@homedad

The G and the jobsworth . . .

2013-05-18T22:29:00.001+01:00

I've been neglecting this blog a little in recent times . . .

I haven't managed a post in an absolute age. You might, perhaps, have noticed.

Having been absent for so long, it seems a shame to moan at this point. But such is life.

Yesterday, you see, The B had his regular post-school swimming lesson.

For him, this is great fun. For The G, unable to join in and forced to spectate, it is something that must be endured.

The main problem is the temperature (uncomfortable in the extreme, the poolside conditions are comparable to those deep inside a hotter-than-average volcano), although the seating (manufactured to a design that defies all tried and trusted ergonomic principles) and duration (30 long, long minutes) also leave a great deal to be desired.

Half-an-hour is an awfully long time for a four-year-old to spend in such an unforgiving environment. Sometimes, to help her pass the time, I take along our iPad.

Yesterday - The G engrossed in a game, The B practising his backstroke - all had been going to plan . . .

Until, that is, an overly-officious staff member approached and threatened to have us removed from the premises.

Our heinous misdemeanour - he informed me, with obvious relish - had been to bring a prohibited electronic device into the building, contravening the council's child protection policies and threatening the wellbeing of everyone in our immediate vicinity.

For the record, The G hadn't been photographing the children in their swimwear.
Indeed, she has forgotten that the iPad has a camera and, even if she did happen to remember, she has eyes for the games and nothing else.

It didn't matter that she's four. It didn't matter that she'd been doing nothing more threatening than playing Toca Monster. It didn't matter that me removing the iPad, forcibly, from her grasp and leaving her with no entertainment form for the lesson's remaining 20 minutes left her perilously close to tears. It didn't even matter that most other parents before our lecture (and, it must be noted, several after it) were quite clearly fiddling on mobile phones, tablets and other such devices, all without censure, with the unspoken understanding that no sinister acts were being committed in the process.

Being a parent, child protection is a subject that matters to me. I get that, given its duty of care, the council has to take certain steps and I even understand that such things are well intentioned.

I also believe, however, that discretion can be exercised, that over-zealous enforcement can border on the ridiculous and that, as in all things, common sense should always be allowed to prevail.

The game is almost up . . .

2013-04-15T18:18:00.001+01:00

This is starting to get a little scary . . .
I can just about accept that The B has reached school-going age, even if it has taken until now, the start of his third full term, for me to reach that point.
But The G? Starting school? In September? It just doesn't seem right.
It is, of course, correct and, a little earlier this morning, the letter arrived that proves as much. You see, The G has secured the school place that we'd hoped for. Our first choice. The pick of all those on offer.
This is good news, not least because it's the school that The B has been attending (and loving) since last September. Being a sibling (and living in the prescribed catchment area), The G's place had been all but assured. But given the demand (and this is an over-subscribed institution), nothing can ever be taken for granted.
It's a relief that she is in, although today's news is tinged with trepidation.
Having served as a full-time stay-at-home dad for almost five-and-a-half years now, it seems the game is almost up. Like I said at the top, this is starting to get scary . . .

The side effects of Star Wars . . .

2013-04-11T19:02:00.000+01:00

The B's interest in all things Star Wars is having one or two unfortunate side effects . . .
Having watched Episode IV (the first one, to those of us of a certain vintage) last month, he and I have enjoyed The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi during the Easter Holidays.
I've got The Phantom Menace all cued up, although The B announced this morning that, upon reflection, he didn't want to watch it. Good taste, some might say . . .
The aforementioned films have been watched whilst The G has been out at nursery, although scheduling complications did require her to watch the final half-an-hour of Return of the Jedi last week.
She quite liked Princess Leah but had little time for the ewoks. One character in particular, it seems, made a lasting impression.
You see, the other day, whilst pottering around the supermarket, she declared, in her loudest voice, 'I don't like that big bad black man, Daddy'.
Time for a sharp exit. It didn't occur to me until much, much later that she'd been talking about Darth Vader . . .

Easter exhaustion & fun at the fair . . .

2013-04-06T19:10:00.000+01:00

Easter holidays, our schedule more hectic than ever . . .
Swimming (slides, wave machine, the lot) twice in 48 hours; playgrounds (three different ones in three different days); people to see; films to watch (The B has, in recent days, taken great delight in The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi to complete the (original) Star Wars trilogy); outings to be enjoyed. Then there's the chocolate . . .
The Easter Bunny, as generous as ever, deposited huge quantities that could take several months to consume all around our back garden. Not that The B&G are complaining.
I've finished the egg that The B chose for me (all 1KG of it) and am looking forward to the healthier (slimmer) days ahead. This is the ninth day of unrestricted confection consumption, after all, a sequence that started with a National Trust Egg Hunt on Good Friday . . .
In the days that have followed, we've had The G's birthday (lunch at TGI Fridays, party tea, big pink cake), Easter Sunday and The B&G's first-ever trip to a fun fair. Taking all this into consideration, it's no surprise that I'm a) VERY full; and b) exhausted.
Indeed, I could collapse (or burst) at any given moment . . .
Not that it hasn't been fun.
The fair has been a particular highlight. The G loved the helter-skelter, The B the ghost train (even if he did experience it with his eyes closed and his hands clamped over ears; he even emitted the occasional sob, although he's adamant he enjoyed it).
Both prevailed at the hook-a-duck stall, winning a plastic light-saber (him), and a bright pink stuffed dog (her). Neither prize being of the highest quality, I'm not convinced that they'll last the holidays. Then again, the same might be said about me . . .

Time flies: The G turns four . . .

2013-03-30T06:00:00.000Z

It's The G's birthday . . .
It's hard to believe she's four.
I liked three. Three suited The G. Four means that she'll soon be starting school and, like The B, beginning to engage in more grown-up pursuits. Time flies and all that.
It doesn't seem all that long ago that she made her dramatic entrance . . .
In hindsight, the fact that she refused to wait (for her estimated due date, for us to travel to the hospital, or for the ambulance to arrive) before being born ought to have told us a great deal about The G and her headstrong nature.
I'm not saying she's impatient . . .
But she does like to do things to her own agenda and she has always made it clear that, despite all our efforts to influence her affairs, she is in control and she doesn't negotiate.
This has made the last 48 months a most interesting period in all our lives. Needless to say, we wouldn't change a thing . . .

God v Bunny - the great Easter showdown . . .

2013-03-28T16:24:00.000Z

The B has found God . . .
Given that the school programme has been so Easter-themed in recent days it's perhaps no surprise that his interest in all things religious has been piqued.
Once the chocolate comes into play, however, I'm sure he'll forget all about it.
For now, though, he has countless God-based ditties to practice and, when he's not attempting to convert us through song, he's doing his utmost to ensure that we're all up to speed with the Easter story . . .
'This Friday is called Good Friday,' he informed me at one stage last night. 'It's when Jesus died.'
He thought about this for a moment, with a contemplative look on his face.
'Really, it should be called Bad Friday,' he said. He then felt the need to explain this in further detail, adding: 'Because it's when Jesus died; and, you know, that was bad.'
The G, needless to say, is much more interested in the Easter Bunny. I suspect that, once he has made his rounds at the weekend, God isn't going to get much of a look in . . .

Let's get ready to grumble . . .

2013-03-27T09:44:00.000Z

So much for being able to influence The B&G's musical tastes . . .

I can control things - to a certain extent, at least - in the home environment. But once The B has arrived at school, or his sister at nursery, I can boast no such powers.

He demonstrated as much last night, not 48 hours after the Gangnam affair, when he made an unexpected request at the tea table.

'Daddy?' he said, taking a break from the ham, cheese and Bovril sandwich that, for the record, he had insisted on making himself. "Do you know Let's Get Ready to Rumble?'

Taken aback, I answered in the affirmative.

The B eyed the iPhone lying on the table.

'Can you get it on that?' he asked.

I couldn't help sighing. He knows too much these days.

I let him watch PJ and Duncan, but not until he explained where he had come across a song that is almost four times as old as he is (he had, of course, heard it at school, first from some bigger children in the playground and then, a little more worryingly, from a teacher in his classroom).

I sat and watched as he sang along to the chorus and it struck me that this (the point at which my influence begins to wane, that is) is where it begins. It's a slippery slope and one that, I suspect, is going to have Gangnam Style waiting at the bottom . . .

Gangnam Style - an uncomfortable experience . . .

2013-03-25T13:59:00.003Z

Last night, at a soiree convened to celebrate his fifth birthday, The B's best friend treated us to a short musical performance . . .

The song he chose, I regret to report, was Gangnam Style.

I don't think I'm prudish but watching him prancing around, riding an imaginary horse (at least, I think it was a horse), whilst slapping his rear end and squealing 'Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Sexy Lady!' proved to be a rather uncomfortable experience.

I do believe that children should be exposed to music as soon as possible in life . . .

But it ought to be the appropriate music.

The B, I'm delighted to report, looked a little bemused at his friend's pelvic-thrusting performance, which came to an abrupt end with the arrival of the ice cream and jelly.

The episode reminded me of something I heard from a good friend who, in recent times, has taken the brave decision to serve as a foster parent.

One pre-school child to come into his care, he told me, had arrived clutching a favourite CD. It was 21, by Adele.

Unlike most people I know, I don't mind a bit of Adele. But having listened to Dr Z's copy, I understand that her music is based, in the main, around notions of anger and bitterness, rejection and revenge.

This didn't seem to represent ideal listening material for a four-year-old struggling to understand her own issues. We sent her our favourite Piccolo CDs, which proved popular and a good deal more suitable.

The B doesn't do Gangnam Style, Adele isn't in his repertoire and, when he encounters small children toddling around the playground in their Rolling Stones tee-shirts, he doesn't ask if he can have one . . .

Because he's five. Because he thinks our music is boring. Because, for him, music is Piccolo, Elephantes Grandes, the Easter songs he is learning at school, and the theme tune from Octonauts. Long may it continue.

That it won't last for long is, of course, inevitable, which is all the more reason not to rush things at this stage. The B's musical journey will play out in full. I see no need to start fast forwarding now . . .

Rhyming basics, bums & bottoms . . .

2013-03-18T21:51:00.001Z

The B&G are learning about rhyming . . .
Nothing complicated, just the basics. Still, it's proving to be more difficult to master than I'd ever expected.
The B, after several false starts, has it sussed at last and is using his new-found knowledge to test certain boundaries.
There is, for instance, a certain word that he knows he shouldn't be saying . . .
In recent days, he has begun to use another word - one that just so happens to rhyme with the one that has been declared off-limits. Subtlety, it must be said, has never been a particular strength.
Still, at least it proves that he understands rhyme as a basic concept, even if The G (18 months his junior, to be fair) is still trying to figure it all out.
Yesterday, she got it into her head that words beginning with the same letter rhyme. This morning, she'd convinced herself that it's all about different words with shared meaning.
Just before starting on her breakfast, she looked up from her bowl with an inquisitive expression on her face.
'Does bottom rhyme with bum?' she asked.
She might not understand rhyme right now, but she can always be guaranteed to get the day's biggest laugh . . .

The Gingerbread Man . . .

2013-03-17T18:56:00.000Z

This weekend, we made gingerbread . . .
In the interests of accuracy, I should, perhaps, amend that statement.
You see, this weekend, I made gingerbread.
This isn't an activity that I'd intended to undertake in isolation, you understand, but finishing off projects for those whose short attention spans have caused them to lose interest appears to be chief amongst my duties these days.
I wouldn't mind, but making gingerbread wasn't even my idea . . .
Given that it's a process that is both labour intensive and time consuming (it takes two days - the first to make the dough, the second to cut and bake the biscuits), the outcome wasn't entirely surprising. That said, The B set a new record for losing interest, having abandoned the project before we'd even got going.
Despite being the one to suggest Operation Gingerbread in the first place, he happily let me make a special trip to Sainsburys for black treacle and watched me assemble an impressive collection of ingredients on the kitchen work surface before declaring that, upon reflection, he'd realised that he had something more important to do.
Considering that his alternative activity turned out to be playing Angry Birds Star Wars, I wasn't all that impressed.
'I'll help you to eat the gingerbread,' he said before disappearing, the iPad tucked under an arm, as though that was a consolation.
I did, at least, have The G's assistance for Phase One . . .
She is fast becoming a more-than competent baker and, under minimal supervision, she excelled, as always, in her measuring and mixing duties. Yet come Phase Two, a little earlier this afternoon, even she lost interest having made a promising start to the cutting-out process.
The B had been feeling a little under the weather this morning, and, having got wind of the fact that he was settling down on the sofa to watch Finding Nemo with Dr Z, The G couldn't get her apron off quickly enough.
'You can finish making the gingerbread, Dad,' she informed me as she fled the kitchen in a blur. She reappeared a moment later. 'I'll eat some when they're ready,' she added . . .

The G: 'More Cheerios, por favor . . .'

2013-03-12T21:25:00.002Z

Earlier, this morning, I gave The G her breakfast . . .
Her all-time favourite cereal (Honey Cheerios, of course) there was nothing unusual in this except, perhaps, for her response.
'Gracias,' she said, all matter-of-fact.
It turns out it's not just The B who is bilingual these days.
The G's speech has, all of a sudden, begun to include a good smattering of Spanish, quite impressive for a three-year-old who has never attended a language lesson in her life.
She gets it all from her brother of course, who spends his Saturdays at his ridiculously-popular Spanish club before returning home to put his new-found knowledge to the test.
During the recent half-term break, The B dedicated two or three days to speaking nothing but his second language. Given that his vocabulary is based largely around numbers, colours and farmyard animals, this made for some interesting conversations.
It mattered not a jot to The G, who soaks up knowledge like a sponge and continues to demonstrate an unquenchable thirst for learning.
Her Cheerios finished this morning, she requested a second bowl.
I looked at her, awaiting some manners before obliging.
'Por favor,' she said, without even thinking about it.
It seems that, if she carries on at this rate, there will be little left for her to learn when the time comes to start school in September . . .

Purple ponies & other unobtainable animals . . .

2013-03-09T16:00:00.000Z

The G wants a pet . . .
Given that we share our home with two highly-strung cats, I thought we had the animal angle covered. The G, it seems, has other ideas.
She has spent recent days drawing up a list and has presented us with four main options:
These are:
1) a dog.
2) another cat.
3) a horse.
4) a unicorn.
There are, as I've been forced to inform her, significant problems with them all.
These are:
1) the cats wouldn't like it.
2) ditto.
3) we have nowhere to keep one, even though The G insists that our modest back garden is big enough to build suitable stables.
4) this is a mythical creature and doesn't, in fact, exist.
Needless to say, The G is refusing to accept such reasoning and, although she has shown a willingness to negotiate on the unicorn front, her expectations remain a touch on the unrealistic side.
She told us this morning that the horse, for instance, should be rainbow-coloured or, failing that, purple.
I've told her that, should I ever encounter such an animal, I'll be certain to bring it home.
It seems like quite a safe bet . . .

It seems I dress like an 11-year-old . . .

2013-03-06T19:23:00.000Z

Just back from The B's school's latest fundraiser . . .
Such things are plentiful in number and come in all shapes and sizes.
This one - coming hot on the heels of the ill-fated disco, the book sale, and the latest in a long line of non-uniform days (in essence, children are charged a small fee that enables them to attend school in their own clothes) - was the best thus far.
Pizza making at a local Italian restaurant. The appeal was obvious . . .
For £5 (£2 of which went straight into the school's coffers), The B got to create his perfect pizza and then eat it with all his friends. He rolled the dough, selected the toppings (having plumped for ham, he sent the chef scurrying into the kitchen to search for some misplaced pineapple), and even got to brandish the long-handled spade-like device that is used to slide the pizzas deep into the flaming oven.
His pizza cooked, he tucked in. He saved none for me.
For all involved, this proved to be a rather pleasurable event, during the course of which I noted several important things:
1) In the immense appetite that he has for pizza, The B is not unusual amongst his peers.
2) Despite certain issues that have been encountered with one ill-disciplined individual in recent days, The B's classmates are, in the main, a good bunch.
3) Given that I'll turn 38 on Friday, the time has come to reappraise the clothes I wear.
The final conclusion is one that I've reached as a result of a conversation that I had with one of The B's friends.
'You've got the same coat as my brother,' she informed me in between mouthfuls.
She paused for a moment for the purposes of swallowing. 'He's 11,' she added helpfully.
Up until that point, it had been going so well . . .

Goading Goths & other fashion faux pas . . .

2013-02-23T13:32:00.000Z

The B&G don't do fashion . . .
The G does like a nice dress and prefers her clothes to be pink but in the main, they'll both go about their business clad in just about anything (or nothing, depending on the season).
Increasingly, however, they've begun to take an interest in how other people are attired.
There's not a lot that The G likes more than to get really close to someone in the supermarket and bellow, at the top of her voice, 'Look at that man's trousers, Daddy!'
Tact, I'm afraid, is something else that The B&G don't do.
In recent times, The B has taken this to another level. You see, whilst out and about in town the other day, we encountered a fast-approaching group of Goths.
Nothing unusual in that, you might think, although their leader was rather striking . . .
Tall, straggly-haired and pale-faced, his full-length trench coat, enormous boots and black lipstick caught The B's eye in particular.
His brain struggling to decipher the image before him, he shrunk against me, terrified, before squealing the immortal line, 'Daddy, there's a witch!'
That the curiously-clad character in question was still well within earshot - and that his peers proved merciless in their mockery - meant he was a fashion victim in more ways than one . . .

Luke who . . . ?

2013-02-17T14:49:00.001Z

Yesterday, The B and I watched Star Wars . . .
It was his first time.
I hadn't thought that we'd get to this sort of stuff quite so soon. But he asked and, having consulted one or two friends and countless compadrés on the Twitter, the consensus seemed to be that he had, indeed, reached the required age.
So, Dr Z and The G out shopping, we sat down and, having overcome the initial confusion that our Star Wars Box Set being on VHS video caused, gave it a go.
It's proper rites-of-passage stuff this, although I didn't expect him to last the course. To me, Star Wars is an action movie. To a five-year-old whose limited attention span is notorious, there is, as he informed me after 10 minutes or so, an awful lot of talking.
He liked Princess Leia (Carrie Fisher he found rather attractive) and enjoyed the music at the Cantina in Mos Eisley, even climbing down from the sofa to do an alien-style jig.
He thought C-3PO was a lot like The G in that he tends to go on a bit and doesn't always make sense. Throughout it all, however, he had quite a loose grip on the actual plot . . .
Come the conclusion, for instance, I asked him if he thought Luke would be successful in his mission to destroy the Death Star.
He looked at me, a confused expression on his face.
'Who's Luke?' he asked.
This I explained to him, but still he looked baffled . . .
There followed a short period of contemplation.
'What's the Death Star?' he enquired.
To his credit, he sat and watched the full film, all two hours of it, and, as the closing credits began to roll, he delivered the ultimate endorsement.
'Can we watch the next one now?' he asked.
I agreed, although, having found the process to be quite tiring, we both decided that, although The Empire will Strike Back, it's going to have to do it at a later date . . .

The over-amplified DJ & the over-sensitive ears . . .

2013-02-16T17:55:00.000Z

The Valentine Disco didn't go quite to plan . . .
The B's first such social engagement took place last night - an hour-long event, in the main school hall, that started at 6pm. Due to his regular swimming lesson, we didn't get there until 6.15pm. The time upon our arrival home was 6.20pm . . .
For the record, it took us around three-and-a-half minutes to travel back.
So, all in all, not an overwhelming success, the problem being the volume of the music and the over-amplified DJ (think Jerry St Clair from The Phoenix Club, just much louder).
The B has never liked loud things - we encountered similar issues last weekend when, during the Chinese New Year celebrations, someone thought it'd be a good idea to start letting off firecrackers - so really, there was always a good chance that the disco would be a bit of a non-starter.
Still, as I led The B towards the exit, I must admit that, despite having spent all week dreading it, I felt a little sad that, thanks to his over-sensitive ears and chronic exhaustion, he didn't get the chance to join his friends in taking part in an event that he'd been looking forward to all week . . .

Joyless gymnastics and the £2 problem . . .

2013-02-15T13:43:00.000Z

The G's gymnastics class has taken a turn for the worse . . .

The problem is the price.
It's not that it's too expensive. Quite the opposite, in fact.

You see, in making their excellent apparatus available for just £2 a session, the organisers are suffering an unforeseen side-effect. The issue is that gymnastics is, in addition to being far more fun, a great deal cheaper than the average trip to soft play . . .

This has led to the class becoming overrun with children far too small to engage and, worse, parents not seeking acrobatic instruction for their offspring but interested in little more than unburdening themselves from energetic infants for 60 minutes or so.

The kids in question allowed to run riot, the result is total chaos and occasional carnage. This is disruptive at best, dangerous at worst.

I'm not claiming that The G is Olga Korbut or anything but, like several other junior gymnasts in attendance, when allowed to focus on the techniques that are being demonstrated, she is showing a willingness to learn and a natural aptitude for a sporting pastime that has captured her imagination. Such is the disorder, her progress is slowing.
This is, sadly, just one more example of a feckless parenting style that drives me to distraction, and an all-too-common case of the few spoiling something for the many.
It isn't often that I feel the need to complain about something being too cheap but for this, for The G's sake, I'd be glad to start paying more . . .

Swimming shorts and senility . . .

2013-02-11T19:08:00.000Z

There's no doubting the fact that I'm starting to get quite old . . .
Physical and mental, the reminders are becoming rather too regular for comfort. Chief amongst these are the so-called senior moments that I've begun to experience on an increasingly-frequent basis.
The G calls these 'Daddy's Mistakes' and tends to find them quite amusing. The latest example of misplaced marbles, however, didn't leave her laughing.
On Mondays, we go swimming, just The G and I, the overly-officious receptionist at our local leisure centre having made it quite clear that she doesn't consider me competent enough to look after two children in the pool.
On this afternoon's evidence, she might, perhaps, have a point.
You see, having got The G changed and packed all her clothes away, I reached for my swimming shorts, only to realise that I'd brought The B's instead. Given that the size in the label is age two to three, they're a touch on the small side even for him. I did consider it for a moment, but there was no way on Earth that I was ever going to squeeze into them.
The G, her annoyance all too obvious, tried her hardest to persuade me to put them on and damn the consequences. I might be growing ever-more senile but even I retain enough of my faculties to realise that this could never be considered a good idea - hence our decision to go back and try all over again tomorrow . . .

Our multicultural weekend is muy bien . . .

2013-02-09T19:19:00.001Z

Unprecedented levels of multiculturalism are being enjoyed around here this weekend . . .
Earlier today, The B attended his Saturday Spanish Club for the first time. It was, as he informed me afterwards, muy bien.
Tomorrow, we're heading into town to participate in the Chinese New Year celebrations. Having spent recent days working on countless craft projects on this theme at school and nursery, The B&G are both rather excited about the prospect.
On Thursday, The G used several gallons of paint to make a red envelope (the exchange of which is, I'm informed, a Chinese custom at such times), whilst The B's school bag was full to bursting with dragons and masks and other such goodies when I emptied it last night.
They're both relishing tomorrow's parade through Chinatown, with the scheduled Dragon Dance the thing they're most excited about. I like traditions as much as anyone else, although if I'm honest, I must admit, I'm just hoping there's going to be noodles . . .

Deciphering dried toads . . .

2013-02-07T21:56:00.000Z

The handwriting of some of the staff at The G's nursery is dreadful . . .
This is something that I must remember to take into account whenever I attempt to decipher the sheet upon which her morning's activities have, allegedly, been detailed.
I forgot today, when - at first glance, at least - it appeared as though The G had enjoyed her time playing with dried toads.
Upon closer inspection - and after quite some time poring over the illegible scrawl presented to me - I realised that it had been dried foods and not dried toads that had so captured her imagination (this still a strange pastime but one better than the alternative).
Given that The G had, at one stage, expressed a desire to use said material to make a filling for pies, it came as quite a relief to discover that there hadn't been an amphibian in sight . . .

Speaking Spanish, misunderstanding martial arts . . .

2013-02-07T21:38:00.002Z

Having taken everything at school in his stride, The B has decided that the time has come to add some extra-curricular activities to his schedule . . .
I decided last month (a little unfairly, perhaps, having not consulted him on the matter) that he didn't want to sign up for the after-school football club.
But, when he came home the other day, adamant that he'd like to spend his weekends attending a local Spanish class, we felt that it'd be wrong to deny him.
The B loves his language lessons and, when the teacher responsible for capturing his imagination told the class that she had started an after-hours Spanish Club, it was inevitable that he'd be amongst those clamouring to sign up.
He has his first class this weekend, after which, he has informed me already, he's keen to sample some more out-of-school action.
Next on his list are the martial arts, although he doesn't really understand what such things entail.
The other day, after school, he told me that his best friend attends a taekwondo class . . .
'I want to do that too,' he said.
I asked him to explain taekwondo to me.
The B thought about this for a moment.
'I think it's a bit like tennis,' he said.
For the time being, all things considered, I think we'll just stick to the Spanish . . .

Pinkness, pizza & going to the pictures . . .

2013-02-02T19:11:00.000Z

Earlier today, The G had a friend over to play . . .
Pinkness galore, The B and I made ourselves scarce. Girls' day in, boys' day out. Time for an adventure.
First up, The Metro into town and the cinema (The B's first-ever trip to the flicks), The Lorax on the big screen, a special kids' event, £1 tickets for all. Pizza Hut for lunch - another first, this - The B eating his own body weight in thin-crust Hawaiian before beating a path to the Ice Cream Factory.
Back at home, The G was relishing being the host, for once getting the chance to set the agenda and indulge in some unbridled girliness, free from the occasional disruption from an overbearing older brother.
This was the main reason for taking him out, although the chance to spend a little one-to-one time with The B - something that, since he started school, I don't get to do very often - was just as appealing.
The plan worked and I'm pleased to report that a good time was had by all. That said, I've rarely felt fuller, so much so that, some six hours after leaving Pizza Hut, I still feel fit to burst . . .

Late nights and social lives . . . .

2013-02-01T19:29:00.000Z

Our evening routine is long established . . .

Bedtime is 7pm. It has been for as long as I can remember.

This might sound a touch early, but believe me, The B&G have no problem retiring at such an hour.

Indeed, so exhausting do their days tend to be at the minute, that it's far from unusual for one or both to be tucked up, content and semi-comatose, from 6.45pm onwards.

This routine suits us all. This routine is, however, going to be challenged in the coming days. I blame The B's fast-developing social life.

You see, next Sunday, he's due to attend a classmate's birthday party, a soft play-type affair, that isn't scheduled to conclude until 7pm. Five days later, the school's Valentine's Disco is due to finish at the very same hour.

Bearing in mind that, after both events, we'll still have to travel home, put The B in the bath and go through all our usual night-time rituals (stories, soft toys et al), I'm not sure when we'll get him to bed. Quite how he'll react to this rude interruption to his regular routine is anyone's guess, although truth be told, I suspect it'll do us all some good to loosen up a little.

The organisers of the aforementioned disco (The B's first such social engagement) are planning, as a concession to the parents, to rig up a makeshift bar in the classroom adjoining the main hall. I have a feeling that trade is going to be brisk . . .

Pizza, pasta and pickled onion crisps . . . .

2013-01-30T14:16:00.000Z

The G's new-found eating abilities are going from strength to strength . . .

Fishfingers are no longer considered an essential ingredient in every meal, and no more do I have to accept the tenuous claim that canned spaghetti hoops - thanks to their tomato-based sauce - can be counted as one of her five-a-day.
Don't get me wrong, she still adores fishfingers and spaghetti . . .
It's just that, in recent times, she has begun to realise that other foodstuffs do exist.
Foodstuffs such as pasta that, served in an uncomplicated tomato sauce, has become her regular main meal on Mondays. She prefers pasta to be served with chicken, although for tea this week, she ate it with bacon. This might not sound like a big deal but such things are unheard of around here.
Not that pasta has been our sole breakthrough . . .
You see, on Tuesdays we spend our afternoons making dough (this almost rivals gymnastics as her favourite pastime) that can be made into a delicious fresh pizza. Yet again, this represents quite remarkable progress.
Nowadays, The G can be persuaded to eat grapes and peas (although not at the same time), she often has a hankering for ham and she consumes bananas by the barrow-load.
Indeed, in recent times, I've found just one thing that she is reluctant to eat . . .
That thing? Monster Munch. In Pickled Onion flavour.
Given that, as a general rule, she likes all crisps, the stronger the better, this is perhaps the most surprising development of all.
It goes against the grain somewhat but, for once, I'm delighted to have found something that The G has no appetite for. Long may it continue . . .

The meen polar bear and The Spelling B . . .

2013-01-19T19:28:00.000Z

The B's spelling is brilliant . . .

Not - I hasten to add - because he always gets it right. Indeed, it's the ones that he doesn't quite nail that give me the greatest pleasure.

Last night, for instance, he and The G organised a tea party, in his bedroom, for all their favourite soft toys. The B compiled a guest list that included his preferred primate. Having noticed that a certain 'Munky' was amongst the attendees, I couldn't help but chuckle.

He also put together a menu that featured 'peetsa' (this despite the fact that 'pizza', along with 'Metro' and 'Asda', was one of the first words he ever learned to read).

In recent days, it delights me to report, he has noted that 'pirates are nortee', polar bears are 'meen' and that he likes to 'reed'. Earlier this afternoon, feeling the need to document the colour of the pen that he had been using, he wrote 'I dun blew'. Realising he had made a mistake, he crossed out his erroneous effort and, in its place, wrote 'I dun bloo'. Genius.

Joking aside, I happen to think that this is all rather impressive . . .
Encouraging too, because it shows that he is paying attention at school, that he is applying the correct principles and using the rules that he has been taught in an attempt to work out the words he wants to use.
It's an unfortunate fact that English, being the illogical language that it often is, doesn't always follow the rules. But I can hardly fault The B for that . . .