Sometimes, I affectionately refer to my youngest daughter as 'Snuffles', based on the fact that, as a baby, she always, always had a cold. I suspect that most parents have these slightly embarrassing nicknames for their offspring. At least that's what I tell myself. I also tell myself that plenty of them are a lot worse than 'Snuffles', which has the added benefit of being quite accurate at the moment.
I spent a delightful morning with her yesterday. We really bonded with each other on the way around Asda, I felt. All was happiness and joy in the Youngest Child compartment of my brain. So imagine my dismay when, upon returning home from work yesterday evening, I found her sprawled helplessly on the sofa, drowning in a steamy lake of her own snot. She was not literally drowning, but the sense of alarm I expect you felt when you read that may just approach the heartbreak I experienced as I discovered my daughter's plight. She could barely breathe. Each violent sneeze provoked a panicked and tearful response in her. Her temperature has remained much higher than it has any right to be throughout the disrupted, uncomfortable, spluttery and mucusy night.
What is remarkable though is that, in spite of all this suffering, she has stoically retained her mischievously positive outlook on life. She woke up smiling this morning, imploring my wife and I to give her a tickle. Anything for a laugh. She's out now with her mum, buying dinner to make later for her Great Grandad. Admittedly, my wife will probably be doing the cooking, but just to contribute to such altruism in the face of her germ-based adversity is nothing short of heroic. And completely foreign to me.
I have, however, had to display some stoicism of my own this morning. I'm doing it right now, in fact - I'm only writing this as a distraction from my anguish. I have previously spoken at length about the troubles our eldest has had with separation anxiety when dropped at nursery. Usually my wife - who works from home and, frankly, is above me in our children's affection hierarchy - does the dropping. She understandably finds our daughter's distress quite distressing.
I have a day off work today so, to give my wife a break and to see whether the change in dynamic would help our daughter, I did the nursery run. I stayed with her for a little while, as my wife has taken to doing, to ease her in gently to her morning away from us. After half an hour though, my daughter had shown no sign of detaching herself from my side. As I finished reading what was quite an entertaining Bob the Builder book to her, one of the nursery nurses asked her if she'd like to go and play outside with her. After some desperate persuasion from me and every other adult in the room (whose collective concern for our situation was touching) she agreed to venture outside without me, but not before casting me one last, desperate and insecure glance. "Don't leeeeeeeaaaaave meeeeee," said her mournful eyes.
And then I left.
Another nursery nurse approached me with disconcerting urgency and informed me that my daughter was having the most delightful and carefree time in the garden, and that now would be my best chance to escape. (Escape? I was having fun!) I hovered indecisively by the back door, unsure whether to defy the advice I had just been given by going to bid my daughter farewell, when I was intercepted by yet another nursery nurse, who assured me that she would say goodbye on my behalf. The message was clear: it's better this way. They all seemed pretty sure, so I reluctantly took their advice and made my pitiful, cowardly exit.
But they didn't see the look in her eyes. I feel like I've betrayed her.
I'm no stoic. I think I might be the bad guy.
Tuesday, 17 September 2013
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
Crawkward
Bless me Blogger, for I have sinned. It's been two months since my last post.
Sorry about that. Bit of writer's block, or something. In fact, I think it's more to do with my altruistic desire to be relentlessly entertaining; to always provide new and original excitement. And the truth is, our parenting lives have been relatively stable recently. Not entirely without incident, but not sufficiently dramatic to awaken my sharing impulse.
Also, I read an article in the Guardian a while ago - one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section - bemoaning the phenomenon of 'sharenting': the practise of enriching the lives of others by flooding social media with evidence of your offspring's shenanigans. "Stop imposing your joy upon others," it commanded. I was ever so satisfied with my smug rebuttal of this theory. "I've got thirteen followers who disagree with your complaint, Johnny Guardian Journalist," I bravely proclaimed (to myself), "Thirteen!" Seriously, though: I'm firmly of the belief that any subject under the sun is of potential interest to somebody and therefore merits writing about. If you don't like it, don't read it. I refuse to read things I'm not interested in all the time. It's easy. Having said all that, I'm a sensitive soul, so perhaps it's no coincidence that I've had a bit of a 'sharenting' hiatus ever since.*
Also, we got Netflix recently, so I've been really busy.
Whatever the reason/excuse for this hiatus, I feel that the time has come to draw it to a close. Here, then, is an exciting summary of What We're Currently Concerned About in Our House:
Poo
Our eldest has long-standing issues with her evacuations. Since being potty trained, she has been through alternating phases of being an accomplished toileteer on the one hand, and suffering from an abject fear of any form of faecal expulsion on the other. There have been weeks when her powers of retention caused her serious physical trouble. There was an anal suppository involved on one occasion. There was some screaming that night.
This is the stuff the 'sharenting' haters object to, isn't it? Oh well. Stop reading then.
Hello?
Good. I'll continue.
Even now, with the suppository days hopefully consigned to the past, we do occasionally have to break out the Lactilose to keep things moving. Only this afternoon I endured half an hour of hysterical anguish from my beloved daughter, because she successfully pooed in the toilet. It was a textbook excretion, yet this left her devastated. Personally, I'll always be a boy who thinks poo is a little bit funny, but our daughter is in danger of having a serious psychological issue with it. I sincerely hope it's a phase which will end naturally, and soon.
Rejection
When our first daughter was a bit younger, she used to have a strange reaction to my having time off work. Or, rather, to my going back to work at the end of it. I would be punished by her for my rude insistence upon returning to spending all day out of the house. I would arrive home each evening, only to be shunned by her; forbidden from demonstrating any assistance or affection. All this would mean sadness for me and hard work for my wife. Mercifully, our eldest is now three, going on sixteen, and her subsequent maturity means that she has no such unreasonable reaction to the ends of Daddy's holidays anymore.
Unfortunately, our youngest has filled this particular niche effortlessly. I recently had a week off work which inevitably ended. Thus, no longer will she treat me to a kiss goodbye in the morning. When I come home in the evening she imposes a restraining order upon me, punishable by screaming if I encroach upon her three metre safe zone. I can't pick her up, fetch her anything, even look at her without high-pitched admonishment. It breaks my heart but I stay strong: I know it's really a form of indirect affection. It's just very, very subtle.
School
I may previously have discussed the problems our eldest had with separation anxiety when she started nursery school. She loved the environment, the staff, the other children, the activities; everything. But she could not abide spending five hours apart from Mummy three times a week. It was extremely traumatic. After a few weeks, there were signs that this terror was beginning to subside. Then she broke her leg. By the time she had recovered it was nearly the end of the term, so we opted to wait until the new term to restart the arduous process of settling in.
The new term starts next week.
I'll level with you: we're a bit scared. But we understand that this development of independence is precisely the reason we must persevere with nursery school. For it is but one year until she'll start at Actual Proper Compulsory School.
This, of course, means that Mummy and I have our own hurdles to overcome. We must do research. I've spoken to a couple of teacher friends about how to choose a school for your child and they were very helpful, suggesting that we use websites and Ofsted reports as a starting point, before taking them with a pinch of salt and arranging to have a look around some likely establishments. The feel we get for them then, I'm told, will be the most reliable factor in finding a place whose educational ethos most closely resembles our own.
But do we even know what our own ethos is? Without wishing to get all political, I'm very much of the opinion that primary school should be about engaging children in the ideas of curiosity and exploration; equipping them with the tools to learn happily and meaningfully when the serious stuff starts at secondary school. It should not be about test-oriented memory training. Recent developments at the Department for Education, however, seem to suggest that schools which share my way of thinking are not at all de rigueur. They should be more de rigour, according to Michael Gove, the despicable idealogue who has somehow been given responsibility for this sort of thing. All of which fills me with more trepidation at the thought of embarking upon this necessary research than my daughter is filled with at the thought of going back to nursery next week.
Sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes. That must have read like one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section.
*Perhaps I'm being some sort of snob, but the word 'sharenting' itself riles me up. I'm instinctively wary of the 'Brangelina' style conflation of two words. It's just a bit crass and awkward. Or 'crawkward'.
Sorry about that. Bit of writer's block, or something. In fact, I think it's more to do with my altruistic desire to be relentlessly entertaining; to always provide new and original excitement. And the truth is, our parenting lives have been relatively stable recently. Not entirely without incident, but not sufficiently dramatic to awaken my sharing impulse.
Also, I read an article in the Guardian a while ago - one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section - bemoaning the phenomenon of 'sharenting': the practise of enriching the lives of others by flooding social media with evidence of your offspring's shenanigans. "Stop imposing your joy upon others," it commanded. I was ever so satisfied with my smug rebuttal of this theory. "I've got thirteen followers who disagree with your complaint, Johnny Guardian Journalist," I bravely proclaimed (to myself), "Thirteen!" Seriously, though: I'm firmly of the belief that any subject under the sun is of potential interest to somebody and therefore merits writing about. If you don't like it, don't read it. I refuse to read things I'm not interested in all the time. It's easy. Having said all that, I'm a sensitive soul, so perhaps it's no coincidence that I've had a bit of a 'sharenting' hiatus ever since.*
Also, we got Netflix recently, so I've been really busy.
Whatever the reason/excuse for this hiatus, I feel that the time has come to draw it to a close. Here, then, is an exciting summary of What We're Currently Concerned About in Our House:
Poo
Our eldest has long-standing issues with her evacuations. Since being potty trained, she has been through alternating phases of being an accomplished toileteer on the one hand, and suffering from an abject fear of any form of faecal expulsion on the other. There have been weeks when her powers of retention caused her serious physical trouble. There was an anal suppository involved on one occasion. There was some screaming that night.
This is the stuff the 'sharenting' haters object to, isn't it? Oh well. Stop reading then.
Hello?
Good. I'll continue.
Even now, with the suppository days hopefully consigned to the past, we do occasionally have to break out the Lactilose to keep things moving. Only this afternoon I endured half an hour of hysterical anguish from my beloved daughter, because she successfully pooed in the toilet. It was a textbook excretion, yet this left her devastated. Personally, I'll always be a boy who thinks poo is a little bit funny, but our daughter is in danger of having a serious psychological issue with it. I sincerely hope it's a phase which will end naturally, and soon.
Rejection
When our first daughter was a bit younger, she used to have a strange reaction to my having time off work. Or, rather, to my going back to work at the end of it. I would be punished by her for my rude insistence upon returning to spending all day out of the house. I would arrive home each evening, only to be shunned by her; forbidden from demonstrating any assistance or affection. All this would mean sadness for me and hard work for my wife. Mercifully, our eldest is now three, going on sixteen, and her subsequent maturity means that she has no such unreasonable reaction to the ends of Daddy's holidays anymore.
Unfortunately, our youngest has filled this particular niche effortlessly. I recently had a week off work which inevitably ended. Thus, no longer will she treat me to a kiss goodbye in the morning. When I come home in the evening she imposes a restraining order upon me, punishable by screaming if I encroach upon her three metre safe zone. I can't pick her up, fetch her anything, even look at her without high-pitched admonishment. It breaks my heart but I stay strong: I know it's really a form of indirect affection. It's just very, very subtle.
School
I may previously have discussed the problems our eldest had with separation anxiety when she started nursery school. She loved the environment, the staff, the other children, the activities; everything. But she could not abide spending five hours apart from Mummy three times a week. It was extremely traumatic. After a few weeks, there were signs that this terror was beginning to subside. Then she broke her leg. By the time she had recovered it was nearly the end of the term, so we opted to wait until the new term to restart the arduous process of settling in.
The new term starts next week.
I'll level with you: we're a bit scared. But we understand that this development of independence is precisely the reason we must persevere with nursery school. For it is but one year until she'll start at Actual Proper Compulsory School.
This, of course, means that Mummy and I have our own hurdles to overcome. We must do research. I've spoken to a couple of teacher friends about how to choose a school for your child and they were very helpful, suggesting that we use websites and Ofsted reports as a starting point, before taking them with a pinch of salt and arranging to have a look around some likely establishments. The feel we get for them then, I'm told, will be the most reliable factor in finding a place whose educational ethos most closely resembles our own.
But do we even know what our own ethos is? Without wishing to get all political, I'm very much of the opinion that primary school should be about engaging children in the ideas of curiosity and exploration; equipping them with the tools to learn happily and meaningfully when the serious stuff starts at secondary school. It should not be about test-oriented memory training. Recent developments at the Department for Education, however, seem to suggest that schools which share my way of thinking are not at all de rigueur. They should be more de rigour, according to Michael Gove, the despicable idealogue who has somehow been given responsibility for this sort of thing. All of which fills me with more trepidation at the thought of embarking upon this necessary research than my daughter is filled with at the thought of going back to nursery next week.
Sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes. That must have read like one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section.
*Perhaps I'm being some sort of snob, but the word 'sharenting' itself riles me up. I'm instinctively wary of the 'Brangelina' style conflation of two words. It's just a bit crass and awkward. Or 'crawkward'.
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Words
My youngest daughter can talk like a good'un nowadays. She stubbornly refuses to put together more than two words at a time, but I'm confident that this has more to do with her well-developed sense of mischief than with any lack of verbal ability. She takes a cheeky and obvious pleasure from gently winding up her loved ones: smiling exuberantly, for example, as she denies obvious truths, such as her own name, to her sister; enjoying the mild frustration this causes, but sensitive enough to avoid overstepping the mark. Usually.
My benign pride compels me to conclude that it's the same sense of mischief that causes her to refuse our suggestions for three-word sentences. So "Water!" is yet to advance to "Water please Daddy," but it's because she won't, not because she can't.
Why am I so confident about this? Well, I'm strongly encouraged by the size of her vocabulary. She employs an efficient dual-usage system for some words, as I seem to recall her sister did at the same stage. I think we can all learn something from this. For your pleasure, and/or evidence, here's an enjoyable glossary:
Bubbaiii
Goodbye; goodnight; so long, suckers.
Daddy
Daddy; any man (usually) with glasses and/or only a modest coverage of hair on his/her head.
Disoooooaaaaaaaaaar
Dinosaur; anything with teeth.
Dum-dum
Dummy.
Dummins
Doc McStuffins (Disney character. Not my favourite. Not anyone's favourite, except perhaps for my daughters).
Elloooooooooo
Hello.
Fock
Fox (I know. We're working on it).
Horses
Glasses; horses.
Mine
Any toy or foodstuff that somebody else wants.
More
I'm hungry.
NO!
No; I wish to annoy you at great length, for my own amusement. I can do this all day long, you know.
Nottar
Water.
Paintball
Paintball; pumpernickel (don't ask).
Phone
Phone; anything rectangular which can potentially be held near an ear.
Poopoo
Poo; guffers (an inability to distinguish between these definitions has caused us to waste a large number of nappies)
Scissors
Danger; fun.
Sorry
It may or may not have been an accident and I cannot guarantee that I won't do it again. But I'm really cute.
Tangled
Rapunzel (you'll get this if you've seen it).
This is but a selection of her favourites. There are more whence these came. Every day I am surprised and impressed to discover the rapidly growing number of things for which she already knows the right names. But I had a late night last night and my memory is not at its best.
I'm trying to think of a witty summation to finish with, but I can't find the words.
My benign pride compels me to conclude that it's the same sense of mischief that causes her to refuse our suggestions for three-word sentences. So "Water!" is yet to advance to "Water please Daddy," but it's because she won't, not because she can't.
Why am I so confident about this? Well, I'm strongly encouraged by the size of her vocabulary. She employs an efficient dual-usage system for some words, as I seem to recall her sister did at the same stage. I think we can all learn something from this. For your pleasure, and/or evidence, here's an enjoyable glossary:
Bubbaiii
Goodbye; goodnight; so long, suckers.
Daddy
Daddy; any man (usually) with glasses and/or only a modest coverage of hair on his/her head.
Disoooooaaaaaaaaaar
Dinosaur; anything with teeth.
Dum-dum
Dummy.
Dummins
Doc McStuffins (Disney character. Not my favourite. Not anyone's favourite, except perhaps for my daughters).
Elloooooooooo
Hello.
Fock
Fox (I know. We're working on it).
Horses
Glasses; horses.
Mine
Any toy or foodstuff that somebody else wants.
More
I'm hungry.
NO!
No; I wish to annoy you at great length, for my own amusement. I can do this all day long, you know.
Nottar
Water.
Paintball
Paintball; pumpernickel (don't ask).
Phone
Phone; anything rectangular which can potentially be held near an ear.
Poopoo
Poo; guffers (an inability to distinguish between these definitions has caused us to waste a large number of nappies)
Scissors
Danger; fun.
Sorry
It may or may not have been an accident and I cannot guarantee that I won't do it again. But I'm really cute.
Tangled
Rapunzel (you'll get this if you've seen it).
This is but a selection of her favourites. There are more whence these came. Every day I am surprised and impressed to discover the rapidly growing number of things for which she already knows the right names. But I had a late night last night and my memory is not at its best.
I'm trying to think of a witty summation to finish with, but I can't find the words.
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
Broken
Imagine you're in your most familiar and comfortable environment: at home. It's Saturday evening; you're feeling relaxed and good about things. It'll be dinner time soon. You run, as you do a million times a day, from the living room to the hall, en route to the kitchen. You can't even remember why now. You probably should have slowed down a bit: you slip slightly on the hall floor (which remains arguably your parents' greatest DIY achievement to date, but that's not really relevant). Never mind: you're always running around, falling over and crashing into things.
Oh, but hang on a minute. Something's different this time. Fear, confusion and an overpowering sense of injustice are competing with excruciating discomfort in a sudden, almighty battle for your attention. You've had countless cuts and bruises before but you weren't ready for the astounding pain now bursting from your leg like a shapeless, violently angry beast exploding through your every sinew.
It really hurts, basically. Also, you're only three years old.
So you scream and scream for at least an hour; the closest your voice can possibly come to expressing the sheer terror of your situation. But the only people who can help you don't seem to understand. They're concerned that you fell over; keen for you to feel better. But they clearly don't fully appreciate your plight: they eat their dinner before taking action. So do you, to be fair.
Your Mummy and Nana eventually take you to the hospital, by now convinced that this crisis is more extreme than usual. Your Daddy stays at home to look after your little sister, although it should be stressed that he is equally concerned for your welfare. (He's also rather handsome, but that's not strictly relevant either.) Their discussions about you prior to this excursion have become increasingly fraught and anxious, which is curiously reassuring and worrying at the same time. They speculatively mention something about sprained ankles. But their anxiety can't accelerate as fast as the howling agony in your leg.
Now imagine that you get to the hospital and see a doctor, whose concern is sufficient for him to insist on having you taken to an ominous room where a huge contraption is employed to aim a lens at you and capture your skeleton. What new agony is this? You do not enjoy being x-rayed. Nana, temporarily separated from you and Mummy, will later comment that she easily found you during this torture, simply by following your screams.
Ultimately, though, this ordeal serves its purpose: Mummy's horrified understanding of your suffering is at last complete when the doctor shows her the picture of what was once your shin bone; twisted, splintered, useless.
Broken.
Of all the people to whom I am grateful for their generous and sympathetic reactions to this incident, the one to whom I owe the most thanks is our other daughter. The one who remains bipedal. By the time my wife returned home with our poor little casualty in plaster from hip to tiny toes, our youngest was not quite asleep, but had mercifully consented to being bathed and becalmed, all without the usual input from Mummy. I'm certain that our second-born forgave her mother's absence on account of an understanding of the seriousness of the situation. Which is quite emotionally mature for a 21 month-old.
We pulled out the sofa bed in the living room that night; Mummy shared this with the patient while I shared a bed upstairs with our youngest. None of us slept much though. Harrowed, we were, and overcome with trepidation at what was to follow.
The next 24 hours actually went better than expected, if I'm honest. I was encouraged by some extremely understanding colleagues to abandon the day at work for which I dutifully arrived on Sunday morning. Our brave little soldier displayed more stoicism than we could have hoped for in the circumstances, aided by a steady flow of visits and sympathy from friends and family. But this could only last so long: have you ever tried keeping a three year-old still for more than a day? Or perhaps you've attempted to keep an inquisitive one year-old away from her three year-old sister for more than a day? It's a logistical nightmare which promises to go on for weeks. Having only recently mastered using the potty, our daughter is now tragically compelled by her plaster cast to hold her leg at such an angle that her wee trickles up it rather than into the potty. I'm open to solutions to this.
By Monday afternoon, frustration had set in. The well-documented under-plaster itch had already reared its ugly head, as had the inevitable tedium caused by nothing but sedentary activity. Today she got a paper cut from her umpteenth drawing of the day. This led to hugely disproportionate distress. I think what we were looking at here was a touch of emotional leakage: the upset thus far heroically contained by her stiff upper lip had found its escape through the paper cut. It was sad to see, but at least interesting from an amateur psychology point of view.
Shortly, we're off to the hospital to get the temporary plaster cast replaced by by a harder, longer term version. I think they're also going to x-ray it again. I am not looking forward to this (see above). We're selling it to our daughter as a chance to scratch the itch during the blissful window between casts. We've also promised to request a pink one this time. I really hope they do pink, which is not something I thought I'd ever say.
In case this story is yet to convince you of the perils of running in the hallway, consider the following: yesterday, during one of her understandably more self-pitying moments, my daughter looked at me and said: "I don't want to have a skeleton anymore, Daddy."
Oh, but hang on a minute. Something's different this time. Fear, confusion and an overpowering sense of injustice are competing with excruciating discomfort in a sudden, almighty battle for your attention. You've had countless cuts and bruises before but you weren't ready for the astounding pain now bursting from your leg like a shapeless, violently angry beast exploding through your every sinew.
It really hurts, basically. Also, you're only three years old.
So you scream and scream for at least an hour; the closest your voice can possibly come to expressing the sheer terror of your situation. But the only people who can help you don't seem to understand. They're concerned that you fell over; keen for you to feel better. But they clearly don't fully appreciate your plight: they eat their dinner before taking action. So do you, to be fair.
Your Mummy and Nana eventually take you to the hospital, by now convinced that this crisis is more extreme than usual. Your Daddy stays at home to look after your little sister, although it should be stressed that he is equally concerned for your welfare. (He's also rather handsome, but that's not strictly relevant either.) Their discussions about you prior to this excursion have become increasingly fraught and anxious, which is curiously reassuring and worrying at the same time. They speculatively mention something about sprained ankles. But their anxiety can't accelerate as fast as the howling agony in your leg.
Now imagine that you get to the hospital and see a doctor, whose concern is sufficient for him to insist on having you taken to an ominous room where a huge contraption is employed to aim a lens at you and capture your skeleton. What new agony is this? You do not enjoy being x-rayed. Nana, temporarily separated from you and Mummy, will later comment that she easily found you during this torture, simply by following your screams.
Ultimately, though, this ordeal serves its purpose: Mummy's horrified understanding of your suffering is at last complete when the doctor shows her the picture of what was once your shin bone; twisted, splintered, useless.
Broken.
* * *
Of all the people to whom I am grateful for their generous and sympathetic reactions to this incident, the one to whom I owe the most thanks is our other daughter. The one who remains bipedal. By the time my wife returned home with our poor little casualty in plaster from hip to tiny toes, our youngest was not quite asleep, but had mercifully consented to being bathed and becalmed, all without the usual input from Mummy. I'm certain that our second-born forgave her mother's absence on account of an understanding of the seriousness of the situation. Which is quite emotionally mature for a 21 month-old.
We pulled out the sofa bed in the living room that night; Mummy shared this with the patient while I shared a bed upstairs with our youngest. None of us slept much though. Harrowed, we were, and overcome with trepidation at what was to follow.
The next 24 hours actually went better than expected, if I'm honest. I was encouraged by some extremely understanding colleagues to abandon the day at work for which I dutifully arrived on Sunday morning. Our brave little soldier displayed more stoicism than we could have hoped for in the circumstances, aided by a steady flow of visits and sympathy from friends and family. But this could only last so long: have you ever tried keeping a three year-old still for more than a day? Or perhaps you've attempted to keep an inquisitive one year-old away from her three year-old sister for more than a day? It's a logistical nightmare which promises to go on for weeks. Having only recently mastered using the potty, our daughter is now tragically compelled by her plaster cast to hold her leg at such an angle that her wee trickles up it rather than into the potty. I'm open to solutions to this.
By Monday afternoon, frustration had set in. The well-documented under-plaster itch had already reared its ugly head, as had the inevitable tedium caused by nothing but sedentary activity. Today she got a paper cut from her umpteenth drawing of the day. This led to hugely disproportionate distress. I think what we were looking at here was a touch of emotional leakage: the upset thus far heroically contained by her stiff upper lip had found its escape through the paper cut. It was sad to see, but at least interesting from an amateur psychology point of view.
Shortly, we're off to the hospital to get the temporary plaster cast replaced by by a harder, longer term version. I think they're also going to x-ray it again. I am not looking forward to this (see above). We're selling it to our daughter as a chance to scratch the itch during the blissful window between casts. We've also promised to request a pink one this time. I really hope they do pink, which is not something I thought I'd ever say.
In case this story is yet to convince you of the perils of running in the hallway, consider the following: yesterday, during one of her understandably more self-pitying moments, my daughter looked at me and said: "I don't want to have a skeleton anymore, Daddy."
Sunday, 28 April 2013
Long walks and chicken crisps
I don't recall very much about my time at nursery school, other than that it was very far away from our house. It was the eighties: the world was a bit less 'developed'; a bit more spread out. Also, my Mum was getting her carbon off-setting in early during this period, by not driving a car. So my abiding memory of nursery was the epic walk there and back. It was the final alleyway, about 100 yards from home, which always broke me, psychologically. It's possible that I cried once or twice at this point. I still feel a sense of exhausted dread if I pass that spot when visiting my parents now. Having said that, I'm renowned these days as a first class walker, which, in hindsight, I suppose I owe to this frequent ordeal.
We made jam sandwiches once. (At nursery; not on the journey home.) My Mum let me get some crisps to accompany my creation. I daringly went for chicken flavour, which turned out to be a bit disappointing, but I appreciated the opportunity. Thanks Mum. My memory seems to favour quality over quantity.
All of which fascinating nostalgia is failing to bring me to my point: nursery school is extremely important. The particular activities undertaken there may not be entirely memorable thirty years later, but they form the basis around which children learn precious practical and social skills. I don't believe children should have to worry about learning calculus or studying Shakespeare at this stage; but they're much more likely to engage with the academic stuff when the time does come, if they're already equipped with the abilities to mix with others, listen and converse. Which is why my wife and I have bravely overcome our fear of losing our three year-old to the big, wide world and allowed her to start her own nursery adventure.
This fear was quite considerable. We have gone overnight from knowing every last detail of her activities and thoughts, to having these five-hour interaction blackouts, three times a week. As well as the obvious fear of her suffering distress and injury when we are unable to help her, our only knowledge of what our daughter's up to comes from our her own reports, supplemented briefly by the staff at the nursery - the (no doubt very lovely and well-qualified) strangers with whom we have entrusted her.
Our daughter's reports vary in quality, if I'm honest. I asked her the other day if she'd made any friends there yet. She enthusiastically confirmed that she had, with someone apparently called "Fanana". My doubts about the accuracy of this information quickly gave way to heartbreak when this new acquaintance's habits were described to me: "Fanana likes to say 'Leave me alone!' "
Sob. Whimper.
On the whole, though, one bad day (which followed a spectacularly sleepless night) aside, she does seem to be thriving. The nursery staff speak highly of her, assuming you take 'willful' as a compliment, as I choose to. Last week she brought home a flag she had made to commemorate St. George's Day. Personally, I don't count patriotism amongst my most cherished qualities, so I was quite pleased that her subversive effort was more Japan than England. But the point is that - while our walls are proudly covered in examples of her considerable artistic skills - this was the first time that she had gone out, made something and brought it home. This landmark feels significant on some fundamental level.
I think it's too early to tell whether the experience is changing her. There does seem to have been a lot of heavy tantrumming recently; it's quite feasible that this is a reaction to any stress her change in circumstances may have caused. But it could just as easily be down to the cold she's had. Either way, we're confident that this will pass. And if we're speculatively attributing things to her new lifestyle, then it deserves credit for the ease with which she charmed the son of some friends we spent the day with yesterday. They held hands and everything.
Our younger daughter, meanwhile, is starting to strongly appreciate the exclusive attention she is suddenly granted for fifteen hours a week. Again: it could be coincidence, but her personality is rapidly emerging, and I think it's going to be a good one. This young lady has mastered cute. Like most qualities I don't possess, I find this cuteness difficult to describe in any precise terms. It's something to do with the looks she gives you, and the voice with which she expresses her burgeoning vocabulary. Like many one year-olds, she's a bit of a butter fingers, but any spillage can be forgiven when followed by my daughter chirruping: "Drop!" She has also recently perfected 'dinosaur' which, as Peppa Pig's little brother George will tell you, is an irresistible word in the hands (mouth?) of a toddler.
So, all in all, I think that this notable development in our family's life is going as well as can be expected. I just hope Fanana learns some manners soon.
And, in case you're wondering, we drive to nursery. It's a really long way.
Thursday, 21 March 2013
That won't keep me warm in the middle of the night
In around 300BC, Euclid invented geometry, forever transforming the way people would think about space, measurement and logic.
That don't impressa me much.
In 1859 Charles Darwin shattered his own religious convictions, effectively ruining his marriage and jeopardising his standing in Victorian society, by publishing a book which finally shed light on what remains the most astounding idea in science: evolution.
That don't impressa me much.
On July 21st 1969, Neil Armstrong became the first human to set foot on the surface of the moon. This historic moment was the culmination of the considerable intelligence, ambition and bravery of various NASA heroes.
That don't impr- OK. Enough of the contrived Shania Twain referencing. It seemed like an innovative literary device in my head. I always hated that song anyway. 'Shiny Train,' I used to call her. Because I'm funny. My point is that, of all the great achievements that mankind can boast, none comes close to matching the accomplishment our eldest daughter made last week.
After at least a year of ignoring it, screaming at it, sitting pointlessly on it for fruitless hours at a time, and being caused by it to not poo for days on end, she has finally mastered the full and productive use of her potty. I had to interrupt typing the last sentence to dispose of a brown monster that she laid - without the merest hint of fuss or hesitation - within its confines. She didn't even blink. This was a matter-of-fact faecal production. As I type this sentence she is busy training her doll to use its own toilet in the doll's house. The apprentice has already become the master. She has even taught her little sister to run around the house shouting "POOPOO" in exactly the right joyous tone.
The relief shared by my wife and I at this development is palpable. We have endured many long months of well-meaning friends and relatives enquiring pointedly about her progress. The pointedness was probably a figment of our paranoid imaginations, to be fair. But it's a fact that - while we find it easy to proudly imagine her as advanced in most things - our daughter has been a bit late to the table in this, toilet-based respect.
We have on numerous occasions attempted to be ruthless in withdrawing the nappy option from our daughter. But, invariably, she would simply hold it in until (and I hope that, in years to come, she will forgive me for sharing this) her number one bit got smelly and her number two bit got incredibly painful. Ruthlessness is hard to maintain when your tough love extends to endangering the health of your toughly loved one. So our determination would always expire after a few days or so. Eventually we resolved to be less resolute, deciding instead to take a laissez-faire approach, whereby she would somehow make it known to us when she was ready.
But then we received confirmation that our daughter was to start nursery school in a few weeks' time. Mildly panicked at the prospect of the awkward nappy conversation taking place on her first day there, we had no choice but to go zero tolerance. Perhaps our commitment to the cause was subconsciously strengthened by this new time limit, or perhaps it happily coincided with her finally overcoming her emotional attachment to the nappies, but within a day of our fixing the nursery date we were hearing the blissful tinkle of pee on plastic.
And she has taken to it like a toilet duck to toilet water. At regular intervals throughout the day, she'll announce her impending success as she strides purposefully towards the potty, before pulling down the necessary garments and sitting in the right place at the right time. She has even mastered helping herself to a modest but sufficient amount of toilet roll and having a little wipe. It's like clockwork. Urinatory clockwork.
There has, I believe, been only one notable accident thus far. But the sofa cushions are clean again now, so it's water under the bridge, so to speak.
That don't impressa me much.
In 1859 Charles Darwin shattered his own religious convictions, effectively ruining his marriage and jeopardising his standing in Victorian society, by publishing a book which finally shed light on what remains the most astounding idea in science: evolution.
That don't impressa me much.
On July 21st 1969, Neil Armstrong became the first human to set foot on the surface of the moon. This historic moment was the culmination of the considerable intelligence, ambition and bravery of various NASA heroes.
That don't impr- OK. Enough of the contrived Shania Twain referencing. It seemed like an innovative literary device in my head. I always hated that song anyway. 'Shiny Train,' I used to call her. Because I'm funny. My point is that, of all the great achievements that mankind can boast, none comes close to matching the accomplishment our eldest daughter made last week.
After at least a year of ignoring it, screaming at it, sitting pointlessly on it for fruitless hours at a time, and being caused by it to not poo for days on end, she has finally mastered the full and productive use of her potty. I had to interrupt typing the last sentence to dispose of a brown monster that she laid - without the merest hint of fuss or hesitation - within its confines. She didn't even blink. This was a matter-of-fact faecal production. As I type this sentence she is busy training her doll to use its own toilet in the doll's house. The apprentice has already become the master. She has even taught her little sister to run around the house shouting "POOPOO" in exactly the right joyous tone.
The relief shared by my wife and I at this development is palpable. We have endured many long months of well-meaning friends and relatives enquiring pointedly about her progress. The pointedness was probably a figment of our paranoid imaginations, to be fair. But it's a fact that - while we find it easy to proudly imagine her as advanced in most things - our daughter has been a bit late to the table in this, toilet-based respect.
We have on numerous occasions attempted to be ruthless in withdrawing the nappy option from our daughter. But, invariably, she would simply hold it in until (and I hope that, in years to come, she will forgive me for sharing this) her number one bit got smelly and her number two bit got incredibly painful. Ruthlessness is hard to maintain when your tough love extends to endangering the health of your toughly loved one. So our determination would always expire after a few days or so. Eventually we resolved to be less resolute, deciding instead to take a laissez-faire approach, whereby she would somehow make it known to us when she was ready.
But then we received confirmation that our daughter was to start nursery school in a few weeks' time. Mildly panicked at the prospect of the awkward nappy conversation taking place on her first day there, we had no choice but to go zero tolerance. Perhaps our commitment to the cause was subconsciously strengthened by this new time limit, or perhaps it happily coincided with her finally overcoming her emotional attachment to the nappies, but within a day of our fixing the nursery date we were hearing the blissful tinkle of pee on plastic.
And she has taken to it like a toilet duck to toilet water. At regular intervals throughout the day, she'll announce her impending success as she strides purposefully towards the potty, before pulling down the necessary garments and sitting in the right place at the right time. She has even mastered helping herself to a modest but sufficient amount of toilet roll and having a little wipe. It's like clockwork. Urinatory clockwork.
There has, I believe, been only one notable accident thus far. But the sofa cushions are clean again now, so it's water under the bridge, so to speak.
Thursday, 28 February 2013
The Bono effect
I ended my last post with a provocative promise to reveal how we had spent the second half of my last week off. I have put off doing so, not because I'm a bit lazy, but because I have for the last month been struggling with an ethical dilemma. Honest.
For the truth is, my wife and I decided to expose our daughters to some admirably charitable activity. The dilemma arose from my concern that any such altruism is undermined if you start showing off about it afterwards. One has to question the motives of someone who is too keen to inform you of their generosity. Let's call this the Bono effect. Are the beneficiaries of such charity mere pawns in a vanity project? Does it even matter?
Ultimately, I have skirted around this debate by deciding that it's all fine a month later. So I can proudly describe to you the excellent examples we set for our children. Our first thought was to donate some blankets to the local homeless shelter. But, upon taking the sensible precaution of phoning them first (at risk of evoking the Bono effect), we were informed that cold, hard cash would be more useful. They're the experts, so we obliged. We signed up as organ donors. I had already done this years ago, but I did it again to be on the safe side. I hope I haven't double-booked my kidneys.
We also went to give blood. It was my first time, and our naive failure to book appointments meant that we endured a rather long wait at the temporary blood-letting venue: a somewhat evangelical church hall. The only reading material to hand was a bit on the Goddy side, so it was a struggle to entertain the girls without subjecting them to a kind of subliminal indoctrination. The resulting anxiety left me quite fearful of what was, to be fair, a bloody massive needle, by the time it was eased into my arm. I can honestly say though that it was completely painless, and over remarkably quickly. Also, the cliche about the glow of pride experienced by blood donors is surprisingly accurate, aided in my case by the handy visual aid which was the astonishing bruise that spread across my entire forearm over the following week. I showed that bruise to a lot of people. Bono effect be damned. I sort of miss it now. Horrific lesions aside, I strongly urge anyone who can give blood to do so. But make an appointment first.
So far, so socially responsible. But our daughters had really just seen us make some phone calls and sit in a church hall. For a more tangible demonstration of the joy of benevolence, we made up some bags of gifts: a chocolate bar, a lottery scratchcard, a stamped postcard (with a note suggesting that the recipient send a message to a loved one) and one or two other things whose exact natures I cannot recall. But they were definitely really charming. We went to a local town, whose identity I shall not disclose, and simply had a nice wander about, discarding our joyful offerings in unassuming public places. I think our daughters enjoyed themselves, and hopefully they picked up some sense of the day's purpose. I certainly experienced fulfillment, although I did feel a bit naughty: the guilt of a vigilante? My wife and I grew quite paranoid about a suspicious gentleman loitering in one park where we were spreading our love. We convinced ourselves that he was a local councillor, come to tell us off for failing to be nice through the proper channels. But it was ok: he was just a weird man hanging around in a park.
And so ended our days of commendable charity. I'm not really sure how effective it all was as a lesson in generosity for our children. I'm sure they've got a bit better at sharing with each other since. Can this be a coincidence?
For the truth is, my wife and I decided to expose our daughters to some admirably charitable activity. The dilemma arose from my concern that any such altruism is undermined if you start showing off about it afterwards. One has to question the motives of someone who is too keen to inform you of their generosity. Let's call this the Bono effect. Are the beneficiaries of such charity mere pawns in a vanity project? Does it even matter?
Ultimately, I have skirted around this debate by deciding that it's all fine a month later. So I can proudly describe to you the excellent examples we set for our children. Our first thought was to donate some blankets to the local homeless shelter. But, upon taking the sensible precaution of phoning them first (at risk of evoking the Bono effect), we were informed that cold, hard cash would be more useful. They're the experts, so we obliged. We signed up as organ donors. I had already done this years ago, but I did it again to be on the safe side. I hope I haven't double-booked my kidneys.
We also went to give blood. It was my first time, and our naive failure to book appointments meant that we endured a rather long wait at the temporary blood-letting venue: a somewhat evangelical church hall. The only reading material to hand was a bit on the Goddy side, so it was a struggle to entertain the girls without subjecting them to a kind of subliminal indoctrination. The resulting anxiety left me quite fearful of what was, to be fair, a bloody massive needle, by the time it was eased into my arm. I can honestly say though that it was completely painless, and over remarkably quickly. Also, the cliche about the glow of pride experienced by blood donors is surprisingly accurate, aided in my case by the handy visual aid which was the astonishing bruise that spread across my entire forearm over the following week. I showed that bruise to a lot of people. Bono effect be damned. I sort of miss it now. Horrific lesions aside, I strongly urge anyone who can give blood to do so. But make an appointment first.
So far, so socially responsible. But our daughters had really just seen us make some phone calls and sit in a church hall. For a more tangible demonstration of the joy of benevolence, we made up some bags of gifts: a chocolate bar, a lottery scratchcard, a stamped postcard (with a note suggesting that the recipient send a message to a loved one) and one or two other things whose exact natures I cannot recall. But they were definitely really charming. We went to a local town, whose identity I shall not disclose, and simply had a nice wander about, discarding our joyful offerings in unassuming public places. I think our daughters enjoyed themselves, and hopefully they picked up some sense of the day's purpose. I certainly experienced fulfillment, although I did feel a bit naughty: the guilt of a vigilante? My wife and I grew quite paranoid about a suspicious gentleman loitering in one park where we were spreading our love. We convinced ourselves that he was a local councillor, come to tell us off for failing to be nice through the proper channels. But it was ok: he was just a weird man hanging around in a park.
And so ended our days of commendable charity. I'm not really sure how effective it all was as a lesson in generosity for our children. I'm sure they've got a bit better at sharing with each other since. Can this be a coincidence?
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