconds of silence. Quick change in the car park before catching up on emails/chasing George/holding up a pad to be kicked and punched by 5 year olds (some of those children are strong) and we are back in the car. Next stop, download Blaze, grab jackets and the reluctant bullhound, bundle the boys into the trailer and off we go. In case you were wondering, yes, that was the exact moment the skies decided to open and Percy and I learnt what "soaked to the bone" really means. Snack, bath, teeth, pyjamas and the bedtime countdown to sleep really is upon us. 

Albs chose his books (4 Buddha stories please). George was not so happy about this arrangement. To distract him I asked him to go and get a book from his room and come back. Off he waddled, returning shortly after with his duvet. He was sent bank again and we heard rummaging away next door as I raced through Alby's stories. 

George reappeared and proudly presented me with "Animal farm" to read. He was sent away for the third time. 

Further speed reading to Alby and George comes back with a Peter Rabbit book. We pause Albs' story to read to Smalley then send him off again. This time he returns with Matilda and a dunnop for me. A little bit of multitasking at its finest, Alby's third story is finished and Monkey is clean. 

At this point Albug decides to tell me he thinks his front tooth is a bit wobbly. It is. Just a bit perhaps but there's definite wobble taking place. "What does that mean mummy? Will it fall out? When will it fall? How long until my new tooth grows?" As images predicting the next 2 years of a gappy, smiling child flit before my eyes I mumble a "just dont touch it" because that advice will definitely stick!! 

The final story was a mixture of Buddha story, dinosaur board books and my pounding heart. 

Albs had his kisses and the story cd went on, Smalley climbed into bed giggling and quickly calmed but has needed teetha and nurofen to turn sleeping cries into sleeping soundly. I've chatted with Drew whilst calming Percy who started barking like crazy after he heard Drew's dog on Skype. In case you were wondering, he checked the perimeter, gruffing in every corner before finally settling down on ted. 

So, if you were wondering if you'd been missed yet, yes you have. A lot. Xxx

Pint sized boy, gallon sized bravery

Alby had an unfortunate run in with a plastic cricket bat today resulting in his lip getting split open. There's a nasty wound on the outside of the top lip, cut on the inside top and bottom and bruising on the gums. It happened minutes before I collected him from after school club; I walked in to find him standing pink eyed and pale faced in the toilets, blood on his mouth, chest and knees, with two members of staff doing their best to clean him up.
If it had been me, I would have burst into tears at the sight of my mum. He just stood there, completely still letting them talk and continue cleaning him up. Our GP is in the village, we went there but were referred to the walk in clinic, a quick call to them and we were redirected to A&E.  We stopped home for snacks and supplies and made our way to hospital.
Alby's first words were a whispered: "can I tell Joey that I'm just like him" - referencing his cousin having to go to the hospital this time last year when he split his chin open. By the time we were on the road to the hospital he had not only cracked a smile but started giggling (rather inappropriately really, as we were talking about the time Narna fell off her horse - clearly he has his inherited his father's 'you've-been-framed'-loving genes).  Once at the hospital he ran off to play with the toys.

A big shout out to the NHS for, once again, being bloomin' marvellous. The staff were amazing. The doctor had a brilliant bedside manner and had Alby joking and feeling the hero. The children's A&E (who knew such things existed) was well equipped and had Disney films on repeat. They kept doors locked so George running up and down the corridor laughing manically caused no problem. And Alby played. He was tired and hungry and on nil by mouth until they worked out what to do with him but he took it in his stride. When we finally got home it was late and he didn't fuss or whine or complain. He hasn't once said his mouth hurts. He hasn't cried. He has just been this amazing little, incredibly brave boy.

I'd been having a rubbish day at work and confess even seeing George's face at nursery pick up wasn't  enough to shrug off the leftover emotions and unfinished tasks from the work. One look at Alby however, stoic, solemn and oh so brave, and it was forgotten. And it stayed forgotten until I finally had both boys sleeping. Our children keep us grounded. They act as a constant prompt as to what our priorities should be. And they teach us about patience, forgiveness and bravery. Thank you Alby for being the little super star that you are.

Fingers crossed you are happy when I wake you for breakfast in 4 hours - were nil by mouth from 6am tomorrow morning until the plastic surgeons get a chance to see him!! The life of a five year old is never boring.

My 1950s lad

Twice a week Albug goes to an after school club in the village. The owner collects Trouble Monkey and his classmates, sticks them in her minibus and they head off to the nursery-cum-holiday club. The staff are great. Friendly and welcoming but also real. They love the kids and their job but they also know little people can be monsters and need to be told when misbehaving. There are days when I turn up and they seem even more exhausted with the world than I do and considering they spend 12 hours a day with toddlers and primary school children I have no problem with that. The nursery club is a child's dream. Toys are everywhere. Literally everywhere. Mark's OCD side can't quite cope with it and you know that if he has to do pick up he will be in and out as quick as is humanly possible. As can clearly be seen with the state of my study, I'm not so particular. The children are happy, healthy and safe and that's all either of us are after.

Anyway, that was a lot of scene setting for a very short story. When I turned up today the manager greeted me with "hello, your son made me laugh so much today." An ominous start to any story. It turns out that today another one of Albug's classmates was going to the after school club. Normally it's just him and one other boy but today the manager was treated to an extra 5 year old. When Albs realised this boy would be joining them he beckoned the manger over and had her crouching in front of him so he could whisper in his ear. And what did he say? "That boy's quite bothersome."

Bothersome?? Where does this lad get his vocabulary? He keeps insisting I'm raising a ninja but turns out I've got a 1950s public school boy in the house.

Truth be told when I saw who he was referring to I thought he'd actually been quite generous in his description. Master Bothersome being engaged in tug of war with a book against a little boy known for his delicate nature at pick up time. What a charmer. But still, Albs, bothersome. Who knows who he got that word from but long may the excellent vocabulary continue

My huggle bubble

In the past few weeks George has learnt to hug. Not just to curl into a ball against you or to tuck in his arms and snuggle against your shoulder but to really hug. To put both arms around your neck and grip tight like you imagine a monkey doing.

As his language continues to grow, "huggle" has also been added to the list of words we are treated to daily. "Mummy huggle, mummy huggle, up" followed by a huge hug from my little man is the best feeling in the world. Perfect food for the soul. And, lucky for us, one he is sharing with Mark and I on a daily basis.

The world seems full of posts about how hard parenting is. Parenthood and challenge seem to be interchangeable words. Yes, it has its moments but hugs with your baby more than tips the balance. Life is good.

Telling Alby

Whilst the title might suggest this will be a post on educating Alby the reality is the opposite. Alby is really in his element when he is telling us. Sometimes we have great discussions - he can be really chatty about his day at school and I'm delighted he has yet to reach the "nothing" response I'm sure he I started doling out by age six. At other times it can be amusing, like when he tells us about how bikes work or what type of hungry he is feeling, an act usually accompanied by much "you see mummy" and "well, daddy" alongside rapidly twirling hands. Then there's the patronising telling. When we are all a bit tired and in need of a break. Albug gives his support to such situations by contradicting everything we say. For us, such situations are the ultimate test in parenting patience and tolerance. And let's be honest, it's a test we rarely pass with flying colours.

And finally we have the cute tellings. The ones where, to me, he is being genuinely gorgeous but to an outsider he likely appears as the biggest suck up. Like when he tells me I'm the prettiest, or when he hugs his daddy and tells him what best buddies they are. Or the other day when he was getting ready for school and we had the following chat:
Me: it's PE today Albs. Is that your favourite.
Albug: it's one of my favourites. It's not my most favourite.
Me: what's your most favourite.
Albs: when we sit still on the carpet.
Me: like you used to do in circle time at nursery?
Albs (arms now gesturing): yes mummy, because i am just so interested in learning things.

I love this boy.

"Dabbit dabbit"

George is increasingly embracing the world of words. Since moving house in the summer his babbles have turned to words, words to simple sentences. As such, Alby's tellings have now been joined with George's and Mark and I are enjoying instructions in stereo from morning til night.

When I say "words" I mean George's take on the English language which has a definite bias to the 'd' sound. So rabbit becomes 'dabbit', tractor becomes 'dactor' and, following logic only he understands, postman pat becomes "daddy dat."
Last week's new phrase was "stop it" or rather "dop it". A little influence from Alby and I and we quickly progressed it to "dop it daddy". Sadly he's too smart for us though and within 24 hours we've had "dop it mummy" and "dop it Alby". Alby thinks it is hilarious.
Typically the language follows his favourite or most needed things: digdig (for digger), dolly, dink, more, Alby, where are ooo, dout (shout), bye bye ev-i-one. In fact, everything gets the bye bye treatment: bye bye wet car, bye bye Nee nah, bye bye toot toot, bye bye bed or even bye bye boing bed.
Words are still mixed with an awful lot of signing. Thanks to the brilliant Mr Tumble he now knows more signs than us which leads to some cryptic, drawn out interpretations but has definitely helped with his manners and he is quick to say sorry, thank you and share. Understanding what share means however is still a work in progress...

*disclaimer - I wrote this post two weeks ago and it's taken me an age to upload it. In that time George's vocabulary has doubled and his mimicry is worrying. Anyone coming into contact with him please watch your words. I've done the swearing toddler thing once already, am hoping history doesn't repeat itself on this occasion.

**I've been updating the blog through my mobile which, annoyingly, won't upload photos or videos.  I don't have footage of the "dabbit dabbit" days but I do have this film from November showing Smalley when he is first working his way around words...