On the first day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the second day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the third day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Ten cartoon stickers, nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Eleven fridge magnets, ten cartoon stickers, nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my toddler gave to me: Twelve Christmas baubles, eleven fridge magnets, ten cartoon stickers, nine snotty tissues, eight blunted crayons, seven scribbled drawings, six squashed bananas, FIVE POM-BEARS. Four random socks, three dead leaves, two wet wipes and some toe-fluff from between her feet.
Sadly, the time has come to admit defeat. I fought long and hard against the overwhelming inevitability of it all, but to no avail. My daughter has become besotted with âIn the Night Gardenâ. Iggle Piggle has won.
As per many a story about a classic struggle, this all started in a branch of Homebase one Sunday afternoon. The three of us had finally arrived at the checkout after probably the most protracted discussion in history about a new bathroom mirror, when M suddenly pointed at the obligatory stack of discounted DVDs placed nearby and excitedly exclaimed âPiggle!â in reference to the ubiquitous blanket-carrying creature whose features adorned one of the disc covers.
âHow on earth does she know that?â asked my wife.
Our surprise was because, at the time, Mâs range of vocabulary was only just starting to take off, so it seemed amazing to us that she knew the name of a character from a TV show that we had proactively tried to avoid on the grounds that we thought it was, well, a bit weird.
And so the seeds of obsession had started. In all honesty, the finger of blame points squarely at my mother. She owns an Iggle Piggle doll from her teaching days and therefore must have introduced her granddaughter to the blue tyrant at some point.
We tried a number of diverting tactics and it seemed, for a short time at least, as though Peter Rabbit (albeit the new televised version of Peter Rabbit) had saved the day – despite it being aimed at children slightly older than 18 months. After each brief episode had finished, M would point at the TV and turn to us with a forlorn look on her face, exclaiming âBunnyâŚâ. Truth be told though, I donât think she had ever watched a full episode, instead she would get most excited about the cheesy, over-earnest theme tune which sounds like it is being sung by a man straining against the effects of a hernia:
Despite the adventures and hi-jinks of Peter and his friends, In the Night Garden eventually wormed its way to the forefront of Mâs conscience by virtue of the fact that it is cleverly scheduled on the CBeebies channel just before she goes to sleep each weeknight. Much to my chagrin, its calming and otherworldly vibe seems to strike just the right tone before bedtime.
But it is this otherworldly feel that, frankly, creeps me out a bit. According to Wikipedia, In the Night Garden consists of â a mix of actors in costume, puppetry and computer animationâ. In print, this combination might sound perfectly normal for a childrenâs TV programme but, when you watch the show, it just doesnât seem quite ârightâ.
Which comes to my â and my wifeâs – main gripe about the show: The normal laws of the universe just donât seem to apply in the garden.
For instance, letâs take the Ninky Nonk and the Pinky Ponk. The former is a living, breathing train seemingly without eyes and ears but which still needs to sleep at the end of the day and can travel up trees. The Pinky-Ponk is also without facial features and is an airship with various fins, propellers and which emits weird noises. But the most unsettling thing about these colourful contraptions is the fact that they seem to be able to bend the rules of physics. Usually, they appear smaller than the main characters â Iggle Piggle, Upsy Daisy and Makka Pakka. Yet, these three are still able to fit normally inside Ninky Nonk/Pinky Ponk, subsequently being dragged up trees and spun around in circles in the air, all the while appearing considerably more comfortable than any commuter travelling on South-West Trains.
In fact, Pinky Ponkâs tendency for manic spinning around actually made me feel slightly nauseous whilst watching one episode, so Iâm amazed that Makka Pakka hasnât yet pukey puked.
There is also the weirdness of the characters themselves. Aside from the random noises and whistles that make up the language of the night garden, each inhabitant displays some pretty odd characteristics:
Makka Pakkaâs obsession with cleaning other peopleâs faces and collecting stones is, to put it mildly, a bit of a worry. Frankly, itâs the sort of behaviour you would expect to hear about in a news report covering a serial killer in the American midwest.
Upsy Daisy likes to sing loudly through a megaphone like some sort of crazy bag-lady and carries her bed around with her in what may be some sort of Tracey Emin-inspired piece of performance art.
The Pontipines and the Wottingers sound like something out of West Side Story and, unfortunately for them, are neighbours in a miniature semi-detached house at the foot of a tree. Despite the outward pleasantries that comes with them being tiny wooden toys, I fear that there might be a feud silently raging within those walls. The Haahoos, meanwhile, have this slow, creepy floating vibe that remind me of Reeves and Mortimerâs sketch about Masterchef in the Lloyd Grossman era (the friendlier days – before it got all arrogant and shouty).
Finally, of course, there is Iggle Piggle himself. Looking like the product of an illicit relationship between the Pilsbury Doughboy and one of the Smurfs, Iggle Piggle magically arrives via boat in the garden every episode before leaving the same way at the end, sailing across the sea back to â well, who knows? It is safe to assume that his journey doesnât take him across the English channel, as there is no P&O ferry in sight and barely a hint of an English celebrity doing a charity swim. Wherever he lives though, Iggle Piggle clearly has very poor healthcare coverage, as he unfortunately still has bells, squeakers and rattles embedded in his body. Ideally, he should also see someone about the loss of balance he also seems to frequently experience. Iâve had labyrinthitis before â itâs not fun.
But, before I get too carried away and in case you think I am alone in my mistrust of the programme, I received the following comments on Facebook when I posted the simple sentence: Â “In the Night Garden freaks me outâ:
âDonât ever watch it!â
âMe too â weird as hell!â
âIf you listen rather than just watch, Upsy Daisy sounds like sheâs having a permanent orgasm!â
âWildly inappropriateâŚIggle Piggle trying to get into Upsy Daisyâs bed!â
And, more worryingly:Â âJust wait; Give it 6 months and you too could be booking âIn the Night Garden Liveâ!â
The showâs popularity is there for all to see. Not just in the DVD stands by the tills at Homebase, but also in books, toys, puzzles, games and various other forms of merchandise. Itâs quite surprising, considering that only 100 or so episodes were made before the BBC pulled the plug in 2010, possibly because it became too expensive to make.
These 100 episodes are seemingly played on a loop on CBeebies, much like the episodes of that other ubiquitous show, Peppa Pig, which always seems to be on every other childrenâs TV channel and somehow happens to be playing the same episode every time I happen to watch it (the one where Daddy Pig drops his keys down the drain at the beauty spot and they have to dig up the road – in case you were wondering).
Given this enduring popularity, maybe the issue is actually with me (and possibly the other people Iâve quoted in this post as well). Maybe Iâm too cynical? Maybe the creative youthful imagination and acceptance of the weird and wonderful has simply deserted me over time? Maybe Iâm simply old-fashioned and I like my television shows to generally make sense or at least have some kind of rational explanation for any weirdness? After all, this would explain why I was so annoyed by the endings of Lost and Quantum Leap.
Whatever the reason, In the Night Garden has become part of our daily lives and appears to be here to stay, despite my misgivings.
In fact, Iâm sure that there will be times where Iâll actually welcome itâs catchy little theme tune as it diverts Mâs attention away from trying to draw on the walls or pour her milk on the carpet. Iâll be thankful for its soothing presence as it calms her down in time for bed.
But I guess thatâs how it wins over the parents as well – meaning that once itâs got you, thereâs just no escape from the night garden.
Darn you, Iggle Piggle. Even though you always leave…we know that youâll be back.
Iâve sometimes struggled with this blog in that I get periods of writers block and can often go weeks â even months â without being able to think of anything new to put down on screen. This lack of inspiration can also spill over into my parenting as, during periods when Iâm in charge of entertaining our daughter, I sometimes draw a complete blank â spending so much time trying to think about new, fun methods of entertainment when I could be actually interacting with her instead.  Fortunately, my wife is brilliantly creative like this, so Iâve often survived Daddy-and-daughter time by basically copying her ideas. For instance, I used to love building dens when I was younger but had never even thought about it as a way of keeping M entertained until my wife built a blanket-and-garden chair construction in the garden a few Saturdays ago. The following day, I tried to replicate this concept in the living room, although my effort was not quite as goodâŚ
Bad Den
On another occasion, I thought I was being slightly more creative by turning a simple game of âPeepoâ into ‘Hide-and-seek’, using a couple of Mâs toys as participants. In theory, it could have worked. In practice, it worryingly turned into âThe Blair Witch ProjectââŚ
*Shudder*
I was again stuck for inspiration a couple of Sundays ago, when my wife was due to attend a spa day. Having foregone the idea of any forward planning whatsoever, I decided to go with one of my default measures, a trip to the local park. After all, there were swings, slides and lots of ducks to be pointed at, all sure-fire winners in the eyes of my daughter. As the weather was nice and Iâd decided to go over lunchtime, a decision that had everything absolutely nothing to do with my hope of Mâs afternoon nap coinciding with the football, Iâd gone into the kitchen to make a packed lunch, safe in the knowledge that M was quite happy playing with a jigsaw. Or so I thought. Turning around to put the lunch ingredients back into the fridge, I noticed that my fish-oil capsule pot had been knocked on the floor, opened and with its contents littered on the floor next to my daughter. That horrible sinking moment of dread kicked in as I panicked, tried to recall my first-aid training and reached over to her, lifted her up and slapped her on the back, before realising that she wasnât actually choking.
What I hadnât realised up until that moment was that M could now reach up to the kitchen work surface and pick up/knock off small objects, such as, oh I donât know, a pot of fish oil capsules. But, in all honesty Iâd had warning. For a while now, M has been able to reach up to the top of the freezer (which sits just below the counter for those of you who like detailed information about kitchen layouts) and has used a fair chunk of her time continually pressing and un-pressing the temperature button. Itâs happened so often that Iâve now completely forgotten what this button *actually* does and whether having it either pressed or un-pressed is the default setting. My theory is that Iâll know which one is wrong when the kitchen floor gets a lot wetter. Still, at least that would mean we could finally get rid of the huge tub of âFruits of the forestâ that has taken up around 1/3 of our freezer space for what seems like a decade. Anyway, it was only a matter of time before she reached even higher.
But, back to the panic: I rang my wife, despite knowing that a potential swallowing incident isnât exactly conducive to a relaxing day at the spa. I say potential, because there was no evidence, apart from some burping/hiccupping that may have been unrelated. âItâs only been half an hourâ said my wife, in part humour/part exasperation, upon being relayed the drama. âHave you looked it up? She sounds happy enough,â she continued, obviously hearing M babbling away at the other end. It was true – she did seem happy enough and in fact, was actually quite amused by her own burping. âIf she seems happy, then Iâm not worriedâ, said my wife, âbut keep an eye on herâ. This was then followed by the more obvious question âDoes her breath smell of fish?â
It didnât.
Having got off the phone and sat with my daughter whilst she belched over the small plastic streets of her âHappy Landâ set, I took the opportunity to Google (other search engines are available) what could happen if a child swallows a fish-oil capsule. I wasnât expecting complete piece of mind because, personally, Iâve never searched for any kind of symptom on the internet without subsequently picking up on the worst possible scenario and running with it. Of course, this being the wonderful World Wide Web, various pieces of advice cropped up, mainly along these lines:
âTHE CAPSULES ARE A CHOKING HAZARDâ (True, but as any swallowed capsule/s appeared to have fully worked their way down, even I figured it was safe to cross that one off).
âOne capsule wonât cause them any harm, other than the possibility of an upset stomachâ (Iâd happily take a dose of Nappygeddon as the only side-effect of my mistake, it would be the least Iâd deserve).
âIt could actually be good for your childâ (HmmâŚthe pot says âunsuitable for children under the age of 5â).
âEVEN IF YOUâRE NOT SURE, GET THEM SEEN BY YOUR LOCAL GP IMMEDIATELYâ (This was the one that made me panic again as well as wonder what sort of magic land this person lives in – where they can just walk in and get a GP appointment straight away).
Having fretted some more, I thought the best thing to do was to take my wifeâs advice and just watch her closely. So, we did go to the park, went on the swings, went on the slide, watched and pointed at a lot of ducks, ate lunch in the sunshine and had a little run around. M seemed completely fine, the burping had long since stopped and there was no sign either that day or the next of any after-effects from any capsules that may or may not have been swallowed in the first place. These were the thoughts going through my head as I kept trying to re-assure myself, as well as get rid of the horrendous guilt that follows incidents such as this. It could have been far worse, of course, and I tried to switch my mind away when I thought about the potentially more catastrophic consequences that could have ensued for my precious little girl and that Iâd be solely responsible for.
But, upon reflection, and after a couple of days of no side-effects whatsoever (not even an explosive nappy incident), it has taught me not to sometimes just go with the flow and not worry too much about entertaining her, but instead to make sure that Iâve at least got the basics of child care right first. Now, I didnât leave my Wellman tablets in the den, did I?
Since becoming a father, I admit that there have been occasions when Iâve found the dramatic reduction in my âfree timeâ a bit frustrating. Whilst this is just one downside in a field full of positives during parenthood, Iâve realised in the last 24 hours that less time to yourself can actually be a good thing.
Let me explain: This week, my wife and daughter are away for a couple of nights, so my time in the evenings is my own. Last night was the first night that they were away, but I had a dentist appointment after work. After this appointment, I came back to find a parking ticket on my car. I was so annoyed by this (technically justified) ticket that I subsequently spent the remainder of the evening â including 10 minutes eating microwaveable noodles â thinking about it. Needless to say, if my wife and daughter were at home, I would have been preoccupied and therefore not given more than a passing thought to this annoyance, let alone spent time and effort writing a lengthy note to the offending council. This is how it went:
Customer Services, Epsom & Ewell Borough Council
12th August 2014
Dear Sir/Madam,
Earlier this evening, I was the lucky recipient of one of your parking charges, which was stuck onto my car windscreen at Hope Lodge car park because I was parked âwithout clearly displaying a valid pay and display ticket or voucher or parking clockâ (whatever the hell that last option is).
Itâs true, I was parked without one of those fine objects, but I was really annoyed by the ticket, so I wish to give you some background and also tell you why Iâm annoyed. Iâm sure you donât care, but Iâve had a lot of caffeine today and itâs my ÂŁ50 (or ÂŁ25 if I pay within 14 days â again, how lucky am I?) that youâre taking from me, so Iâm going to tell you anyway.
Iâd left work in Weybridge a good 1 hour and 10 minutes before my 6pm appointment in order to make what, outside rush hour, is a 25-minute journey. Having been caught in stop-start traffic on three separate occasions, I eventually arrived at Hope Lodge car park a minute before my appointment. I parked up, went over to the ticket machine and found that the parking charges appeared to have increased yet again since my last visit to Epsom, which, considering how much it costs to stop here, was surprisingly not that long ago. This time around, I apparently needed ÂŁ1.50 to park as it was after 4pm. As luck would (not) have it, all the cash I had on me amounted to ÂŁ1.40. I had mistakenly believed that this would have seen me through my appointment quite comfortably – how wrong I was.
âNot to worryâ, I thought to myself, as I assumed that Epsom & Ewell Borough Council would have one of those fancy new systems like âRingGoâ where, if you donât happen to have enough cash for a ridiculously-inflated parking cost, then you can instead pay through your mobile phone, either via an âappâ or by ringing an automated number. You know, like old times.
Sadly, there was not this facility at Hope Lodge car park (the irony of the name was not lost on me).
Even in Dorking, where I live, these new-fangled systems are commonplace, which is a surprise considering that youâre nearer London and have lots of shiny new infrastructure – but maybe that is just confined to the train station.
So, I was stuck. I had no means to pay for my brief time at Hope Lodge and, now late for my appointment and with a bladder straining against the weight of all of the aforementioned caffeine, I made the decision to just go straight to my appointment.
Whilst in the dental surgery, the hygienist told me that I needed âto relaxâ my jaw. This was difficult because there was a wasp flying over my head, a Gary Barlow CD playing in the background and the tube that was sending water down my throat made me feel like I was being water-boarded. It was only once the appointment was over and I left the surgery that my jaw, not to mention the rest of me, started to relax. Unfortunately, I clenched up again 30 seconds later, when I saw the ticket slapped on my windscreen.
By the way, my teeth are fine, just in case you were wondering.
Normally, I would be very happy because of this, but Iâm instead angry that both unfortunate circumstance and your draconian, inflexible car parking measures have ruined my evening by forcing me to spend my time writing you this letter instead of watching âSharknado 2â, despite the feeling that I’m sure it will be even worse than the first one.
This is not to mention the time Iâll have to spend actually paying your penalty charge. Yes, Iâll pay, despite the gnashing of my newly flossed teeth.
However, the main point of this letter is that I wish to point out that your car parking charges are a complete rip-off, both ridiculously excessive and pointlessly changeable, whilst the methods to pay are archaic, inflexible and show no concession to modern life. But, maybe you donât want to make it easier for people to pay? No, itâs much better to keep fleecing the general public, avoiding the extra administration of upgrading to a newer, mobile phone-led system and also pocketing the additional revenue that will probably go towards paying for this yearâs council Christmas party (seriously â where does the money from these charges go?)
After all, itâs not like I havenât cumulatively over-paid for actual parking time in the last 15 years or so that Iâve been coming to Epsom (and not just for all the cinema trips). Do I get a refund for that? Of course not.
Sarcasm aside, I do hope that youâll have had enough complaints about this to revisit both the cost and the method of parking within Epsom & Ewell as, currently, both are ridiculous.
In the meantime, you may take my money, but you wonât take my freedom (unless that actually becomes the overnight parking cost during the next price increase).
Yours sincerely,
Jonathan Dockett
So there we go, Iâll certainly let you know if I get a reply. In the meantime, this was a reminder that time spent with my little family brings out the best in me or, at the very least, dilutes the sarcastic bits.
As my daughter has got more independent, mobile and interactive, Iâve often found myself wondering exactly what is going on inside her head. For instance, she spends a lot of time just wandering around holding random objects with such a determined sense of purpose, but her motives appear amusingly unfathomable. Given that she canât verbally express herself in the way she would like (and the fact that sheâs not allowed to play with pens ever since the whole âdrawing on her own faceâ incident), Iâve had a guess at what her various thought processes might have been over the last couple of weeks:
Wednesday 30th April. Woke up, had breakfast, pointed at lots of stuff, walked around picking up objects, dropped them, repeatedly attempted to climb the stairs, pulled down various books and DVDs from low shelving, ate most of my lunch but threw the rest on the floor, had a nap, ATE A BANANA, drank some milk, went to the park, toddled around in random directions, came home, tried to clamber into the recycling bin, had dinner, had more milk, had a bath, used a sponge to soak the bathroom floor, had a book about owl babies read to me, kicked up a fuss when it was time for bed. Standard.
Thursday 1st May. WORST. DAY. EVER. I should have realised something was up because the parents had been nervously talking about something called the âEmmemmaarrjabâ and Daddy was working from home today. At lunchtime, they took me to a brightly lit place that smelt vaguely of TCP, where they lulled me into a false sense of security by letting me play with different toys to the ones I have at home, whilst they sat around reading magazines about property and gardens. However, I was then taken into a room to be held tightly by the parents whilst two people Iâve never met before put injections into my legs. They hurt, so I screamed, wriggled and sweated A LOT. Post-injections, one of the people Iâd never met tried to put my discarded sock back on me, so I shouted and kicked out at them. Telling me that I was âstronger than a lot of boysâ didnât help. Afterwards, the parents looked rather upset and kept saying to each other how hard they found the whole experience, whilst cuddling me and telling me it will be ok. So, THEY found it hard? Well, TRY HAVING THREE SHARP OBJECTS STABBED INTO YOUR LIMBS IN QUICK SUCCESSION AND SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.
Friday 2nd May. Iâm still not over the trauma of yesterday, so I refuse to engage happily with the parents or even make eye contact, let alone give them a smile or a cuddâŚwait, is that their breakfast? Hi!
Saturday 3rd May. Went to a big party today with the parents and my auntie. The birthday boy was 5 and there were lots of older children in bright items of clothing called âsuperhero costumesâ. Not to be deterred by this, I announced my presence by repeatedly walking right into the middle of the fun and games, often dragging a large plastic chair with me (just to emphasise the point that I was there to be entertained). It was great fun and the food was good, especially the cheese-based stuff. For some reason, Daddy seemed very excited about colourful, edible objects called âparty ringsâ. I canât take him anywhere.
After food, we went outside where there was a large play area with swings and slides. I love these things, but the parents still wonât let me climb back up the slide. Theyâve been funny about that ever since we went to soft play.
Sunday 4th May. Todayâs goal: Pull out every possible item of my clothing from the box next to my cot, chew the sock-ons, drop the bibs through the gaps in the stair gate, put some leggings over my head and leave the rest lying at random intervals upstairs. Whilst Iâm at it, Iâll also remove the plug-in air freshener, spilling the liquid over myself as well as everything I come into contact with. Nobody will want to go within a mile of anything that smells like âEvening Primroseâ ever again.
Monday 5th May. Today was a bank holiday, which appears to be an excuse for a massive skive. Anyway, I went for a long walk with the parents today and had a picnic in a large field. They let me have a run around as well. I thought Iâd have a bit of fun by toddling towards piles of sheep poo, waiting for them to quickly try and catch up with me before veering away from the poo at the last second. I also kept pointing at the sky on random occasions. Fools â they looked every time.
Tuesday 6th May. Iâve got the sniffles AGAIN. Itâs very uncomfortable and apparently I need to have drops put into my nose to relieve the snot. I hate those drops and I assumed that stuff was supposed to be coming out of my nose, not going back in? Anyway, Iâm making my displeasure known by coughing loudly into the face of anyone who picks me up.
Wednesday 7th May. Still feeling poorly, although the viscous blackcurrant-flavoured liquid that the parents have been giving me has soothed the cough a fair bit. Memo to self: when older, develop a banana-flavoured cough remedy and, after Iâm rich, use the proceeds to buy tonnes of actual bananas.
I did feel well enough to play with my wooden âNoahâs Arkâ toy, though. The parents like to keep all the pieces together, but I find it much more interesting to put Mrs.Noah and at least one of the giraffes on top of the radiator. I think they enjoy it there; itâs nice and warm.
Thursday 8th May. Todayâs goal: Try and reach the remaining parts of the television screen that I havenât yet managed to smear with my fingerprints. Problem: I canât reach. The parents say that Iâm due a growth spurt, so I hope that this happens before bedtime.
Update: No growth spurt before bedtime. The clean part of the television screen remains un-smeared. This is my Everest.
Friday 9th May. Today was the first day in ages that Iâve not had a single banana â disgraceful. The pear replacement service simply doesnât cut it. I might call Esther Rantzen.
Saturday 10th May. Mummy had to work today, so Daddy put me in the baby carrier and took me for a walk in the countryside. It would have been lovely if he had managed to put my shoes on properly so that they didnât keep slipping off. Iâd also have preferred it if he had looked at the weather forecast and put our raincoats on before we left, so that we didnât get drenched on the way back. Plus, the clambering over that gate (twice) was rather uncoordinated and awkward. At least the view either side of his head was nice.
Sunday 11th May. The parents were watching something called âThe Eurovision Song Contestâ last night. According to the news this morning, this contest was won by a lady with a beard. So many questionsâŚ
In other (much less competent) singing news, the parents have been adding their own verses to âWheels on the busâ by using different noises and voices. As fun as this is, I canât imagine a scenario whereby Elvis, a pack of seagulls and any number of elephants would be on the same bus all at once.
Monday 12th May. Why does society dictate that both feet should either have socks on or socks off? I find it much better to walk around with just the one sock on and I therefore laugh in the face of your draconian sartorial principles.
Tuesday 13th May. Daddy didnât get home until well after midnight as he was out at a concert. Despite his pitiful efforts to keep quiet, my peaceful slumber was briefly disturbed, so I decided to wake up at 5.30am this morning. Thatâll teach him.
Just before my daughter turned 1, I came home from work one evening to find her clambering all over the littered sofa cushions as if it were her own personal soft play area. As well as being one of those âsheâs not a baby anymoreâ moments, it also made me realise that she now needs more exercise if thereâs to be any hope of getting her to sleep at anything approaching a reasonable hour.
So, the following weekend, my wife and I decided to take M to an actual soft play area. This was to be my first time experiencing this (my wife was a veteran of four visits), so I was initially a little apprehensive at the thought of somehow making a huge faux pas.
âDonât worry, there are rules written on the wallâ, my wife said, which was part witty remark and part instruction.
But, I figured that I was just being silly. After all, I was pretty sure that I could restrain myself from performing a running jump into the ball pit or re-enacting âThe Hunger Gamesâ in the climbing area.
Not an actual soft play safety notice
Despite the fact that we had to book a session first, we arrived to find that there were only a handful of other parents and children there. It started well enough, we found a table that would function as our base and proceeded into the ball pit. M was a bit apprehensive about this, but my wife and I joined her as reassurance, all the while trying not to think about all the dirt and encrusted bogeys that might be hidden at the bottom. We then went guided M up the mini steps next to the ball pit and down the adjoining slide. She absolutely loved this, but started to get a bit stroppy that she couldnât climb back up the slide itself.
Thereâll be more on that later.
We then noticed that, behind the ball pit and steps, there was a play area that was currently empty. In this particular section, there was a notice stating that it was ârecommendedâ that children under the age of 5 did not go in. This was presumably because it was a bit darker, there were a couple of large, exercise-style bouncy balls within and the steps were slightly bigger. However, being the determined little individual that she is, M wanted to go in and my wife seemed happy with this: âItâs fine, youâll be with herâ, she said.
So, in we went. I held Mâs hand as she looked around and I helped her up one of the steps. It was at that moment we were seen by a fellow parent, with a son about the same age as M, on the other side of the netting. The little boy stared in the direction of M and I. His mum glanced over as well. âNo, Callum, you canât go in there as youâre not old enoughâ, she said, giving me an extremely disapproving look in the process.
With that one sentence, I had been firmly put in my place and told, in no uncertain terms, that she did not approve of my parenting. My soft play experience was only 15 minutes old.
I whisked M away to the car area (the soft play cars, that is, I didnât take her outside and just leave her by the front wheel of a Nissan). We played there for a little while, whilst I tried to shake the feeling that my soft play âparenting cardâ had been well and truly marked, probably with red biro.
A short while later, my wife came over and we decided to head back to the slide. One of us would escort M up the steps and place her on the slide, whilst the other would wait to catch her at the bottom. It was good fun and the smile on Mâs little face as she came sliding down was lovely. However, as I mentioned before, there was a slight snag as M wanted to climb right back up the slide, clearly oblivious to the older children who were about to hurtle down towards her. So, every time I went to escort her away, she was not best pleased and made her feelings known. Sitting in the area next to the slide was the same mum as before, along with two others. As M cried, they looked over, fixing their collective gaze on my unhappy daughter and I. Feeling rather uncomfortable, I handed M over to my wife and took a bit of a breather.
Now, I can be overly sensitive sometimes and more emotionally robust people might have just ignored the other mums and got on with things, which is why I passed the baton quickly over to my wife. Sheâs a teacher and used to interacting with parents, therefore I figured she wouldnât take any perceived slight as personally as me. So, she took M to play with some soft cubes and soft animals before heading back to the slide. But again, each time, M took exception to being removed from the slide once sheâd reached the bottom (her mum had come down with her). A few minutes later, my wife brought M over and sat next to me, with a slightly embarrassed look on her face. âThey are really judgmental, arenât they?â she said, subtly gesturing over to the trio of seated mums, who appeared to be glancing disdainfully in our direction.
So, we just sat there for a while, looking rather awkward, like a couple of naughty schoolchildren whoâd arrived late for class and neglected to do their homework.
For the remainder of our allotted time, we accompanied M around the soft play area almost apologetically. We left before the other mums had the chance to bring out the pitchforks and burning torches, although I assume that these are probably on an extensive list of items ânot recommendedâ for soft play.
Over-sensitivity and exaggerations for comic effect aside, I appreciate that my fatherly experience is limited (this blog isnât called âThe Experienced Dadâs Diaryâ), but I do know that this parenting business is hard enough without fellow parents making you feel like you are doing it all wrong. After all, each child is different and, as we all know, there is sadly no âone-size-fits-allâ manual.
Still, it wasnât necessarily a bad experience. Slide removals aside, M seemed to enjoy herself and, as my wife put it when we were sat down: âThereâs a blog post in this, isnât there?â
How right she was. As our daughter gets older, it probably wonât be the last of its type either. In terms of soft play though, I might just stick to re-arranging the sofa cushions for the time being.
Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great pride that I bring to you the first annual Novice Dadâs Diary Awards. The awards have come a long way from their origin as an over-caffeinated idea on the 17:54 train from Waterloo, so I am delighted that they are now a reality (of sorts). It is an especially satisfying moment following the bitter and protracted legal battle that occurred between this blog and a well-known brand of sauce, simply because I initially wanted to call them the âDaddiesâ.
Anyway, despite the lack of an esteemed celebrity host (Stacey Solomon wouldnât return my calls), itâs time to grab a glass of follow-on milk and congratulate the winners.
Best Song or Rhyme: Old MacDonald had a farm.
An undisputed classic. Simple melody, great fun and you can make it up as you go along, especially if you have a plethora of cuddly toys at your disposal. Plus, who needs one of those brain ‘workout’ puzzles when you have to simultaneously sing and remember what noises a rabbit makes.
Most Depressing Song or Rhyme: Puff the magic dragon.
I used to love this, until I looked up the lyrics again a few months ago. Putting aside the rumoured and rather unsubtle drug references, Puff was very happy living by the sea in a land called Honah Lee, roaring and frolicking in the autumn mist with his friend. Then, one day, his friend just stopped coming to see him, apparently because painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys. From then on, the remainder of Puffâs long life was spent living in a cave, sad and lonely. Stay happy, kids!
Also nominated: Three Blind Mice, Rock-a-Bye Baby, Five Little Ducks (nominated before I learnt that all of the ducks did eventually come back).
Worst Place to Change a Nappy: Train toilets.
More specifically, a dirty toilet on a speeding, jerky train, which also has one of those cubicle doors that just decides to slide open whenever it feels like it. Hand sanitizer gel may kill 99.9% of bacteria, but it wonât erase the trauma from your mind. Nor does it relieve the travel sickness.
Also nominated: Box Hill car park.
Best Product: Nappy bins
Iâll be honest. Before our daughter was born, I practically bristled at the very idea of having a large poo receptacle in our house. Now, I canât even begin to imagine the alternative horror of endless plastic bags, used baby wipes stuck to my clothes and searching on the internet for the cost of regularly fumigating the house.
Also Nominated: âSock-onsâ, teething granules.
Worst Product: Swaddling wraps.
Iâm sure theyâre great if being used to contain a plastic baby Jesus for the entirety of a nativity play but, in my experience, theyâre not so great if you are trying to swaddle a real-life baby who would like to move her legs more than a few millimetres.
Also Nominated: Variable-flow teats, babygros with too many buttons (unless you happen to work as part of a Formula 1 pit crew).
Most Terrifying Potential Companion: Rosie.
Rosie is my wifeâs childhood doll, who has made an appearance on this blog before, due to her sunken eyes, demonic twitch and general demeanour of pure, unadulterated evil. Naturally, I hope that M never takes a liking to her. There was only ever one winner of this award, partly because all of the other nominees either mysteriously vanished or were found chopped into pieces on the patio.
Also nominated: May they rest in peace.
Most Baffling Technology: The CDs that insert your childâs name into each song.
Genuine question – do they actually record the same song over again, replacing the name each time? How many versions is that? How many âtakesâ is that? Is it recording studio trickery? Doesnât it make the singer go insane? Iâve spent far too much time thinking about this.
Best Display of Patience: The lady next to me on our flight to Seville in November. Iâve mentioned this stoic hero before, but this award is well deserved. There can be few things more annoying when youâre trying to sleep on an aircraft than being repeatedly hit on the nose with a small plastic duck. Unfortunately, our winner could not be here this evening, so the duck is accepting the award on her behalf.
The Multiple Essentials Award: Bibs.
Iâm not necessarily saying that our daughter dribbles a lot, but thereâs more than one reason why the flooding was really bad in Surrey this winter.
The John Lewis Award for Emotionally Manipulative Advertising. SMA Follow-On Milk.
âWe ARE doing greatâ…
The Occasionally Tasty Baby Food Award: âGoodiesâ Organic Apple and Orange Soft Oaty Bars.
Whilst only a few steps away from stealing candy from a baby, these are a useful alternative if youâre desperate for pudding on a Sunday night, the local shops are closed and you havenât got any eggs for an emergency sponge.
Also nominated:Heinz baby porridge (blueberry flavour).
Most Cack-Handed Attempt at Putting on a Baby Backpack:Â Me.
After numerous unsuccessful attempts in a Dorking car park, I eventually managed to lift both daughter and backpack onto my shoulders, all the while arching my back as if I was avoiding bullets in âThe Matrixâ. I briefly caught Mâs reflection in the car window as she was being hoisted up for the final time. She did not look impressed.
The Matthew McConaughey Award for Pointing: Our daughter.
This award was named in honour of everyoneâs favourite Oscar-winning Texan who seems to mark every statement with a jabbing forefinger thrust. M takes herself far less seriously, but that hasnât stopped her from continuously pointing at everything, anything and sometimes absolutely nothing at all. This oneâs for you, Poppet.
The Excessive Competitiveness Award: My wife.
Picture the scene: Itâs Christmas and our 8-month old daughter is mastering the basics of crawling. My wife joins her, presumably in order to provide encouragement. Instead, she proceeds to race our daughter across the living room floor and wins comfortably. Mrs. D then raises her hands aloft at the victory. On that most festive of days, a monster was awoken.
Most Aero-Dynamic Breakfast:Â Porridge
Also nominated:Â Weetabix.
The Makeshift Chair Award: A shoebox.
By my side of the bed in the corner of our bedroom lies a shoebox, where M likes to sit and reflect whilst bringing all manner of things with her, as if she were a little blonde magpie. âGiftsâ that have been left there in recent weeks include various bibs and socks, a pair of pants, a contact lens container, my glasses, My wifeâs watch, a hair clip and, bizarrely, an empty jar of harissa paste from the recycling bin.
So, thatâs it for the awards this time around. Thank you for your company, but itâs time for me to head off to Elton John’s after-show party. I just hope he doesn’t get drunk, maudlin and start singing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’.
This Tuesday (9th April) marks the anniversary of our daughterâs estimated due date. Of course, she would eventually keep us waiting for some time after that date, but itâs amazing how quickly a year goes when youâve been living in a whirlwind of nappies, feeding, disturbed nights, first smiles/giggles/walks and enough snot to irrigate a small country.
Looking back, it was this time last year that I was making sure I was never more than 5ft away from my car keys, downloading a âcontraction timerâ app onto my phone and shopping in Tesco for multiple bottles of hand sanitizer and one of those inflatable travel pillows that only seem to be effective if you can somehow crane your neck to a 90-degree angle.
So, whilst thinking of those currently in a similar position (it doesnât have to involve Tesco â other supermarkets are available), I thought Iâd share this brilliant and very amusing article from Buzzfeed about the 26 stages of childbirth from a manâs perspective. Yes, 26.
Plus, hereâs my post from March last year, when I was immersed in a lot of planning, a fair bit of panicking and also wondering whether it would be acceptable for me to go looking for ice cream once weâd arrived at the maternity ward.
Life is hard. As Benjamin Franklin once said: âIn this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxesâ.
On second thoughts, it may actually have been Brad Pitt in âMeet Joe Blackâ..?
Anyway, itâs tough out there and all parents want to protect their children as best they can from the grim reality that is the modern world and the heartache and upset that it brings with it. Itâs an impossible task though and there is one early trauma that many of us will have gone through as children – the gut-wrenching heartbreak that is the loss of a favourite toy, whether itâs only a temporary loss or something sadly more permanent.
Most people have a story to tell along these lines. My mother, for example, lost her beloved pink rabbit in Scotland when she was little and still hates being reminded about it (sorry, Mum).
My own particular experience did not involve a rabbit, or another stuffed companion such as a bear or even my prized Garfield, but âBenny the beetleâ. Benny was a small rubber beetle (naturally), who was included inside a party bag following a friendâs birthday. Iâm not entirely sure what it was that made me connect with this tiny insect toy, but a bond was formed and I ended up taking Benny with me everywhere I went. He even accompanied me during a family holiday to France a couple of years later. On one lovely sunny day during this trip, my parents and I had been out for a picnic. However, when we got back to the holiday home where we were staying, I realised that Benny was nowhere to be found. Panicked and upset, I forced my parents to join me in a frantic search mission that took in the entire house, surrounding grounds and eventually involved us going back to the picnic area, despite (I think) it being at least an hour away. Iâm sure one of my parents can verify this, as it obviously wasnât me doing the driving.
Having painstakingly combed the area, Benny was still missing. With the light fading, and with me feeling tired and dejected, we headed back to our temporary home. However, shortly after arrival, my mood changed completely when I realised that I had actually left Benny wedged between the pages of the ‘Asterix’ book next to my bed.
In this instance, mine was a temporary loss, however this is tempered by the sad fact that I donât actually know where Benny is these days. Due to his small frame, he got lost again years later, this time for good. Despite the fact that I am now 35 years of age, Iâm like my mother in that this genuinely makes me feel rather sad every time I think about it.
Fast-forward to the present day and I am aware that the day may soon come when my daughter loses one of her cherished toys. With this in mind, my wife and I were given some wise words of advice from my mother-in-law, who said we should always have a duplicate in reserve should anything happen to whichever one ended up as the favourite.
Being very young and fickle, M has only recently developed an interest in soft toys, previously preferring to play with objects that made more of an impact when they were whacked against her high chair or dropped down the toilet. But there has always been one constant presence, which has been especially useful at bedtime as it has become her comforter. When you hand it to her, she automatically grabs it with one hand and sticks her other thumb in her mouth. Itâs like flicking on a rather loveable switch.
The toy in question is a little stuffed animal called a âChimboo Mouseâ made by Jellycat, a company that makes really cute little toys. I donât wish to cast aspersions, but if you donât make at least one âawwwâ noise when looking at their website, then frankly you have no soul.
So, given the level of attachment that M has to her mouse, we decided to follow my mother-in-lawâs advice and buy a spare in case of accidental loss or even potential damage as a result of it being chewed beyond recognition. The problem is that Jellycat have since amended the range. The new mice on the block are still the same size, colour, fabric, dimension etc. and the only difference is that the face is more rounded, less narrow. This is presumably to make them look even cuter but it also makes them look strangely less mouse-like. It is a noticeable difference though and one that Iâd guess would not get past most children if you were to try and replace their favourite toy with an imposter.
So, after a lengthy deliberation, we decided not to purchase the not-quite lookalike mouse from Jellycat directly, but instead search for a true duplicate elsewhere. In such circumstances, all roads lead to eBay.
The good news was that we did indeed find two of the older Chimboo mice for sale, both unused and with tags. The bad news (and I donât think Iâm overstating this) was that the people aiming to sell these mice were pure evil and clearly trying to exploit desperate parents in a bid to make a large profit.
I donât like naming and shaming, but the worst offender was (and still is) an eBay business known as âcheddargorgetoyshopâ. Despite the fact that you can buy the new Chimboo mouse for ÂŁ9 from the Jellycat website, they have listed one of the original range for ÂŁ24.99. Theyâve even described it as a ârare pieceâ. Now, you can argue whether thatâs technically true or not, but I personally think theyâve got more cheek than Beyonce.
(By the way, Iâm sorry if I appear to have gone all âDaily Mailâ on you, be assured that Iâll be having a shower after writing this in order to try and scrub off all of the middle-class rage).
Meanwhile, the other seller was a fellow parent with a spare mouse that had never been used. Again, this seller had described their mouse as ârareâ. The starting price was ÂŁ0.99, so my wife swooped in, contacting the seller to say that she would be happy to pay ÂŁ10 (ÂŁ1 above the standard Jellycat price). The seller refused, clearly believing that that she could get even more by sticking with the auction format. With my wife refusing to join the auction on principal, I formed the other half of our tag-team and entered the bidding. Six days later, the final hours and minutes of this auction turned out to be more tense than âGravityâ, âApollo 13â and a World Cup final penalty shootout put together. But, Iâm proud to say that I prevailed and the mouse was won for a price of ÂŁ6.80. Victory was ours.
Thereâs a slight twist to this winning tale though, as we accidentally introduced both mice to M at the same time, so sheâs now used to having two of them. So, it’s back to the search we go, this time for a third mouse…
Scrambling to buy a replacement need not be the only course of action though, as social media has provided a platform for potential child/toy reunions. In December, my sister-in-law shared a link on Facebook in which somebody had found an old teddy bear on a train to Kings Cross and posted a picture of it in the hope that the bear might find its way back to its owner in time for Christmas. I duly shared it as well and, in the coming days, there would be a number of times where I would wonder whether the bear did make it back home. Similarly, this week I saw another shared plea, this time for the safe return of a stuffed toy lion who had been separated from its owner in a local branch of Tesco.
So, in the event of a lost toy, the modern world does actually give us hope.
Now, I canât offer any solutions to bigger problems such as the global economy or how to make Piers Morgan disappear, but what I can do is to reach out to you good people on behalf of the lost toy cause. People of the blogosphere and the wider world: If you come across a lost toy, look after it, share its details and do what you can to get it back to its rightful owner.
However, If a toy is tragically lost, I hope all sellers and vendors will consider the greater good and offer potential replacement toys at a reasonable price, instead of trying to squeeze as much excess profit as possible from frantic parents (Iâm looking at you in particular, âcheddargorgetoyshopâ).
If we all come together in this, both parents and children will sleep easier at night in the knowledge that childhood companions are safe and sound. Â We can do this, so let’s try and make the world a better place, one small soft toy at a time.
Our little daughter is now only a few weeks away from turning 1. Being possibly influenced by the fact that Iâm married to a teacher (and also because I decided upon the lazy idea of another list-based blog post), I thought that it was time for her first report card.
Etiquette:
One Sunday morning a couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on the sofa watching M happily play with her toys, when she crawled over, grabbed my knee to hold on as she stood up before vigorously wiping her snotty nose across my leg. As if that wasnât enough, she then proceeded to break out in a big, cheesy grin as if sheâd never been more proud of herself. Clearly, thereâs room for improvement here. E-
Sporting Prowess:
A+ for persistence. D- for awareness. The reason I include this second mark is because Mâs current sporting event of choice involves the stairs, a part of our home that she is developing something of an obsession with. Now, before I say any more, Iâd just like to clarify that my wife and I have a gate at the top of the stairs, but not the bottom. We also like to let her explore in general, but always keep an eye on her and stay very close whenever she heads towards the stairs during those times when we havenât used her toy basket to block her passage to them. What Iâm trying to say is that thereâs no need to call social services.
Anyway, her event goes as follows:
Clamber quickly up the first two steps. Slowly climb the third. Tentatively navigate the fourth. Realise that itâs actually quite high. Stand up. Turn around whilst holding the bannisters for balance. Grin through the bannisters. Face away from the stairs. Grin again. Do some weird squat-thrust-type movements whilst making âoooâ âoooâ noises (presumably for extra technical points). Hold arms out. Fall into daddyâs arms and make an âahrarrâ noise that may either be a laugh or a baby-talk version of R Kellyâs âI believe I can flyâ. Repeat ad nauseum.
Although Iâm obviously making sure she is safe, I realise that I am also inadvertently encouraging this game at the same time. This must be one of those âCatch-22â moments of parenthood.
Sporting Prowess Module 2 â Teamwork:
I attempted to share the excitement of team sports with her by setting up a mini rugby game whilst the 6 nations was on, with M and myself playing against the intimidating opposition in the picture below.
It didnât quite work, as the picture was taken in the 10-second window before the goalposts were knocked down by my team-mate. She didnât even take the ball with her. And yes, I know that Twickenham doesnât have a radiator behind the try-line. D-
Motor Skills:
Pretty good for her age, although she has trouble reaching the clutch pedal and doesnât tend to indicate when approaching a roundabout. B+
Talking:
Sheâs usually very chatty, unless she is in an unfamiliar situation or meets someone she doesnât know, in which case she just performs the obligatory âchild stareâ. When sheâs comfortable and happy though, the sounds and non-words are many, ranging from âwawawawaâ, âshzrrrrrâ and âahooooâ to an occasional disturbing throaty gargle that makes her sound like a gremlin. Even though itâs far too early for a first word, sounds that are similar to words sometimes take us aback. Given her unbridled enthusiasm when given one, Iâm convinced that her eventual first word will be âbananaâ. A-
Physical Development:
Her crawling is surprisingly quick, especially when It comes to making a beeline for the aforementioned stairs, or random parts of the floor that may still hold some dropped banana from earlier.
Standing is pretty much conquered, although she does tend to hold on to something in order to steady herself, mostly my or my wifeâs legs. As adorable as this is, itâs also rather inconvenient should you want to, you know, move. Sheâs making good progress with the walking too and, for some reason; she saves her best efforts for when out in public. Itâs quite amusing to watch the slight panic in other peopleâs faces when she starts tottering towards them like a drunk in high winds. B+
Emotional Development:
Sheâs started to have her first few tantrums. Most of the time, this can be quite maddening as, so far, theyâve tended to be due to the fact that weâve blocked her path to the stairs or that itâs time for her to go to bed but she would much prefer to stay up and stick her fingers in our food before going over to wipe them on the television. On the odd occasion however, it can actually be quite amusing. A couple of days ago, she was having fun with her baby-walker before the wall brought an abrupt end to her journey across the living room. Upset that she couldnât go any further, she proceeded to look cross, babble loudly in frustration and throw her arms down in disgust. Whilst this instance may have been quite funny, I doubt Iâll find the majority of tantrums over the next 18 years quite as comical. C+
Sleeping:
Much like a football manager who is only as good as their last result, Mâs sleeping pattern only seems as good or as bad as the previous night. On the whole, she is actually quite good, but the one consistent is that she saves her most unsettled nights for Sundays. As this is right before the start of the working week, the disruption is about as welcome as a fart in a crowded lift. C+
Teeth:
B+. Eight of them so far, all causing considerable pain when you get them clamped round your finger whilst trying to administer her teething granules, which I suppose is rather ironic.
Bathtime:
Hates her hair being washed, repeatedly tries to stand up in the tub, grabs and chews the sponge, hates the sponge being taken off her, hits me in the face with the sponge and squeezes the water from it outside the tub, making me arguably wetter than her. All of which is much to her delight. Rubber ducks and her own toothbrush are only an occasionally effective distraction technique. D+
Social Interaction:
Very sociable once sheâs figured people out. Possibly a little too sociable with other babies and children especially, as she gets rather âhands-onâ with them. Which reminds me that we need to clip her nails even more regularly. Sheâs like Wolverine. B+
Eating and drinking:
Breakfast tends to be messy. Many years from now, when weâve long-since moved, the next owners of our house will still be finding mysterious pieces of encrusted, flung porridge in random parts of the kitchen.
On the plus side, weâve been combining milk with weaning onto solids for a while now and M doesnât seem to be at all picky. She even loves cauliflower cheese, which proves that there must be something wrong with her taste buds. Trying to give her water after meals is a struggle though, as she just uses it as mouthwash before spitting it out and wearing a look that can only be described as âcontemptuousâ. B+
Inquisition:
Seemingly wants to know about EVERYTHING. Current objects of fascination include mobile phones, the stairs, the TV remote, any toggles on an item of clothing, the stairs, anything stacked up on shelves that can be knocked down (books, DVDs etc.), the washing machine, the stairs, the door stop holding open the kitchen door, any food that you happen to be eating, any drink that you happen to be drinking, the stairs, the tumble dryer, anything that happens to be between her and the stairs, her own socks (still). As lovely as her curiosity is, itâs also incredibly exhausting when you have to pick her up and direct her away from the bin for the umpteenth time that afternoon. A-
Musicality:
C+. Sheâs obviously not writing her first concerto or breaking out the MC Hammer-style moves yet, but M does enjoy music and watching people dance and sing. This is surprising, given that I have a singing voice that sounds like a seal being clubbed to death. In fact, itâs even worse than this:
Storytelling:
C+. Enjoys being read to, providing sheâs not wriggling away and trying to get to the stairs again. She also seems to enjoy telling the odd story herself as well. A couple of weeks ago, I picked her up from the child-minder for the first time. On the way home, she was babbling away in the back of the car as if telling me all about her day. It was strangely emotional.
Her thesis on the industrial revolution:
Ungraded. Sheâs still working on the introduction. Itâs very shoddy work, if Iâm honest.
