Al-bug: prodigy in the making

Stop the press! News flash! Put down whatever it is you are doing and instead stand in awe of all that is Alby because on Friday (drum roll please) my son mastered counting from one to ten!

I know, I know.  An applause is required.  In fact I would go so far to suggest a standing ovation.  I mean for goodness sake, the child is 23 months, this is highly impressive stuff.

Well, no actually it isn’t at all.  He is bang on his milestones.  Neither advanced nor behind for his age, just Jo Average.  And yet I still find this something worth stopping in my tracks for.  Something to cheer and even to write a post about! 

As much as I hate it I spend almost everyday having to accept that all those patronising comments other parents made to me before having Alby – you know the ones: “children change everything” and “you don’t know what it’s like until you have kids”, really are true. Of course what those people don’t tell you is that “changing everything” means your brain becomes so fuddled that you think it is completely legitimate to follow a post on sex trafficking with one about your child being able to count.  A shift has definitely taken place somewhere in my universe but I’m not quite so blind as to believe it is simply a shift the right way.

And yet, when all is said and done I have a child now.  A child who can count to ten.  (Let’s all gloss over the fact this happened whilst he was counting a mere three cups – clearly he is not only intelligent but able to see things invisible to the naked eye.  Like I say, a genius).  A child who, as of tonight, will have been sleeping in his own bed (yes bed, no cot for Mr Albert) for a whole seven nights.  A child who will repeat almost anything you say provided it isn’t more than four words long.  Who demands you make train tunnels out of thin air.  Who tells you to cut up his toast and then cries when he can’t get the two pieces to stick back together again.  Who insists on taking Percy for a walk and spends the entire time running away from you.  A child who, yesterday, fed maggots to fish in the river (this was under the supervision of his babysitter and I’m still not sure whether I’m delighted or disgusted by this event).  A child who cuddles, kisses and laughs like his father.  A child who can count to ten.

It's hard work being so smart

The power of words

English is the third most common language native language in the world.  It is the most widely used language in the world.  It is the language of Shakespeare, of Dickens, of Tolkien and Austen and Steinbeck and Orwell.  

Wikipedia informs me that a Harvard study in 2010 found the English language to contain 1,022,000 words and to expand at 8,500 words a year. 

My family is English as is my husbands.  I take pride in my nationality.  England has a strong heritage (I’m not saying it was all good, there have been a number of incredibly bleak moments such as that whole colonizing thing we got a bit over excited by) but we’ve had some highs too and we know the meaning of old and of history as good as anybody else in Europe.  And for a little island, the influence our language has had in the current state of the world is quite spectacular.

And so given this amazing history, this huge, expansive language that was the native tongue of some of the world’s greatest authors, how are two of my son’s first words Tesco and Abba?

Where did it all go wrong? Seriously.  I’ve got a BA in History and an MA in International relations from one of the UK’s best universities.  I come from a well read, cultured family. How did this happen. 

Tesco and Abba.  Tesco and Abba.  Really?  Even his requests for me to read excerpts from “Small is Beautiful” or “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” aren’t enough to nullify the horror of these being two of his favourite words.  And he’s only 23 months old. 

They say: babies are innocent.  I say: the Western world has no true understanding as to how far its corruption reaches. I am disgusted.

On a happier note, today Alby said “I love Mummy” and “I love Daddy” for the first time ever.  Yes it was spoon fed to him and yes he has no idea what the words mean but that doesn’t stop them from being some of the best words the English language has to offer.

Getting a bit political on behalf of the sisterhood

I’ve never called myself a feminist but that isn’t to say that I would distance myself from the term if ever challenged.  Truth be told, from my somewhat ignorant position, I find the term somewhat confusing these days.  As women’s rights have changed and women’s roles in society have diversified I find it wrong to try and band all issues relating to women under one heading, especially a heading which is associated with bra-burning, civil disobedience of previous generations.

I’m not saying the women weren’t right in the action they took.  I’ve just always been a bit too much of a goody two shoes to go in for rule breaking. 

However, there are a lot of issues affecting women that I feel need to be talked about far more.  Yes there are grievances over pay and employment opportunity amongst my contemporaries but I’m referring more to the issues facing hundreds of thousands on women across the world: those who can’t vote, who are forced into marriage, who are subjected to female genital mutilation, who are forced out of schools and beaten because they dare to wish how to read and write.  Admittedly, not the fluffy sort of stuff that you normally get in this blog, but this is my platform to speak and today I saw a video which I thought was just brilliant.  That part of me that wants to see a better world for all gave a little woop of support to the genuis people who came up with this campaign.  Want to know what I’m talking about?  Check out this video on You Tube. 

As one of my favourtie characters in my favourite TV shows says: “I didn’t burn my bras J, In fact I like my bras.  I ring your bell when it’s important”.

Consider me ringing a bell…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfFzCDIQ_a8

I feel the need, the need for speed

The only reason I’m able to update the blog at the moment is because Mark is away for a couple of days.  This means I’m allowed to break curfew hiding away in the study and tapping away on the keyboard.  

As it turns out juggling work, chores and three boys makes blogging a bit difficult.  It isn’t just juggling my time to find the time to write it but also the head space to think about what I want to write. The days go by like a blur.  Alby is learning a new word every day, running like a crazy and developing an ever keened sense of self.  Mark is back in the office, he has new projects with work, exercises to prepare for and we’re both getting back into the routine of post-holiday life. And Percy, well, Percy needs cuddles.  He’s pretty easy.

And so the only way this blog will survive is if I develop speed.  No more long entries – if it can’t be written and uploaded whilst Alby is in the bath it’s not going to happen.

Mummy Fail #680

This evening ignoring the signs of serious fatigue and general ineptitude to do the most simple of tasks I dropped Alby’s dinner whilst trying to carry it and his table and chair all at the same time. 

It was one of those moments where I definitely knew better.  Before I picked up the table I thought: this isn’t going to work.  Sadly my thoughts stopped there and the next thing you know potato waffles, fish fingers and, most important of all, dip dip (aka tomato ketchup) are in a messy pile on the floor. 

“OH NO!” responds Alby who then picks up his plate, puts all the food back on, carries it over to the table, sits up and starts eating, only glancing back at me to give a dismissive look and yet another “Oh no Mummy. Dip dip. Oh no”.  

Needless to say I have been firmly put in my place by Little Man.

And Little Man he is fast becoming.  Today when I picked him up from nursery I was asked to stay a moment for a word with the teacher. (Will there ever be a time when that phrase doesn’t fill me with random guilt and the sudden stock piling of excuses).  As it was I wasn’t being reprimanded (and I should jolly well hope not) but asked how I would feel if Alby moved up a class to Butterflies.  They worried I would be nervous about the idea, I’m ecstatic.  Half of his class from last term have moved up and he is now in a room with new teachers and lots of new faces.  He may not know the nursery staff who run Butterflies, but he knows the children, many of him whom are life Members of the Alby-Sunni gang. 

And yet with my glee comes yet more evidence of how much my Trouble Monkey is growing.  In seven weeks he will be two.  Time to get the party invites sorted.

Mummy fail #577

Last Tuesday I had a meeting in London.  Mark had some work to catch up on and so to give him a bit of undisturbed office time (which it transpired also translated to a game of golf but we’ll leave that for another day) Alby headed to the city with me.

As I met with work colleagues, had a grumble and worked out our plans for the next year, Alby bashed his way around the Natural History Museum with my best friend Kate.

A cultured day out in London doesn’t quite qualify as a Mummy Fail so you may interpret the story so far as me softening you up to my fail.  A fail which started on the train to London with Alby’s breakfast – a packet of crisps, and ended with his pub dinner – a plate of chips.

To soften the Mama Fail slightly, the breakfast crisps were organic baby-friendly baked crisps which cost a ridiculous amount to soften my ego, but they were still crisps.  And the evening dinner may have come with a fish finger sandwich and a vegetable garnish but let’s be honest, Alby pretty much just ate the chips. 

To extend the Fail slightly, Kate admitted Alby had also stolen a handful of chips from her boyfriends plate at lunchtime.  So all in all a healthy diet for the little man.

A mild obsession

We are currently chicken-sitting for neighbours of ours who have headed off to France for the summer holidays. 

In addition to the three chickens, the family have three small children and with it a garden filled with toys.  As I got to grips with the water dispenser, feeders and cleaning the coop, Alby commandeered the toy motorbike, wendy house and scooter before finally setting eyes on the Little Tikes Crazy Coupe car.

Now Alby has been in these cars before.  His first tantrum occurred when I tried to get him out of one at a local soft play centre.  At a play date with friends of ours Alby showed off his amazing social skills by sitting in the car for fifteen minutes and refusing to get out. He did the same at another play date but thankfully that friend had two cars so Alby and his buddy Arthur were able to both sit in each for twenty minutes at a time without anybody getting too upset.

Mark and I have discussed buying Alby one of these cars on many occasions.  So much so that at any given time I am likely to be found following the sales of at least three of them on ebay and have another saved to my Amazon wish list.  We’ve been reluctant though as they are a big bit of kit, even the second hand ones aren’t cheap and with baby toys you can never be too sure what will actually be used versus what will sit in a corner gathering dust.

A quick text to France and we are now not only caring for the three chickens but one red and yellow Crazy Coupe.

To say Alby is obsessed with the car really doesn’t do it justice.  He wakes every morning, runs to the back door and shouts out “car, car, car, car, car, car, car”.  Once outside he opens the door, gets inside, giggles, kicks his legs about, pushes the car backwards, giggles some more and then runs into the house shouting “push, push, push, push, push, push, push, push.” And then I have the pleasure of pushing him around the garden, still in my pyjamas.  At least three times a day the ritual is repeated.  If, whilst in the garden pushing him about you stop to, I don’t know catch your breath or throw one of Percy’s toys to the side, he hangs out of the window and starts tapping his magic finger on the roof whilst saying “mama, mama, mama, mama, mama” until I get my act into gear and get moving again.  

His birthday isn’t for another couple of months and Family Beebe are on a bit of a saving spell at the moment but I think we’re going to have to find some way to get hold of a Crazy Coupe before our friends come back from holiday or Alby will be out every morning demanding his car and no doubt being quite upset that it’s no longer there.