Smalley's imagination

There is a post I am wanting to write about the wonderful, colourful, often hilarious world that is Smalley's imagination.  Considering that it has just taken me two weeks to post about the snow that has now completely melted (despite hanging on for as long as possible), I'm posting this video as a little holding entry.  This is Leo, my ninja turtle, singing for his Sensei. 

Arigato. Sayonara. 

‘Tis the season...

... for daffodils, crocuses and snow days!

Such is English weather that Albs has so far only experienced snow three times in his life before. From sitting in the pushchair as I cleared my pregnant neighbours driveway in Yorkshire to being pulled in his sleigh to French nursery last time we went skiing to making and then smashing a pitiful, grass filled snowman three years ago.  Smalley never

None of Alb's previous memories have stuck but I think the fun that has come with the dramatically named “Beast from the East” have been substantial enough to stay this time round. From feeling thoroughly spoilt the week before last as we made the most of being housebound for 3 days, we’ve been able to do it all over again today. We’ve stomped through the snow, made snowmen and have fine tuned the dog walk to include to sledging stops and space for Percy to embrace his inner snow dog and go tucky-bum running, twisty pounce crazy in the snow. (So much fun had by our short, stumpy snow dog today that after chasing snowballs he then proceeded to show off his most manly behaviour by throwing up his breakfast. What a dog!)

Smalley has decided that travelling by sledge is by far the superior way to travel. His whole face lights up when he sees the sledge and he shouts “woo hoo” with great delight for the first ten minutes of the journey. I confess I’m equally thrilled with this mode of transport and am  feeling very smug with my decision to pack and unpack the then unused sledge for the past 3 house moves rather than listening to my inner anti-hoarder shouting "throw it out, you'l never need it."
It took Albs all of 20 minutes to ace sledging.  In true Albug fashion he seeks out the biggest, bumpiest route, gives a running commentary on his way up, an official announcement and countdown before he slides off and then cheers the whole way down.  As he tumbles out at the bottom shouts of "That was amazing!! Did you see how epic that was?! That was the coolest" fill the air - disturbing otherwise peaceful, snow filled mornings.

Snowman building the other week was a triumph. On day one the we only managed a snow mountain as the snow was too dry to do much else with. 24 hours later however we had perfect sticky snow and were quickly the proud owners of four ridiculous looking snowmen. (Having later admired the castles, igloos and snow dragon sculptures being posted on Facebook by my peers I once again note that my arts and craft skills remain at primary school level but thankfully I’m teamed up with a six year old and he was delighted!)
As it turns out Percy was actually the winner of the snowman building.  Having finished our snow figures we headed back in and Mark spent 5 minutes looking out the window laughing at the silliness of his dog busily eating snow.  Percy chomped away happily for a good amount of time and came in looking very satisfied with himself.  It was only when Mark went out 4 hours later to bring the carrots back in that we learnt Percy wasn't chomping on the snow.  He had eaten three whole, cold, crunchy carrots.  Organic carrots at that.  Smug git.

We fit together

Alb’s will fall asleep tightly hugging a soft toy.  He has about four favourites: Flumbo the elephant, Blueberry the dinosaur Daddy bought him on a trip to Kansas, Monka a knitted monkey given to George when he was born but adopted by big brother and Strawbs a bright pink rabbit-esque toy won at he village fair.  Alby will choose one and hold it tight as he falls asleep. Check in on him a few hours later and more often than not, he’s still clutching his toy tightly. 

As a child I shared a bed with several favourite soft toys and loved the idea of hugging them as I fell asleep but it never happened.  I’d start with a tight squeeze but as sleep came close I would push away the toy and snuggle into myself.  Hubby and I do the same, we enjoy a night time cuddle but when it comes to falling asleep it’s just not comfortable. 

But with George it’s different.  He will not fall asleep unless he’s in a tight huggle buggle.  If you forget he will lift up your arm, fold it over him and snuggle into you.  Somehow he can make himself fit perfectly into me.

Sometimes he lies away from me, other times he will grab my face with his hands and he falls asleep with his nose touching mine. 

 

When Albs was this age I was focused on trying to get him to sleep without my help, fixated on the advice of nanny authors highlighting all the ways I was failing my child.  I’m so lucky to have this second chance with my huggle buggle boy.  I know this won’t last.  Soon he’ll be pushing me away.  But for now, no matter what day I’ve had, my soul recharges when it’s time for George to sleep. 

Bathtime chat

A sneak peek into life with Albs, age 6 and Georgie, 2 and a half (plus some)...

Me: George, it's bathtime.  Time to get undressed.
George: If you take my clothes off I'm going to be really angry with you.
Albs (standing behind George): I'm trying not to laugh mummy.
Me: Don't worry mister.  Your little brother is a real character.
George: I am not a carrot.

There ends this evenings reading.  x

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.