Gifts galore and birthdays on the beach . . . .

Happy Birthday dear The G, Happy Birthday to you......

Being born on March 30th does not - as a general rule - tend to entitle one to spend birthdays on the beach.

But thanks to the freakish conditions here right now, The G managed to do just that for the first (and, I suspect, the last) time this afternoon.

Turning three can be an eventful business: Scoffing ice cream alongside Mummy, The B and myself on the sand; gifts galore, a little garden time, history's largest-ever tea and endless Peppa Pig-related goodies.

These included an enormous soft Peppa toy, that is at least as big as The G, if not a little larger, Peppa greetings cards and badges, paper plates and cups and a 12-disc DVD collection that promises to keep us going for the foreseeable future.

That exhaustion kicked in just before The B&G's regular bath time (the excitement had been unbridled since 6.30am, her earlier-than-normal awakening not ideal, but just about acceptable) came as no surprise.

Yawning through another Peppa episode, she said, almost to herself, 'I like birthdays'.

Job done, I reckon . . . .

Fiction Fridays #19: The Garden Gang . . . .

"Wee Willie Water Melon lived in the beautiful Highlands of Scotland.

He occupied a little crofter's cottage, not far from the lochs . . . . ."

FF#19 

The Garden Gang: Jayne Fisher (1979-1983)

For the best in children's books . . . .

Caterpillars, yes. Omelettes, yuck . . . .

Flies, worms, caterpillars . . . . and omelettes

Earlier this afternoon, playing a favourite board game, me and The B and The G.

It's called Tummy Ache.

The basic concept, that each player has to pick food cards at random and put together a nutritious meal that comprises a three-part main course (for instance, pork chops, potatoes and carrots), a dessert and a drink.

It sounds simple, but some of the items included in the deck are not as appetising as others.

These are the Tummy Ache cards, depicting, for example, chips that are crawling with spiders, a maggot-infested pizza and a frog hiding in a glass of juice.

Pick up such a card and you have to shout Tummy Ache as loud as possible (which, trust me, in The B&G's case, is very loud indeed).

For as long as you have a Tummy Ache card at your place setting, you cannot win.

That, in a nutshell, is the game.

Playing Tummy Ache with a fussy eater, that's an interesting exercise.

Take The G, for instance.

This afternoon, she selected a card that, upon examination, prompted her to yell "Tummy Ache".

"Yuck!" she said, studying it, her distaste obvious.

The card in question showed some hairy green caterpillars munching on a tomato.

It turns out that The G was more perturbed by the tomato than she was the caterpillars. 

Later, she picked another card that prompted a similar reaction.

"Tummy Ache!" she bellowed, followed by the obligatory "Yuck!"

I examined the card, expecting to find an ant or some flies or perhaps even a mouse.

It featured nothing of the sort, just a delicious-looking omelette. 

Like I said, playing with a fussy eater is an interesting exercise . . . .

In their own words #20 . . . .

THE B (following a period spent deep in thought at the breakfast table this morning): "I'd like to go and see how lovely worms are . . . ."
There followed a short silence, allowing for further contemplation.
THE B (best quizzical face): "Daddy, do aliens poo?"

In their own words #19 . . . .

THE G (growing ever-more excited about her forthcoming third birthday): "Is it time for my birthday yet?"
THE W: "Not yet, just a few more days."
THE G (disappointed, lip extended): "Ohhhhhhhh."
THE W: "What presents would you like for your birthday?"
Short pause for thought.
THE G: "Pink ones."
Short silence.
THE G: "And red ones. And purple ones."
THE W: "Okay......anything else?"
THE G: "Peppa Pig ones. And Hello Kitty......."
Short pause for further contemplation.
THE G: "And some spoons . . . ."

In their own words #18 . . . .

THE B (being all affectionate): "Daddy, I like you."
ME (touched): "I like you too."
Short pause for thought.
THE B (nonchalant): "I like mummy better . . . ."

BST and pavement cyclists: The list lengthens . . . .

Nothing perturbs The B quite like the clocks changing.....

Thanks a lot, British Summer Time.
For screwing up all our regular routines and sleeping patterns.
For causing confusion (The G) and prompting panic (The B).
For these reasons - and for the infuriating fact that, in this technological age, we're still forced to engage in a practice as archaic as this - BST has been added to the official @homedad annals of annoyance.
This, an ever-lengthening list comprising eclectic irritants that include Health Visitors, bubble mix and Annabel Karmel.
Joining BST as newcomers on the list are one or two other pet hates that include:
People smoking in playgrounds (this requires no explanation), the term 'Mumpreneur', and the manner in which The G chooses to eat cheese on toast (using her teeth to tear off the cheese like a ravenous dinosaur, devouring it in a furious fashion and then leaving the shredded toast for me to dispose of).
I detest the ever-increasing amounts of dog poo that can be found on our pavements.
That this fascinates The B&G both is something I find rather disturbing.
There is just one thing worse than a person who leaves their dog's doings on the pavement, and that's someone who bags it up and then leaves it on the pavement.
It's something I can't explain to myself, let alone two quizzical pre-schoolers.
Cyclists on pavements, that's another annoyance, in particular the ones who feel the need to ding their silly little bells upon their approach and - even worse - those who use pedestrian crossings.
The clue here is in the name, cyclists. You're NOT pedestrians. They're NOT for you.
Cars parked on pavements that force parents to push their buggies and shepherd small children into the road in order to pass, that never fails to frustrate.
Likewise, people who give me suspicious looks when I use the parent-and-child spaces at the supermarket. Go ahead, check the back seats. I have all the qualifications.
I'm no great fan of the long winter months that make childcare an even greater challenge than normal, the 306 (The B's favourite bus route it might be, mine it is not) and bad children's books that have, for inexplicable reasons, made it into print.
Post Play-Doh hands (for that authentic corpse feel), establishments that have baby changing facilities in the ladies' toilets but not the men's (it still annoys me, even if it doesn't affect me these days) and anyone unable to grasp the concept that swim nappies are just that - nappies - and are designed to be used beneath a regular swimming costume.
I could go on, but I feel I should stop.
Blood pressure, and all that . . . .

 

Health Visitors, Huggies, balloons and bubble mix . . .

Inflatable instant argument device......

Railing against Health Visitors, as I did again just the other day, always proves to be quite a cathartic experience.
So much so that, spleen vented, I began to consider some other pet peeves, things I encounter as a full-time stay-at-home parent that, more often than not, arouse annoyance.
It soon became clear that there is too much to log using brain power alone.
So I made a list . . . .
Quite a long one.
Right at the top, I jotted down Health Visitors.
But I made sure I left sufficient room for the following:
Flashing shoes. The B&G both possess a pair, but neither requires another excuse to stamp their feet.
Hand-dryers in public toilets. Has anyone ever dried a two-year-old's hands using such a contraption? I haven't. More often than not, Daddy's trousers are required to stand in as towel substitute. Damp legs, not nice.
I have no time for Small Potatoes (the television programme, not the tuber), Mr Bloom (he gives me the creeps) and the fact that Channel 5's clock and that on our digital television recorder don't correspond, meaning that all our Peppa Pig episodes (and there are a lot) finish 30 seconds before their intended end.
I don't like fishing in rock pools (there's never anything in them), the door at The B&G's nursery (three sessions running, the handle came off in my hand when I pulled it closed; now, it has gone the other way, and I can't shut it) or Annabel Karmel.
I can't stand Dad-ism (please, men looking after children isn't that unusual). Note to anyone in marketing, to brand a product as Mum's Favourite, Mum's Choice or some other variant is to ensure that I'll not purchase it. I'll make an exception for Mothercare, but that's all.
It's clear that I'm not alone on this one: In the United States, Huggies have just been forced to pull an expensive advertising campaign that used the line 'To prove that Huggies diapers and wipes can handle anything, we put them to the toughest test imaginable - Dads'.
Countless complaints, embarrassing U-turn, shame-faced apologies all round.
You know, men can - and do - change nappies and much more. It's not like asking a chimpanzee to look after a child. Get used to it.
I don't like balloons (guaranteed arguments), bubble mix (guaranteed arguments and spillage) or party bags (small plastic carriers, crammed with cheap 'toys' that are of no use to anyone. In the last 12 months I have thrown countless cardboard jigsaws and assorted plastic ephemera straight into the bin; even The B&G - not the greatest judges - understand that such things cannot be used for serious playing).
Inappropriate children's names are a guaranteed goat-getter (please, parents, if it has an apostrophe, the chances are it's unsuitable).
So too anyone thinking that a trip to soft play is nothing more than a chance to:
a) spend some serious time on Facebook.
b) drink cappuccino.
c) abdicate all parental responsibilities.
d) all of the above.
I don't like boastful parents, the fact that our local supermarket is so officious about dispensing infant medication (seriously, no-one has ever used Calpol to attempt suicide and it'd take rather more than the two bottles I'm unable to purchase at one time) and Radar Keys (The B&G need the loo, there's one in our immediate environment but I'm unable to access it as it requires some mystical opening device that no-one I have ever met has ever clapped eyes on).
I also don't have much time for Health Visitors.
But then, I think I might have mentioned that . . . .

 

Silent Sunday 25.03.12

 

Fiction Fridays #18: Duck in the Truck . . . .

"This is the Duck driving home in a truck,

This is the track that is taking him back."

#FF18

Duck in the Truck: Jez Alborough (1999)

For the best in children's books . . . .

 

Relish a good farce? Consult a Health Visitor . . . .

Scooter-trained, yes, but can she hold a spoon?

One morning, last month, I took The G to our local GP practice.
Not to see the doctor, more's the pity, our appointment, instead, with the Health Visitor.
You might recall that I've never had the greatest relationship with Health Visitors.
This latest encounter did nothing to inspire me to reconsider that position.
I tend to avoid such situations - it's best for us all - but this, the so-called Two-Year Check, appears to be mandatory.
I say 'so-called' because, at the time of our Two-Year Check, The G was within a month of her third birthday.
The Health Visitor insisted that this didn't matter, and said that, as long as the assessment took place whilst The G was still two, the process was valid.
She then proceeded to test The G, applying the exact same criteria used to conduct The B's Two-Year Check back in 2009.
The B's test took place one month after his second birthday, rather than one month before his third, making him 10 months younger than The G at the time of hers.
Farcical doesn't begin to cover it.
The ludicrous questions I had to answer about The G - who, by the way, can ride The B's bike the length of our street, peel a potato unassisted and use the remote control to select her own episodes of Peppa Pig - included 'Can she feed herself?' and 'Can she bend down and pick up an object from the floor?'
Like I said before, the experience did nothing to change some long-held opinions . . . .

 

In their own words #17 . . . .

THE B: "Daddy, I've thought of something for you to do the next time we're at nursery."
ME (with plenty to do already): "And what might that be?"
Short pause as The B composes himself.
THE B: "I thought you could go out and buy us a fish."
Silence, for just a moment.
THE B (by way of explanation): "For our tea."
ME (a touch on the sceptical side): "And what kind of fish did you have in mind?"
There followed a brief period of contemplation.
THE B: "Just a normal one . . . ."

 

In their own words #16 . . . .

THE B (a quizzical expression on his face): "Daddy, are there any bouncy castles in Holland?"

 

In their own words #15 . . . .

THE B: "As you are my Daddy, I thought you could read me a story . . . ."

 

In their own words #14 . . . .

THE B (having ridden The G's new Mini Micro scooter for the first time): "Daddy, don't you ever get bored of always just walking?"

 

In their own words #13 . . . .

THE B (having seen The G's new Mini Micro scooter for the first time): "I need one of those."
Pause for thought.
THE B: "In blue . . . ."

 

It's just plane rong . . . .

I can't find an air-a-plain anywhere in here.....

The B&G are back home from nursery and, as always, there are some gems to be found on the sheets that the staff use to detail the day's activities.

The spelling and grammar used on these is quite often awful, but even taking normal standards into account, today's effort is beyond bad.

The most alarming error, the line that informs me that The G has, this morning, enjoyed flying, and here I quote, 'her paper air-a-plain'.

Not for the first time, words (and by this, I mean actual, real words, the kind that can be found in dictionaries) fail me . . . .

 

Thumbs up for The G's Mini Micro . . . .

Eat my dust, The B.......

Earlier this afternoon, out and about, road-testing The G's newly-acquired scooter.
The conclusion reached, that Deathtrap 1 it is not.
Not that that's a bad thing. Far from it, in fact.
The G seemed to relish riding a scooter that, for once, didn't have its own agenda, the concept of being in control one that, I suspect, is going to take her a little time to become accustomed to.
There are several statistics I could share about her Mini Micro, but the all-important one is this: In all the time she rode it, she suffered not a single injury, a significant upturn in fortune.
It is no surprise that Micro Scooters' precision-made machine is a cut above its accident-prone predecessor, Deathtrap 1, a vehicle that is preparing to make its final journey, to the nearest skip, and not before time.
The G isn't going to miss it.
Not now that she has her Mini Micro, although there are still things about her new ride that she has yet to master.
The steering is the main issue, The G still trying to figure out the leaning technique required to adjust direction.
Her initial experiences during this afternoon's testing session suggest that her natural balance is skewed (just a little) to the left, an issue that, on more than one occasion, led to her going round and round in circles.
Further practice ought to iron that out.
Indeed, the improvements made this afternoon alone suggest that, within the coming days, I'm going to face a struggle to keep up.
The B too. For so long the household's foremost scooter-based speed demon, he is - on this evidence, at least - about to find himself eating dust. It'll do him good.
Like the responsible parent I aspire to be, I did, of course, read the 16-point safety instructions that accompanied the Mini Micro prior to allowing The G to board.
I managed to adhere to most of them.
But Point 3 (Ensure that your child doesn't ride down steep hills) and Point 5 (Do not let your child travel at speeds exceeding 5kph) might prove problematic.
I'm not too concerned about this.
No matter the speeds she reaches or the slopes she tackles on her Mini Micro, she'll always be safer than she ever was aboard the hazardous Deathtrap 1.
"I love my new scooter, Daddy," she said as, our test session over, we prepared to head home this afternoon. I don't recall her ever saying that about the old one . . . .

The Mini Micro gets The G's official seal of approval........

 

* Sponsored post alert. I have not been paid for this, or for other posts in this series, but a scooter has changed hands. Following the official @homedad reviewing guidelines, all posts are independent, honest and unbiased. 

Scooter envy: The G's special delivery . . . .

Even boxed, it's an improvement on Deathtrap 1.......

It's here.
The G's scooter, that is.
I just collected it from the Post Office. Needless to say, The G loves it and The B is a little on the envious side (and that before I've even had a chance to open the box).
They're not alone in their appreciation of the Mini Micro from Micro Scooters - far from it, in fact.
You see, the man at the Post Office, he liked it too.
"I was hoping no-one would come and claim that," he said as he handed it over.
Not a chance.
I suspect it's going to suit The G better than it would the man from the Post Office.
For one thing, it's a little on the small side for his (ahem!) rather sizeable frame.
For another, to The G's obvious delight, it's bright pink . . . .

 

* Sponsored post alert. I have not been paid for this, or for subsequent posts in this series, but a scooter has changed hands. Following the official @homedad reviewing guidelines, all posts are independent, honest and unbiased.

It's the end of the road for Deathtrap 1 . . . .

Next stop, a skip.......

The cheap option isn't always the best.

Take, for example, The G's scooter. I call it Deathtrap 1.

On price alone, Deathtrap 1 ticks all the boxes, costing, as it did, just £2.50 from a car boot sale held at our local school a little over 12 months ago.

In closing a remarkable deal, I managed to support a good cause and give The G the means to chase The B on his scooter. Good business, or at least, so I thought at the time.

Deathtrap 1 is pink, so The G took to it at once.

Riding it, though. That's a different matter.

Nothing is able to reduce The G to tears faster than Deathtrap 1, the household's foremost instigator of injuries. To ride it is to crash it.

Several problems here: The bit she stands on is too high from the ground, the back wheels are so thick that she kicks them upon attempting to propel herself and the handlebars spin right around, the full 360 degrees, ensuring that she is forever disorientated and confused about the direction in which she is supposed to be travelling (never a good thing for a two-year-old).

Given that Deathtrap 1 can reach astonishing speeds, it is little surprise that blood and bruises have come to characterise The G's scooting career thus far.

Having seen her careering down the street, fighting Deathtrap 1 for control once too often in recent days, I've decided that the time to act has come.

To replace Deathtrap 1, The G will soon be the proud owner of a Mini Micro, a scooter that is certain to prove a cut above its unpredictable predecessor.

Like all the finest things (Toblerones, exquisite timepieces, Roger Federer), the Mini Micro hails from Switzerland and can boast some exceptional engineering.

Lower to the ground, just one small wheel at the rear and its handlebars relying on subtle leans rather than terrifying twists, I have a feeling that Micro Scooters' popular model is going to prove to be much more suitable for The G than the skip-bound Deathtrap 1. 

You can even get them in pink.

The G will be pleased . . . .

 

* Sponsored post alert. I have not been paid for this, or for subsequent posts in this series, but a scooter has changed hands. Following the official @homedad reviewing guidelines, all posts are independent, honest and unbiased.

Scissors, straitjackets and Micro Scooters . . . .

Option Three: Not expected to lead to legal proceedings.......

The G's top three current needs:
1) A good haircut.
2) Some strong tranquilisers, or perhaps just a small-fitting straitjacket.
3) A new scooter.
The first need, I cannot meet for risk of an ill-timed scissor slip and the threat, thereafter, of a divorce or, at the least, serious household sanctions.
The second is best avoided for fear that it could result in a court appearance.
The third might just be something I can provide, thanks, in the main, to the kind people at Micro Scooters Ltd.
More on this to follow, but for now, don't tell The G.
It's supposed to be a secret . . . .

 

* Sponsored post alert. I have not been paid for this, or for subsequent posts in this series, but a scooter has changed hands. Following the official @homedad reviewing guidelines, all posts are independent, honest and unbiased.

Silent Sunday 18.03.12

 

Fiction Fridays #17: Darkness slipped in . . . .

"Daisy was thinking of a game to play, 

when Darkness slipped in at the end of the day....."

FF#17

Darkness slipped in: Ella Burfoot (2008).

This is Fiction Fridays. These are the Rules. This is the Collection. This is the Pinboard.

For the best in children's books . . . .

In their own words #12 . . . .

THE B: "Mummy, how old are you?"

THE W: "How old do you think I am?" 
Short pause as The B gives this some serious consideration.
THE B: "88?"

 

In their own words #11 . . . .

THE B (looking at The G's favourite pink house): "Daddy, why's that house so old?"
ME: "Because it was built a long time ago." 
THE B: "How long ago?"
ME: "I'm not sure, exactly, but more than 100 years ago."
Short silence as this information is processed.
THE B (quizzical face): "1928?"
ME (accustomed to such randomness): "Even longer ago than 1928."
Pause for thought.
THE B: "1913?" 

If The G had £1,000,000 . . . .

This house or 10 bags of plastic pineapples?

I fear that a house move might be imminent.

It's The G, you see.

She has identified her dream home.

Two things that appeal here, one rather obvious, the other a little less so.

The former, that the house in question has been painted bright pink.

The latter, that it has lots of windows.

The Pink House, as it has become known, cannot be passed these days without The G declaring: 'I'd like to live in it'.

Two problems spring to mind:

1) It isn't for sale.

2) The last time it was, it was valued at close to one million pounds.

That puts it a little beyond our reach, I'm afraid, although explaining such financial intricacies to The G is not a simple task.

In her mind, a basket of plastic fruit costs £100,000.

In those terms, The Pink House's price tag seems rather reasonable . . . .

The G: anything The B can do . . . .

The G's portrait of me.......

There's nothing like a little competition to prompt an unforeseen developmental spurt.
Take The G's drawings, for instance.
Just eight days have passed since I posted this about The B's much-improved artwork.
Having taken note, The G - as is her wont - has decided to muscle in on the action.
She has always had a talent for colourful paint-splatter abstracts.
But her latest pen-based creations are a class apart.
Using her favourite felt tips, she has proved to be just as adept as her big brother at depicting people.
Given that she hasn't quite reached her third birthday, these are rather impressive.
So much so that, in recent days, she has made her artistic debut here at Pinterest.
I suggested last week that it might not be long before The G had her own Pinterest pinboard to rival The B's. I just didn't expect us to be doing it quite this soon . . . .