We woke to a beautiful, sunny morning on Tuesday and the Small Girl was thrilled that Daddy was to have an unprecedented day off work: it was going to be a good day.
I like the idea behind St Patrick’s Day; being English and therefore rather reserved, it’s nice to see people letting their hair down and really having fun. And what better reason to do it than to celebrate Being Irish? There’s no English equivalent to St Patrick’s (the Brits are far too stuffy to celebrate Being British and anyhow, it’s far too un-pc in England these days to actually be proud of your heritage), so it’s all rather a novelty to us.
We dutifully dressed the Small Girl and the Very Small Boy in green and painted the Small Girl’s face with little Irish flags (which resulted in a predictable paint-related tantrum), and set off into town to watch the parade. On the way, DH and I tried our best to clear up a complicated misunderstanding with the Small Girl about just who Patrick was and whether or not he had anything to do with our next-door-neighbour, whose name happens to be Patrick.
The St Patrick’s Day parade in our town consists of a bizarre jumble of floats from local businesses, schools and clubs, thunderous vintage cars and fire-engines, all interspersed with an impressive display of might from the local military base. We found a place by the roadside in amongst the jostling crowd of green-painted, beard-wearing, flag-waving leprechauns (and that was just the grown-ups) and settled down to watch the parade.
As a huge tank rolled slowly past (I was pleased to see the “L” plates had been removed as it passed perilously close to a group of excitable green-faced children), the Small Girl pointed to a fire engine.
“Mummy, is my Daddy a Firefighter?” she asked me. I looked over to DH, who was pulling a silly face and waving Mister Horse (a favourite rattle) for the Very Small Boy.
“No darling, he’s a Software Engineer”, I replied.
“But Mummy, why is he a Software Engineer?” she persisted, in another of her unanswerable “why” questions.
Picking her up as the parade began to wind down and we started to make our way slowly home, I looked down at the Very Small Boy in his buggy, who stared with great concentration at Mister Horse, raised him slowly skyward and then bashed himself firmly on the head. I turned back to the Small Girl and explained:
“Well, that’s his work – when he goes to work every day in Dublin, he works as a Software Engineer and he does Important Things on a computer”.
The Small Girl thought about this. “But Mummy, are you a Software Engineer?”
“No Sausage, I’m not”.
“Why?”
She obviously wasn’t going to let the subject lie, and I had a nagging feeling that I ought to answer her question with caution.
“Daddy and I just do different things for work” I replied, not even knowing where to begin with this one. “Daddy goes to Dublin to work and I stay home with you and Baby Pie. My work is to be a Mummy”.
And we were both momentarily distracted by a grassy bank of bright daffodils, shining optimistically under the cloudless March sky.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
You Learn Something New Every Day
Stuck in traffic on the way back from our weekly family outing to the smucasmarket yesterday, the Small Girl was whingeing ("I want another thnaaack!") and the Very Small Boy was beginning to get agitated (he loves car journeys but the moment the car stops, he starts to get very cross). We soon discovered the cause of the tailback: a very large group of spectators had gathered by the roadside to watch two single-person horse carts racing slowly the wrong way down the road.
"The Gypos are in town" remarked DH as I stared back open-mouthed at the rabble jumping into their cars and racing off drunkenly after the horses. Sometimes living in Ireland can be very strange.
"What's the story behind St Patrick's Day?" I asked DH as we continued on our way.
"I'm not sure... something to do with how he drove the snakes out of Ireland I think" he replied.
A Small Voice piped up from the back of the car:"Patrick got the snakes and all the people didn't like Patrick. They didn't like him and then he took the snakes away and then they liked him". I was amazed - the Small Girl had just taught me something new, which she must have learned at playschool. I never would have thought that at the tender age of two, she would be lecturing me on Irish History.
Then again, both my children have taught me a lot of things when I think about it. They've taught me that I didn't really know myself until they came along. They've also taught me not to judge people for who they are, because mostly it's out of our control. And they've taught me to stop and try to appreciate the small things in life, like a decent night's sleep or a lovely sunny day. Or even just a nice cup of tea.
And we pulled up by the side of the road as a huge army tank crawled past us down the High Street with a large and prominent "L" plate displayed just below its camouflaged machine-gun operator.
"The Gypos are in town" remarked DH as I stared back open-mouthed at the rabble jumping into their cars and racing off drunkenly after the horses. Sometimes living in Ireland can be very strange.
"What's the story behind St Patrick's Day?" I asked DH as we continued on our way.
"I'm not sure... something to do with how he drove the snakes out of Ireland I think" he replied.
A Small Voice piped up from the back of the car:"Patrick got the snakes and all the people didn't like Patrick. They didn't like him and then he took the snakes away and then they liked him". I was amazed - the Small Girl had just taught me something new, which she must have learned at playschool. I never would have thought that at the tender age of two, she would be lecturing me on Irish History.
Then again, both my children have taught me a lot of things when I think about it. They've taught me that I didn't really know myself until they came along. They've also taught me not to judge people for who they are, because mostly it's out of our control. And they've taught me to stop and try to appreciate the small things in life, like a decent night's sleep or a lovely sunny day. Or even just a nice cup of tea.
And we pulled up by the side of the road as a huge army tank crawled past us down the High Street with a large and prominent "L" plate displayed just below its camouflaged machine-gun operator.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Wake Up & Smell The Coffee
"Oh you're a Marmelous Pie!" said the Small Girl to her Very Small Brother yesterday morning when she woke up. It was all very well for her to say this; she hadn't been woken by him at the crack of dawn.
The Very Small Boy is going through a phase of waking at 5.00am at the moment, and despite our best efforts, we simply cannot persuade him to go back to sleep. By the time he has been fed and changed and had a play and gone back down for a nap, it's 7.00 and the Small Girl is banging on the wall ready for her milky drink. It's lovely for DH and I to have a couple of hours of quality time alone with him - it's just a shame that it all has to happen quite so early in the morning. I really oughtn't to complain though - he is marvelous at going to bed, and he does sleep through the night.
The first time the Very Small Boy "slept through", at only nine weeks old and before he had moved into a room of his own, I spent a sleepless night lying very still in bed and holding my breath so I could hear that he was breathing himself. Overnight, he had gone from waking twice a night for a drink, to not waking until morning, and the reason for this was clear: he had Found His Thumb. The thumb trick doesn't always work though; the way that the Very Small Boy gets his Very Small Thumb into his mouth demands so much concentration on his part that if he is overtired, it is simply beyond him. First, he slowly lifts his arm up over his head, then brings it down sideways so that it is lying across his face. Then, with little dark eyebrows wrinkled and lips pursed in concentration, he slowly drags his hand across his face until his little thumb is level with his mouth; with any luck, the thumb goes in and he's soon drifting off to sleep.
However, for some reason known only to him, the Very Small boy only naps during the day for 45 minutes at a time. I am frankly too terrified to look up the "solution" to this nap-related problem in one of my many baby manuals; after the Small Girl outgrew her babygros, I vowed never to look at a baby book again. They all give such conflicting and guilt-inducing advice that you end up crippled with insecurity and unable to make a decision for yourself (no doubt it would be all my fault that the Very Small Boy only sleeps for 45 minutes and if I had paid more heed to the advice in Chapter 2, I would never have got myself into this mess in the first place).
I remember clearly that the Small Girl also had a phase of getting up unfeasibly early in the morning when she was Very Small. Each time I heard her starting to fuss at 4.30 or 5.00am, my heart would sink and I would think "I can't possibly do this again". We lived in Bombay at the time, and I would take her out in the dark onto the balcony with a coffee (there is something incredibly comforting about a hot coffee at that time of the morning). Sitting in her bouncy chair, the Small Girl would beam up at me with her gummy smile and together, we'd watch the sun rise over the rooftops. As beautiful green parakeets screeched about the hazy early-morning sky, we'd be cheered by the exotic sounds of the city coming alive, and filled with hope for the day ahead.
The Very Small Boy is going through a phase of waking at 5.00am at the moment, and despite our best efforts, we simply cannot persuade him to go back to sleep. By the time he has been fed and changed and had a play and gone back down for a nap, it's 7.00 and the Small Girl is banging on the wall ready for her milky drink. It's lovely for DH and I to have a couple of hours of quality time alone with him - it's just a shame that it all has to happen quite so early in the morning. I really oughtn't to complain though - he is marvelous at going to bed, and he does sleep through the night.
The first time the Very Small Boy "slept through", at only nine weeks old and before he had moved into a room of his own, I spent a sleepless night lying very still in bed and holding my breath so I could hear that he was breathing himself. Overnight, he had gone from waking twice a night for a drink, to not waking until morning, and the reason for this was clear: he had Found His Thumb. The thumb trick doesn't always work though; the way that the Very Small Boy gets his Very Small Thumb into his mouth demands so much concentration on his part that if he is overtired, it is simply beyond him. First, he slowly lifts his arm up over his head, then brings it down sideways so that it is lying across his face. Then, with little dark eyebrows wrinkled and lips pursed in concentration, he slowly drags his hand across his face until his little thumb is level with his mouth; with any luck, the thumb goes in and he's soon drifting off to sleep.
However, for some reason known only to him, the Very Small boy only naps during the day for 45 minutes at a time. I am frankly too terrified to look up the "solution" to this nap-related problem in one of my many baby manuals; after the Small Girl outgrew her babygros, I vowed never to look at a baby book again. They all give such conflicting and guilt-inducing advice that you end up crippled with insecurity and unable to make a decision for yourself (no doubt it would be all my fault that the Very Small Boy only sleeps for 45 minutes and if I had paid more heed to the advice in Chapter 2, I would never have got myself into this mess in the first place).
I remember clearly that the Small Girl also had a phase of getting up unfeasibly early in the morning when she was Very Small. Each time I heard her starting to fuss at 4.30 or 5.00am, my heart would sink and I would think "I can't possibly do this again". We lived in Bombay at the time, and I would take her out in the dark onto the balcony with a coffee (there is something incredibly comforting about a hot coffee at that time of the morning). Sitting in her bouncy chair, the Small Girl would beam up at me with her gummy smile and together, we'd watch the sun rise over the rooftops. As beautiful green parakeets screeched about the hazy early-morning sky, we'd be cheered by the exotic sounds of the city coming alive, and filled with hope for the day ahead.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Long Walk Home
For some reason, the first thing the Small Girl said to me yesterday morning was “Mummy, you’re a genius!” Cheered by this pleasant start to the day, and by the beautiful sunshine outside, I decided it was about time the Small Girl, the Very Small Boy and I had a really productive, positive day.
To begin with, I vowed silently to myself to remain calm and sensible no matter what the day (or the children) threw at me. And then, since it was really about time I did something about getting back in shape after having the Very Small Boy, I thought we might as well tackle that too, with a nice Long Walk to the playground. Finally, there was to be no television whatsoever for the Small Girl; instead we would pursue worthwhile craft projects.
After an extremely sensible lunch, I went to pick up the Small Girl from playschool. With a jubilant cry of "Mummy!” she came dashing towards me across the Toddler Room and flung herself at my legs. I love picking the Small Girl up from playschool; this moment of reunion is so life-affirming that it is worth the hours of tedious harassment it takes for me to get both her and the Very Small Boy up, dressed, fed and into the car each morning by 8.45.
“What did you do at playschool today, Sausage?” I asked her.
“Painting!” She cried gleefully.
“Oh lovely – what did you paint?”
“Myself!” And with that, she undid her cardigan to reveal her pretty pink top, alarmingly smeared with green paint. “It’s magic paint”, she added, and my heart sank (the “magic” appears to be that it is indelible and therefore ruinous to any item of clothing it comes into contact with).
For some time, fearful of getting stranded miles from home with two small children, I have been putting off going for a Long Walk. Yet to be put through its paces, our buggy board (which allows the Small Girl to stand in front of me, holding the buggy handles as I push) is an ingenious and cost-effective (if slightly cumbersome) solution to the problem of getting around with two children.
However, what with stopping to talk to dogs, experimenting with sitting on variously-sized garden walls and examining small but interesting pieces of rubbish, it took us about an hour to make the 15 minute walk to the playground. Immediately upon entering, I began to feel panicky and anxious about the journey back; my state of mind was certainly not helped by the fact that, out of nowhere, an ominous-looking black cloud had appeared on the horizon.
Despite huge efforts of persuasion, the Small Girl simply would not come down from the slide. And of course, the one thing I had forgotten to bring was an enticing thnack. So by the time we actually set off for home, the cloud was upon us and small drops of drizzle had quickly turned to thunderous, driving rain.
I spent the next hour hunched over the buggy board like some ancient old woman, shuffling painstakingly homewards as the wind whipped my hair about my face and the freezing rain soaked through my clothes. The Small Girl kept up an almost continuous whingeing monotone (“I want a thnaaack! I can’t get my fingers in! I want to get off! You carry me!”), in between falling off the buggy board and trying to rummage in my sodden handbag for concealed snacks.
When we finally got home, exhausted and drenched, the Small Girl made wordlessly for the telly, while I helped myself to a large slice of chocolate cake to counteract the stress.
To begin with, I vowed silently to myself to remain calm and sensible no matter what the day (or the children) threw at me. And then, since it was really about time I did something about getting back in shape after having the Very Small Boy, I thought we might as well tackle that too, with a nice Long Walk to the playground. Finally, there was to be no television whatsoever for the Small Girl; instead we would pursue worthwhile craft projects.
After an extremely sensible lunch, I went to pick up the Small Girl from playschool. With a jubilant cry of "Mummy!” she came dashing towards me across the Toddler Room and flung herself at my legs. I love picking the Small Girl up from playschool; this moment of reunion is so life-affirming that it is worth the hours of tedious harassment it takes for me to get both her and the Very Small Boy up, dressed, fed and into the car each morning by 8.45.
“What did you do at playschool today, Sausage?” I asked her.
“Painting!” She cried gleefully.
“Oh lovely – what did you paint?”
“Myself!” And with that, she undid her cardigan to reveal her pretty pink top, alarmingly smeared with green paint. “It’s magic paint”, she added, and my heart sank (the “magic” appears to be that it is indelible and therefore ruinous to any item of clothing it comes into contact with).
For some time, fearful of getting stranded miles from home with two small children, I have been putting off going for a Long Walk. Yet to be put through its paces, our buggy board (which allows the Small Girl to stand in front of me, holding the buggy handles as I push) is an ingenious and cost-effective (if slightly cumbersome) solution to the problem of getting around with two children.
However, what with stopping to talk to dogs, experimenting with sitting on variously-sized garden walls and examining small but interesting pieces of rubbish, it took us about an hour to make the 15 minute walk to the playground. Immediately upon entering, I began to feel panicky and anxious about the journey back; my state of mind was certainly not helped by the fact that, out of nowhere, an ominous-looking black cloud had appeared on the horizon.
Despite huge efforts of persuasion, the Small Girl simply would not come down from the slide. And of course, the one thing I had forgotten to bring was an enticing thnack. So by the time we actually set off for home, the cloud was upon us and small drops of drizzle had quickly turned to thunderous, driving rain.
I spent the next hour hunched over the buggy board like some ancient old woman, shuffling painstakingly homewards as the wind whipped my hair about my face and the freezing rain soaked through my clothes. The Small Girl kept up an almost continuous whingeing monotone (“I want a thnaaack! I can’t get my fingers in! I want to get off! You carry me!”), in between falling off the buggy board and trying to rummage in my sodden handbag for concealed snacks.
When we finally got home, exhausted and drenched, the Small Girl made wordlessly for the telly, while I helped myself to a large slice of chocolate cake to counteract the stress.
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Alligator and The Pub
Yesterday, two things happened which are unheard of in our family. Firstly, DH and I managed to have a lie-in; The Small Girl, still recovering from her vomiting bug, didn't wake up until 8.30am (she made us aware of this event in her usual fashion by banging loudly on the wall that divides her bedroom from ours). We very much enjoyed this rare Sunday treat, despite the fact that there was a Very Small Boy passed out in the bed between us.
Secondly, DH announced that he wanted to Go Shopping. DH dislikes clothes shopping - for himself or anyone else - to such a degree that he usually can't even bring himself to enter a clothes shop, preferring instead to loiter apprehensively at the entrance while I, under pressure, make hasty impulse purchases which later have to be returned. But yesterday he decided he needed a new pair of jeans, so we all set out for the shops to help him find them.
Having identified a suitable Department Store, I held up pair after pair of nice jeans for him to choose from, only to have each one rejected on the basis of some minor flaw, apparent only to himself ("the pockets are wrong", "the stitching is funny" etc). Finally, he held up a pair and declared "I like these - what do you think?"
"No, they look like something someone's Dad would wear" I replied.
DH thought about this for a moment. "But I am someone's Dad" he said.
The Small Girl, who had been running wildly around the shop, pulling items off the shelves and trying silly hats on, now came dashing over to us wearing an oversize cowboy hat and shouting "Daddy, where's the alligator?”
Deciding I could no longer pretend that she didn't belong to me, I tried to guess what she was talking about. “Do you mean the elevator?” I asked, pointing to the exciting-looking glass lift.
“No, the alligator, the alligator!” the Small Girl shouted crossly, waving her arms about as she disappeared off in the direction of the escalator.
Some time later, after endless dizzying rounds on the escalator, we managed to entice the Small Girl away by promising a visit to The Pub. She currently has something of an obsession with The Pub, which she thinks is just about the most exciting place one could go (and I’m in agreement with her on this one).
Irish pubs not only welcome children, they often provide entertainment packs much like those you might get on an aeroplane. So with the Small Girl nicely distracted with some colouring-in, we had a lovely impromptu Sunday Lunch and a couple of very welcome glasses of wine. The Very Small Boy woke up and stared with great concentration at his rattle, before slowly raising both arms up, unclenching his fists, making a studied grab for the rattle and missing completely.
Later, DH had to carry the Small Girl out as she writhed and screeched through her tears “I don’t want to leave the pub! I don’t want to leave the pub!”. Thinking of my empty wineglass, I’m afraid I had to admit I felt the same way.
Secondly, DH announced that he wanted to Go Shopping. DH dislikes clothes shopping - for himself or anyone else - to such a degree that he usually can't even bring himself to enter a clothes shop, preferring instead to loiter apprehensively at the entrance while I, under pressure, make hasty impulse purchases which later have to be returned. But yesterday he decided he needed a new pair of jeans, so we all set out for the shops to help him find them.
Having identified a suitable Department Store, I held up pair after pair of nice jeans for him to choose from, only to have each one rejected on the basis of some minor flaw, apparent only to himself ("the pockets are wrong", "the stitching is funny" etc). Finally, he held up a pair and declared "I like these - what do you think?"
"No, they look like something someone's Dad would wear" I replied.
DH thought about this for a moment. "But I am someone's Dad" he said.
The Small Girl, who had been running wildly around the shop, pulling items off the shelves and trying silly hats on, now came dashing over to us wearing an oversize cowboy hat and shouting "Daddy, where's the alligator?”
Deciding I could no longer pretend that she didn't belong to me, I tried to guess what she was talking about. “Do you mean the elevator?” I asked, pointing to the exciting-looking glass lift.
“No, the alligator, the alligator!” the Small Girl shouted crossly, waving her arms about as she disappeared off in the direction of the escalator.
Some time later, after endless dizzying rounds on the escalator, we managed to entice the Small Girl away by promising a visit to The Pub. She currently has something of an obsession with The Pub, which she thinks is just about the most exciting place one could go (and I’m in agreement with her on this one).
Irish pubs not only welcome children, they often provide entertainment packs much like those you might get on an aeroplane. So with the Small Girl nicely distracted with some colouring-in, we had a lovely impromptu Sunday Lunch and a couple of very welcome glasses of wine. The Very Small Boy woke up and stared with great concentration at his rattle, before slowly raising both arms up, unclenching his fists, making a studied grab for the rattle and missing completely.
Later, DH had to carry the Small Girl out as she writhed and screeched through her tears “I don’t want to leave the pub! I don’t want to leave the pub!”. Thinking of my empty wineglass, I’m afraid I had to admit I felt the same way.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The Smucasmarket
Being the parent of a toddler is a bit like caring for someone with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: there is a strict set of routines that has to be adhered to before one can leave the house.
We decided yesterday to have a Family Outing to the shops, and that it would be a good idea to get up and leave the house early to avoid the crowds. Unfortunately, several hours later, we were still stuck at home, unable to set out until certain of the Small Girl’s obsessive requirements had been fulfilled. She had to have her “milky drink” (milk) in her special pink beaker. She had to get dressed herself (a noble undertaking but one which requires limitless patience). She had to have her “special cereal” with the milk heated to just the right temperature. And finally she had to approve a thnack for the journey to the smucasmarket.
I can’t help feeling a certain amount of sadness at the demise of the Small Girl’s cute mispronunciations; I used to get a great deal of enjoyment from the fact that she called the supermarket “the smucasmarket” (she now looks at us with disdain when Darling Husband and I insist on jovially continuing to refer to Tescos as “the smucasmarket”, and I can’t help feeling that the Teenage Years might be closer than we imagine). In the car, the Very Small Boy slept while the Small Girl reflected on what might happen when we arrived (“A warthog might come and bite you!”) and I put on my make-up (well you never know who you might bump into).
The Small Girl loves going shopping with Daddy; she gets to do all kinds of things which are Not Allowed when Mummy is in charge. Daddy lets her dash up and down the aisles; Daddy lets her choose a thnack and eat it on the run... So they disappeared off together when we arrived (“let’s go find a warthog, Daddy!”), leaving the Very Small Sleeping Boy and I to enjoy our shopping in peace. As I walked serenely past the canned goods, I remembered the old days, when I would push the Very Small Girl around the supermarket in her pushchair and she’d casually fling out an arm and drive an entire shelf of mushy peas onto the floor as we swept past.
Stepping over a messy pot of crushed strawberry trifle, I felt smugly pleased that other peoples’ children must be as destructive as my own. The Small Girl seemed to be having a very successful shopping trip today - she rounded the corner ahead of me, walking sensibly over to say “Mummy, that lady’s from playschool”. Waving to a woman standing next to us, she slipped a custardy, strawberry-scented hand into mine and repeated herself loudly as the woman looked pointedly at the vegetable display.
“Is she from playschool?” I asked, trying to hurry her away.
“Yeah, she’s from playschool…. and I don’t like her!” she declared loudly, staring back at the woman.
At the checkout, the Family Outing to the smucasmarket ended with the Small Girl having her usual almighty tantrum about the tantalisingly displayed sweets. And back at the car, the tears continued.
“Well, that was a nightmare”, I said to DH after we loaded up the shopping and strapped the children in.
“Just think”, he replied, “soon there will be two of them running around in the smucasmarket”.
And we both turned to look fondly over our shoulders at the Very Small Boy, sleeping peacefully in his car seat.
We decided yesterday to have a Family Outing to the shops, and that it would be a good idea to get up and leave the house early to avoid the crowds. Unfortunately, several hours later, we were still stuck at home, unable to set out until certain of the Small Girl’s obsessive requirements had been fulfilled. She had to have her “milky drink” (milk) in her special pink beaker. She had to get dressed herself (a noble undertaking but one which requires limitless patience). She had to have her “special cereal” with the milk heated to just the right temperature. And finally she had to approve a thnack for the journey to the smucasmarket.
I can’t help feeling a certain amount of sadness at the demise of the Small Girl’s cute mispronunciations; I used to get a great deal of enjoyment from the fact that she called the supermarket “the smucasmarket” (she now looks at us with disdain when Darling Husband and I insist on jovially continuing to refer to Tescos as “the smucasmarket”, and I can’t help feeling that the Teenage Years might be closer than we imagine). In the car, the Very Small Boy slept while the Small Girl reflected on what might happen when we arrived (“A warthog might come and bite you!”) and I put on my make-up (well you never know who you might bump into).
The Small Girl loves going shopping with Daddy; she gets to do all kinds of things which are Not Allowed when Mummy is in charge. Daddy lets her dash up and down the aisles; Daddy lets her choose a thnack and eat it on the run... So they disappeared off together when we arrived (“let’s go find a warthog, Daddy!”), leaving the Very Small Sleeping Boy and I to enjoy our shopping in peace. As I walked serenely past the canned goods, I remembered the old days, when I would push the Very Small Girl around the supermarket in her pushchair and she’d casually fling out an arm and drive an entire shelf of mushy peas onto the floor as we swept past.
Stepping over a messy pot of crushed strawberry trifle, I felt smugly pleased that other peoples’ children must be as destructive as my own. The Small Girl seemed to be having a very successful shopping trip today - she rounded the corner ahead of me, walking sensibly over to say “Mummy, that lady’s from playschool”. Waving to a woman standing next to us, she slipped a custardy, strawberry-scented hand into mine and repeated herself loudly as the woman looked pointedly at the vegetable display.
“Is she from playschool?” I asked, trying to hurry her away.
“Yeah, she’s from playschool…. and I don’t like her!” she declared loudly, staring back at the woman.
At the checkout, the Family Outing to the smucasmarket ended with the Small Girl having her usual almighty tantrum about the tantalisingly displayed sweets. And back at the car, the tears continued.
“Well, that was a nightmare”, I said to DH after we loaded up the shopping and strapped the children in.
“Just think”, he replied, “soon there will be two of them running around in the smucasmarket”.
And we both turned to look fondly over our shoulders at the Very Small Boy, sleeping peacefully in his car seat.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Crazy Like a Moose
I had a phone call yesterday morning from the Small Girl’s playschool: she’d just thrown up into her cake (it was her friend’s birthday), and could I come and collect her? I put it all down to the fact that she had spent quite some time licking the floor of the Health Centre the day before, and tried to come to terms with the fact that it was going to be a long and harrowing day.
Generally, I’m pretty good at dealing with illness, at least to begin with. I leapt into action, settling her under a duvet on the sofa with a drink of warm Ribena and a bowl to be sick in. I cuddled her, stroked her hair and reassured her that Mummy was here and that everything was going to be OK. She lay there whimpering a bit, sucking her fingers and submitting listlessly to my fussing. Unfortunately, I have a very short attention span with these things, and an hour later I was beginning to get a bit fed up with Being Florence Nightingale, and to wish she would pull herself together so we could go shopping.
At least she appeared to have stopped being sick, so I decided to risk giving her Calpol. It worked: within half an hour, the colour had returned to her cheeks, she had jumped up from the sofa and she was pestering me to participate in one of her “games”.
The Small Girl’s fantastic imaginary games always begin with the allocation of roles: “Mummy, you be a monster” (or doctor/ snake/ lady/ Toucan etc.). Once we all know who we are, the Small Girl directs the game. There are several themes with which she is currently preoccupied: Going to the Doctor, Getting the Train to Dublin, Going to the Seaside, etc. Yesterday’s theme, predictably, was Being Sick at Playschool.
“Mummy, you be a Doctor and I’m at playschool and you come and pick me up and give me a check-up and ask the lady in the chemist for a lollipop…” My heart sank - was this really preferable to Being Florence Nightingale?
Still, I threw myself into it and in the end, we had quite a pleasant day, incorporating Going to the Doctor, Getting the Train to Dublin and Going to the Seaside all in one afternoon. I brought out some puzzles for us to do together At the Seaside, and the pieces quickly became the components of a meal, as the Small Girl cooked me “pasta with a nappy sauce” and a “lemonade sandwich”. The whole thing ended with an enthusiastic dance and a hearty rendition of “Baa baa black sheep”.
In isolation in the corner of the room, the Very Small Boy dealt with all this really very well. Sitting in his bouncy chair, watching us thoughtfully and sucking his thumb, he gave us a serious frown with his little fluffy eyebrows. “Are you OK Baby Pie?” I asked him, as the Small Girl ran over to give him a kiss.
“Aaawwwww, he’s a cwazy baby!” she declared.
“A crazy baby?” I asked laughing.
“Yeah…. like a Moose” she said, nodding thoughtfully to herself and wandering off to watch telly.
Generally, I’m pretty good at dealing with illness, at least to begin with. I leapt into action, settling her under a duvet on the sofa with a drink of warm Ribena and a bowl to be sick in. I cuddled her, stroked her hair and reassured her that Mummy was here and that everything was going to be OK. She lay there whimpering a bit, sucking her fingers and submitting listlessly to my fussing. Unfortunately, I have a very short attention span with these things, and an hour later I was beginning to get a bit fed up with Being Florence Nightingale, and to wish she would pull herself together so we could go shopping.
At least she appeared to have stopped being sick, so I decided to risk giving her Calpol. It worked: within half an hour, the colour had returned to her cheeks, she had jumped up from the sofa and she was pestering me to participate in one of her “games”.
The Small Girl’s fantastic imaginary games always begin with the allocation of roles: “Mummy, you be a monster” (or doctor/ snake/ lady/ Toucan etc.). Once we all know who we are, the Small Girl directs the game. There are several themes with which she is currently preoccupied: Going to the Doctor, Getting the Train to Dublin, Going to the Seaside, etc. Yesterday’s theme, predictably, was Being Sick at Playschool.
“Mummy, you be a Doctor and I’m at playschool and you come and pick me up and give me a check-up and ask the lady in the chemist for a lollipop…” My heart sank - was this really preferable to Being Florence Nightingale?
Still, I threw myself into it and in the end, we had quite a pleasant day, incorporating Going to the Doctor, Getting the Train to Dublin and Going to the Seaside all in one afternoon. I brought out some puzzles for us to do together At the Seaside, and the pieces quickly became the components of a meal, as the Small Girl cooked me “pasta with a nappy sauce” and a “lemonade sandwich”. The whole thing ended with an enthusiastic dance and a hearty rendition of “Baa baa black sheep”.
In isolation in the corner of the room, the Very Small Boy dealt with all this really very well. Sitting in his bouncy chair, watching us thoughtfully and sucking his thumb, he gave us a serious frown with his little fluffy eyebrows. “Are you OK Baby Pie?” I asked him, as the Small Girl ran over to give him a kiss.
“Aaawwwww, he’s a cwazy baby!” she declared.
“A crazy baby?” I asked laughing.
“Yeah…. like a Moose” she said, nodding thoughtfully to herself and wandering off to watch telly.
Self Assessment
A friend of mine recently suggested in passing that I ought to start a blog of my chaotic life with a toddler and a new baby, and the more I thought about it, the more appealing the idea seemed. If for no other reason than that it would give me a sense of satisfaction to turn my exhausting, unglamorous life into a kind of long-running sitcom, I decided to give it a go.
I received a letter the other day summoning me to our local Health Centre for the Very Small Boy's "three month developmental check-up". I read it with a sense of dread. I have managed to avoid all these pointless developmental checks with the Small Girl - until we relocated to Ireland, we moved about so much that, as one nurse put it, she "slipped through the net". It's a net I don't particularly want my children to be caught in; everybody knows that once you're snared, you will be summoned repeatedly so that an overbearing healthcare worker with an air of self-importance can assess your parenting skills whilst trying to find fault with your children.
With this in mind, I put on my Best Trousers (the ones that aren't jeans) and dressed both the Small Girl and the Very Small Boy in smart, clean outfits. As it would obviously have been too easy to hand out individual appointments, I had vaguely been issued with a two-hour time-slot within which to attend. So I decided to arrive really early in order to avoid a long and painful wait. Unfortunately, I didn't account for the fact that, just as we were getting into the car, the Very Small Boy would require a nappy change of such epic proportions that it would involve putting on a whole new outfit. Then the Small Girl needed to be taken to the toilet. Then she refused to get into the car without a snack (car journeys, no matter how short, cannot be undertaken without this vital bit of sustenance - the Small Girl's "thnack").
Half an hour later, we successfully left the house and drove into town to the Health Centre. Unfortunately, they had neglected to inform me that their car park was temporarily out of action (that would have been too easy), so we spent a further half hour driving in futile circles trying to find somewhere to park in the High Street. We eventually parked miles away and I packed up the buggy, strapped the Very Small Boy in, got the Small Girl onto the buggy board and struggled back through the rain to the Health Centre, with the Small Girl complaining all the way (and you have to imagine this in a kind of high-pitched, whingey voice): "I want to go the plaaaygwound... I want to go the plaaaygwound..." etc.
By the time we arrived, the waiting room was packed with prams and buggies, all containing babies waiting for their three-month developmental checks and all booked in before us. I spent the next hour and a half in a state of increasing desperation as buggy after buggy was wheeled out to see the nurse. During this time, the Small Girl, who had started out primly sitting on her seat, descended into paroxysms of uncontrollable whingeing (I want a thnaaack! You go to the shop and buyyyy one...") and embarrassingly bad behaviour. The Very Small Boy, who had been peacefully asleep, woke up hungry and had a drink. Then his nappy leaked. Then he was sick on my Best Trousers.
By the time we were eventually called to see the nurse, the Very Small Boy was exhausted, stained and whingey, I was flustered, dishevelled and covered in sick and the Small Girl was lying on the floor underneath one of the waiting room chairs, wearing only one shoe (and that on the wrong foot) and doing experiments with her own spit.
During our brief ten-minute slot with her, the nurse spent much of the time looking sympathetically at me and asking things like "and how are you coping?" and "but are you having more bad days than good?" and - that meaningless phrase I hate so much - "how are you in yourself?". The unsurprising result of the actual developmental assessment was that the Very Small Boy has put on lots of weight and grown quite a bit. And, after some vague muttering about head control and letting Baby spend more time on his tummy, we were dismissed and told to come back in a month...
So, my chubby Baby Pie - you can hold your lovely wobbly head high, and feel proud that we are all - in ourselves - doing just about the best we could. Under the circumstances.
I received a letter the other day summoning me to our local Health Centre for the Very Small Boy's "three month developmental check-up". I read it with a sense of dread. I have managed to avoid all these pointless developmental checks with the Small Girl - until we relocated to Ireland, we moved about so much that, as one nurse put it, she "slipped through the net". It's a net I don't particularly want my children to be caught in; everybody knows that once you're snared, you will be summoned repeatedly so that an overbearing healthcare worker with an air of self-importance can assess your parenting skills whilst trying to find fault with your children.
With this in mind, I put on my Best Trousers (the ones that aren't jeans) and dressed both the Small Girl and the Very Small Boy in smart, clean outfits. As it would obviously have been too easy to hand out individual appointments, I had vaguely been issued with a two-hour time-slot within which to attend. So I decided to arrive really early in order to avoid a long and painful wait. Unfortunately, I didn't account for the fact that, just as we were getting into the car, the Very Small Boy would require a nappy change of such epic proportions that it would involve putting on a whole new outfit. Then the Small Girl needed to be taken to the toilet. Then she refused to get into the car without a snack (car journeys, no matter how short, cannot be undertaken without this vital bit of sustenance - the Small Girl's "thnack").
Half an hour later, we successfully left the house and drove into town to the Health Centre. Unfortunately, they had neglected to inform me that their car park was temporarily out of action (that would have been too easy), so we spent a further half hour driving in futile circles trying to find somewhere to park in the High Street. We eventually parked miles away and I packed up the buggy, strapped the Very Small Boy in, got the Small Girl onto the buggy board and struggled back through the rain to the Health Centre, with the Small Girl complaining all the way (and you have to imagine this in a kind of high-pitched, whingey voice): "I want to go the plaaaygwound... I want to go the plaaaygwound..." etc.
By the time we arrived, the waiting room was packed with prams and buggies, all containing babies waiting for their three-month developmental checks and all booked in before us. I spent the next hour and a half in a state of increasing desperation as buggy after buggy was wheeled out to see the nurse. During this time, the Small Girl, who had started out primly sitting on her seat, descended into paroxysms of uncontrollable whingeing (I want a thnaaack! You go to the shop and buyyyy one...") and embarrassingly bad behaviour. The Very Small Boy, who had been peacefully asleep, woke up hungry and had a drink. Then his nappy leaked. Then he was sick on my Best Trousers.
By the time we were eventually called to see the nurse, the Very Small Boy was exhausted, stained and whingey, I was flustered, dishevelled and covered in sick and the Small Girl was lying on the floor underneath one of the waiting room chairs, wearing only one shoe (and that on the wrong foot) and doing experiments with her own spit.
During our brief ten-minute slot with her, the nurse spent much of the time looking sympathetically at me and asking things like "and how are you coping?" and "but are you having more bad days than good?" and - that meaningless phrase I hate so much - "how are you in yourself?". The unsurprising result of the actual developmental assessment was that the Very Small Boy has put on lots of weight and grown quite a bit. And, after some vague muttering about head control and letting Baby spend more time on his tummy, we were dismissed and told to come back in a month...
So, my chubby Baby Pie - you can hold your lovely wobbly head high, and feel proud that we are all - in ourselves - doing just about the best we could. Under the circumstances.
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