Oi mister. What time do you call this?

It is just gone 11pm and George has only just crashed out for the night. They told me when I collected him from nursery that he was tired but that was six hours ago and he has barely yawned since. And not just any six hours. We took Percy for a walk, threw stones in the lake, played in the garden, had a bubble bath, jumped in the car and drove for an hour and a half (prime sleeping time wouldn't you think) and then played catch, peekaboo and various other chatty throwing games with balls and coasters with GG and Boppa.
All the grown ups wanted bed but George is a Duracell bunny.
I hope he drops one of his naps soon. These late nights are wearing thin and I'm conscious I'm no where near as consistent with George's bedtime routine as I had been with Alby's at this age. Or at least that's what my brain tells me. I don't know. I'm pretty tired.

When Alby met the Queen

Last Thursday was a big day for the family.  For the past five months Mark has been working on an event.  No, not just an event.  The Event.  Alongside two other crazy committed and dangerously dedicated soldiers he has been putting his heart, soul, mind and time into pulling off a day of celebrations to mark the 300^th anniversary of the Royal Artillery. 

21 Gun salute

He has been a stranger in the house, regularly working until midnight (in fact for the past three weeks, always working until midnight) plus weekends.  I wish I could claim that I was simply the dedicated and supported wife throughout but I’m not quite that exceptional a woman and the absence, compounded by the knowledge that three days after The Event he would be living away from home took its toll on my tolerance and understanding every now and then.  For that I apologise.

The Kings Troop

However, I digress. This isn't about me and my self-claimed guilt but about my amazing boys. 

A ride in the new car

Stepping onto the Square on Thursday morning I was overcome with pride for my husband and his team.  It was amazing.  The best tribute one could imagine pulled off brilliantly. And so it continued throughout the day. We spoke to re-enactors, at Alby’s request we asked a World War Two veteran to talk us through the medals on his chest (five from the Second World War, one from Korea plus a selection of others for service), we heard the 21 gun salute, admired the processions (Alby pointing to the soldiers dressed in their snow camo shouted “Look, it’s Darth Vader’s soldiers), loved the horses galloping past and, at the end of the day, we ate ice cream, drank Pimms, turned Trouble Monkey into a Ninja Turtle and watched him show off his ninja moves with two balloon swords on the bouncy castle.  It was just the best of days. One of those events which runs so seamlessly you fail to appreciate the endless work that went into it, it was just spectacular and I couldn’t be more pleased for Mark and his team.  Bloody good show chaps.

Guns saluting the Queen

I’ve waffled on enough already and I haven’t event mentioned the highlight of the day, the reason Mark stayed in the office until twelve instead of coming home at ten, the reason he is now sporting a handful of grey hairs (so he says, I can’t see them) is that Her Royal Highness herself was in attendance.  It’s her 90^th birthday this year and despite the actual birthday taking place a good few weeks ago now most of Britain seems to have taken the position that we shall be celebrating this milestone for the whole year.  So, despite this officially being the 300^th Anniversary of her Royal Artillery the day seemed to be regarded more as the chance for the Royal Artillery to celebrate her.  She doesn’t do many long appearances but she visited Wiltshire for three hours so this wasn’t just a big deal.  This was mega.  And amazingly, almost unbelievably but certainly in tribute to the brilliance that is Mark, we were able to be a part of the day.  Or more precisely Alby was.

Stormtroopers

Pretty much everywhere the Queen goes she gets presented with flowers and RA 300 was to be no exception.  The posey giving was discussed ages back and a throw away comment was made that Alby could do it.  Mark and I didn’t give it much thought.  Things change every six minutes in the army and no doubt they would come across a far more deserving family with a young child to do the flower giving instead.  But they didn’t.  It’s been sold as a tribute to the phenomenal effort Mark put into the event though I can’t shrug the feeling it may also be down to a bit of poor admin amongst the bigger chaos.  Whatever the true cause Alby was chosen as official flower boy on the day. 

A suit was bought.  A (dodgy) haircut took place.  New shoes were found (very last minute – thanks mum).  We practiced at home.  We practiced with others.  We witnessed a bored and underwhelmed four year old in action.  And then the day itself came.

It was a hot day.  It was a long day.  And it was a day where amongst the nerves and excitement lots of people forgot how to talk to and generally be around four year olds.  Three days of being told what an important job he was doing, three days of having to hand flowers over to an assortment of random people in very smart uniform, three days of being told to walk forward, chin up, smile and walk back, maybe shake hands, maybe not, maybe say something, maybe not, more heat, more waiting took its toll and by the time the Queen made it to the chapel Alby was fed up.  But Alby is a superstar and despite wanting nothing more than to be sitting on the sofa, watching telly in his pants, with his bottom lip almost out he told us “when it’s my turn I’m going to do it perfectly mummy.”  Many may not have believed him.  Mark and I did and we were right to.  

I have to give a special shout out to my dad here who was standing on the bank, about 50 feet away, behind the crowd of school children, waving his arms, jumping up and down and pulling funny faces.  That is what a four year old needs.  That got Alby smiling.  

My superstar

Getting over the near-teary state he was in, held his head high, walked forward nicely, handed over the flowers and paused.  I think the question mark over shaking hands or not, saying something or not threw him slightly.  And so he stood there.  I think for three seconds, maybe five but it felt like five minutes.  The Queen asked “Are these for me” and he nodded and said “yes” and then he paused for another 3 seconds, maybe four, and we called him back.  “Okay Alby, back now” Mark said kindly.

And he walked back, and held my hand, and the Queen continued forward, asking us as she went “How old?” Being a fool I replied with a simple “He’s four” whilst my cultured/sychophantic husband replied with “He’s four years old Ma’m” (Ma’m as in ham not Ma’m as in harm).  To which my beautiful, perfect little Man said, loudly and clearly, “Actually I’m four and a half.”  And everyone laughed, including the Queen and with that line the whole thing to me changed from a very stilted, staged, anonymous experience to a lovely moment,  A truly lovely moment. 

My memory is that I replied with “Sorry Alby, that half is very important” and the Queen said something along the lines of “Well yes, quite” or “Oh yes, of course”.  I don’t know.  It’s a happy blur.  Then she said her goodbyes and got into the car. 

Mark, sadly, just out of shot

As she stepped into the car Alby said “Mummy, I can see her Magic shoes.”  A reference to the day before when one of Mark’s colleagues had told Alby that the Queen had magic shoes because whenever she steps out of her helicopter gunfire goes off.  Bless him for remembering.

And then it was off for ice cream and bouncy castles and sitting in the shade as by then we were all a bit too red around the edges. And on the way home my friend texted to say “Check out the Daily Mail” and I did, and there was Alby, looking amazing.  And I swelled with happiness and pride for him.  For the wonder of my beautiful boy.  And it suddenly seemed much grander and more important than it actually had by the chapel. And I spent the rest of the day (actually the rest of the next two days) constantly referring back to the photo (and any other photo I could find) and smiling.  Not just at Alby’s picture but all of them.  Googling “Royal Artillery 300” to see which papers had written about it.  Because for my family it was the whole day that was important and my smile wasn’t reserved to my little Man but my big one too.  My heroes.  My superstars.  My loves.

The wonder of Alby

Alby is now dry at night. (He probably could have been months ago but he held out until we kicked in with some reward box bribery. He is no fool, not sure the same could be said for us.) To keep him dry we wake him around 9.30pm for a late night potty run.

Mark or I will gently rub his back and whisper to him until he rouses, just. We lift him out of bed and help him get sorted. He is barely awake at any point in the process. His eyes stay closed and he is this little, floppy sleepy bundle. 

And as he sits I watch him. I stare in wonder at how long his limbs have got, at his skinny little frame, his soft soft skin and I am amazed. Amazed this little man, this perfect, healthy, beautiful little person was made by us, grown in me and is part of my life. And I feel so blessed. 

When he was brand new I couldn't take my eyes off him. Feeds were special because I could just sit and stare at his perfect face, stroke his tiny fingers and be mesmerised by him. And I still get to do that with George now sometimes and it is still heaven.  But as they grow and get busier and busier,  even if we find an odd moment to just sit and stare the chances are they won't be sharing it with us. They will be charging around the house battling fierce baddies or tackling tangfastic challenges with forward rolls, cartwheels and spinny jumps. So we have to be more accepting. Nowadays my wonder moments are accompanied by the night sky, lullabies and Alby peeing. But the wonder of him makes it imperfectly perfect. 

My baby turned one

So we blinked.
And George has turned one.  I knew it would happen fast. I knew as the cliches all say, that the year would fly by and damn it they were so very right. Despite Alby lifting, carrying and wrestling, despite Percy licks and even the occasional bash, despite daddy working crazy hours meaning being stuck with crazy mama, George survived a whole twelve months. And if his goblin cackles are anything to go by he's as pleased as can be about it.

One year old George loves playing peek a boo, stamping his feet, clapping his hands, being tickled on the tummy and being swung in circles. He loves kicking and throwing balls, popping bubbles and knocking down stacking cups. He loves throwing his food on the floor cackling like a maniac with each item. He loves cuddles, stretching up both arms to be swept into your arms at any time. He loves his daddy, more so than his big brother did at this age. He loves his brother and his grandparents especially GG who he did some serious bonding with last week. He really loves his bulldog and will show such daily by climbing on his bed, sitting on him when he's sunbathing or climbing into his crate. George loves to walk. Tonight he walked up and down the kitchen - literally up and down, turning at each end, doing a squat and then heading off to the other side, laughing all the way, at which point the routine would be repeated over and over. He overs being in the garden and eating sand/dirt/grass. He loves being pushed on the swing at the park. He's a fan of Postman Pat. He loves gesticulating whilst shouting.

As I type he is lying flat on his back, arms raised by his head on the bed between his daddy and me. He's snoring lightly, twitching his legs, looking the picture of perfection.

He needs a hair cut and I'm starting to wonder if he will ever put his tongue in his mouth but he is my angel. My beautiful, perfect baby who touches my heart every day with the most spectacular love. We are so blessed having him in our lives.

A whole lot of reflection and some snippets from my day

I read a great article today titled "10 ways to enjoy your child today". There are thousands of articles out there, so many of them utter pants as they flip flop from tasks which require the supply cupboard (and staffing) of a large nursery to suggesting tasks so boring they make you question whether the author has actually ever met a toddler. This one however was good. The tasks were simple - trace around your hand, then trace around your child's hand inside yours and compare the sizes, tell each other 'I love you' in different animal languages, put on music and get your child to teach you some dance moves.
This list was realistic and achievable. The goal of every day. By the end I think she was searching a bit for ideas suggesting "turn off your phone for the day" - a brilliant suggestion and one Mark and I need to take up but not quite on a par with have a staring competition with them whilst you make funny faces.

I digress. The article echoed thoughts I've been having inceasingly the past few days. It is crazy easy to get caught up in "other than your child" activities when you have children. Whether it's some sort of selfishness from being at the beck and call of somebody else every minute of the day (and night) for four years or the temptations offered by having the internet and BBC Iplayer at your fingertips or tiredness preventing you from concentrating on any single task I don't know. Maybe a combination of all plus twenty other things as well.
I read an article (a different one) that said couples without children were happier than those with. My gut reaction was "what tripe". Followed quickly by the thought "if that's true there is something wrong with how we are parenting". There are many times over the past year when I've thought how much easier it is to take care of, and dare I say it, love a baby over a child. Their needs are different, they are simpler, they don't answer back, they don't make such specific demands of you nor do they reject your ideas. I'm not suggesting  you love them any differently but you expect so little from a baby and every smile is a gift whereas with toddlers there is an element of teaching in every interaction making it more dynamic and more demanding.
And expectation is probably the key word. Once babies really getting talking we all too often expect so much from them and our determination to get them to succeed can come at the cost of easy giggles and fun times. To be happy parents, to be good parents, we have to put aside our to do lists, put down the phone and follow their lead, give them the prompts and the space to be themselves. For them to be our beautiful children and for us to be their happy parents. Days when we go to bed shattered and frustrated reflect on our misplaced expectations rather than anything our children said or did.

We didn't do anything from the list today. Instead we played shop with Alby running a greengrocers followed by a stationary store. Alby meticulously scanning, weighing and adding up with his new till whilst I did my best to stop George eating the plastic money. We built block towers for George to knock down. We drew pictures together, me making the faces of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as Alby added the weapons. I followed his lead and as I reflect back on the day I get to do so from the smug position of knowing that today was a good day. I was a good mum. And the assertion that the claim that you are happier without kids is, for me, utter tripe.

This post was just meant to be a short intro followed by the little snippets below but I appear to have gone all philosophical on everyone. Oh well, here's a few sneak peeks from life with Alby today.

Playing games
Alby: let's play the word game mummy.
Me: Okay. I don't think I know the word game. How do we play?
Alby: Sonebody thinks of a word. And you have to guess.
Me: What? Any word?
Alby: I'll go first. Mummy, trees move even when you don't touch them.
Me: (tentatively) Yes. When the wind blows on them the branches wave.
Alby: Yes! That's it. Well done. That's one point to me and one point to you.

Manners
As Georgie destroys Alby's race/building/ninja fight "no thank you Georgie. No thank you. No thank you Georgie."

Vocabulary
Alby: Did you see that mummy? It was tanfastic.
Later that same day: George is so red-ick-lee-ous.

George clapping
I have a vivid memory of driving from Yorkshire to Surrey when Alby was about a year old. He was in his car seat in the passenger seat fast asleep and I was listening to a live CD of Knopfler. At the end of the song the audience started clapping and Alby just sat upright, starting clapping and then when straight back to sleep again. Tonight as I put George to bed he was sleeping in my arms, still latched from his feed, his clunky projector music going on in the background and he started clapping. Hands up by his forehead as there was nowhere else for them to go, eyes still closed, clapping away.

Helping children with no shoes

A month or so ago I was doing my normal thing of cooking dinner whilst watching BBC iplayer on my phone when Alby came in.  There is no hiding the telly from this boy – as he once told me “the telly is my best friend”, and neither wishing to turn it off nor make for a grumpy Alby I pulled up his chair and we watched together.

George's first race

I was watching the Great British Bake Off for Sport Relief and chuckling away at the inept skills of a random mix of non-sporting celebrity bakers when they paused the kitchen fun for some harrowing scenes of underprivileged children, this time in Kenya.  The film followed the life of a street boy and when it ended Alby turned to me and said “mummy, did you know there are some children who don’t even have shoes to wear.”  A statement which came with many hand gestures and therefore I knew was serious.  And so, Alby and I decided to do something about it.  Twenty emails later and the Little Legs two mile run / cycle / walk in Richmond Park was on.

Official Richmond Park pace maker

And it was bloody brilliant if I do say so myself.  Alby and I had been fundraising at his nursery all week via a bake sale (cupcake, fudge brownie bite, chocolate chip cookie, rice crispy cake or cup of jelly anyone??) All that late night weighing, mixing and mess making paid off with over £80 being raised in just three days which I think is pretty impressive and combined with their online efforts our cute little ones pulled in just over £300 of sponsorship – go them!

Tree climbing pit stop 

We were joined by Family Kitchen, Kemp and the non-ill / travelling part of Family Hines (aka Harrison) along with Percy (of course) and Boppa and GG who kindly held up the finish line.  Bikes were mounted, starter engines revved and off they sped.  And they really did go (fuelled in part by a left over pre-race chocolate chip cookie).  Even George took part at the beginning setting the pace with his walker and getting in the way of many lycra wearing runner and cyclist.  With their super hero capes flying the kids did good.  They crossed the 1 mile finish line together, refuelled on another chocolate chip cookie and turned back to do the same again back at the start, with a bit of tree climbing and stone throwing along the way.  Goody bags were on hand at the end though we forgot to get the helium balloons out the back of my in-laws car so that was a nice surprise for them when they got back home and opened the boot.

Little champs

 Our little legs were little superstars.  I love them all.  To pieces. x

Crashed out the next day

A mental photo

A couple of weeks ago my parents came over to babysit the boys whilst Mark and I went out for his Regimental dine out.  The next morning he took Alby to Winchester where they were meeting up with friends to watch Mister Maker at the theatre.  Meanwhile George and I played with my parents.  We sat on the floor, the sun coming in through the back door window, with George’s drum and xylophone between us.  George would bash his drum and shout, then my dad would have a go, then George, then my dad, then George…Then my dad would hold the drum or xylophone up to George’s ear to let him hear the note ring out.  He used to do the same to us when we were very young although that time it was with a tuning fork. 

It was one of those pure, simple, happy moments. And it lasted.  We must have sat there for over half an hour with George.  Him playing with the instruments, flapping his arms, yelling, looking around a bit and then bashing the drum or xylophone again and us echoing and copying where we could.  Those moments of such happy awareness you think you are almost having an out of body experience taking in every tiny detail.  I came close to grabbing my phone a few times to document the moment but I held back and settled for a mental photo instead.  I captured the image with my soul instead of with my camera.  Probably for the best as I can be a terrible photographed at times  and I doubt my iphone would have actually done any justice to the moment.

My dad is the one who brought music into my life.  I don’t know when music first entered his life but it has been a passion of his for the whole of my life.  He played guitar when I was younger, he still does now, but it wasn’t only that.  He used to fill the house with classical music.  I remember so vividly trying to have a lie in when I was 17 or something and him doing his normal Sunday morning thing  - waking up and getting himself sorted and then booming some symphony or another through the speakers loudly enough to ensure that no matter what room he was in or what job he was up to we heard it.  It was 9:30am and I was so angry with him that morning.  Now though (possibly because he isn’t waking me up anymore) I love that he has music in his blood.  And I love it even more so when that gets shared with the boys. 

And that Sunday morning it was brilliant.  My parents are amazing and I’m not sure if it’s ever just been the four of us: mum, dad, George and me.  There’s usually a raucous pre-schooler in the room taking up a large part of, well, of everything – space, attention, noise, imagination. And it’s brilliant when Alby is there, obviously.  But this was special too and I will hold onto the memory for as long as my brain allows.