Monday, 29 November 2010

Prodigy not progeny

Over the last 18 months, I’ve noticed how quickly progeny can turn to prodigy. Last week, at a singing group, I had to stifle a snigger as we sat round on the floor, waiting for a sing-a-long to begin. ‘What are you doing?’ a mother asked her baby son as she dangled him by his armpits in front of her and he bounced on his bandy legs, much like any other baby. ‘You’re not supposed to be walking, you’re only six months old!’

I should probably stop here when it comes to relaying baby-boasts, as I wouldn’t wish to offend anyone by singling out the genius of their own child. So here is a boast of my own. A few days ago, I went to my daughter’s nursery to have a conversation about her progress. I perched on a miniature chair at a miniature table and her keyworker presented me with a fat folder: ‘Elizabeth’s profile’, she stated, making her sound more like an inmate than a toddler. 

Monday, 25 October 2010

Mr Messy is pushed for time

On reading a 21st-century sequel to Mr Messy with my daughter recently, we turned the page to find a picture of Mr Messy’s garden shed. Its contents spilled messily out through the door.

‘Daddy! Daddy!’ my daughter stated, pointing to the untidy debris and nodding with conviction. ‘Yes!’ I agreed with just a touch of Mr Mischief, ‘Just like daddy’s shed.’

Later that day, I relayed the anecdote to ‘daddy’. ‘Mr Messy probably doesn’t have time to tidy his shed either,’ he retorted. He had a point. Time seems to be in short supply these days.

Monday, 13 September 2010

Man flu

Last week was a long one. It had a particularly tantrumy start on Monday morning with a lot of porridge flinging and wiping and general mind-changing. Amid the bafflement of ‘Milk or juice? Ok, milk. Oh, no ok, here’s the juice. Wrong again – milk it is. Or neither… no, the cat doesn’t want it…’ there was a certain amount of shaking coming from upstairs. With husband being ill, I’d left him sick in bed. ‘Daddy must be feeling better,’ I told no one in particular. ‘It sounds like he’s having a shower.’ I continued to field the grumping until we left for nursery. 

On my return, it seemed husband’s preparations for work had taken a noisier turn. As I opened up my laptop, it began to tremble to a sequence of furious thuds from above. I moved suddenly into panic mode – he must have fallen over! Or was he dying? Rushing up the stairs, flinging open the bedroom door, my heart pounded. What would I find?