Perfectly imperfect

As I sit before my steaming laptop, birdsong rippling through the evening air, with the gentle whispering of bubbles popping in my gin and tonic beside me, my thoughts drift back over today and I find it possible to look at the day from two standpoints. (And, to be honest, the further down the glass of gin I get, the further I swing towards one particular viewpoint. I'll allow you to guess which...)

I could be sitting here, feeling somewhat cross that LittleBear has summoned me upstairs to his bedroom on yet another spurious reason when he should be asleep.

I could look around the house and feel ground down by the heaps of lego on the floor, the partially complete Scrabble game spread across the carpet, the layer of dust on every surface, the sticky finger marks on the windows and the general air of dilapidation and dirt.

I could be annoyed by the tears that were shed by LittleBear when I didn't manage to immediately find a means for him to place the "Q" and the "Z" on the Scrabble board in a high-scoring fashion*.

I could be despondent that BigBear and I both ended up yelling at LittleBear at bath-time as he repeatedly and consistently did exactly what we'd just told him not to do.

Or....

I could feel happy and relaxed because my bears left me in bed this morning, and I didn't get up until half past ten. I then made myself an enormous bowl of fresh fruit and yoghurt topped with granola for breakfast, that was so tasty my LittleBear came and shared it with me, thus reminding me that I don't need to worry too much about his eating habits. (I could also feel slightly smug that I'd guessed this would happen and had made more than I needed so I could ladle some into an extra bowl for LittleBear without actually having to sacrifice my own breakfast).

I could feel a warm contentment that we had a lovely family day out, cycling together into HomeTown, with LittleBear obediently and safely following all our instructions as we navigated a variety of large and small roads, junctions, traffic lights, cycle ways and bridges. Once there we had an inexpensive meal out at a local eatery of long-standing that LittleBear loves, before a trip to a brilliant bookshop that's spread over four floors. LittleBear found the book purchase decision-making process so arduous that we were forced to have a thinking-pause in which we left the bookshop and sat beside some of the finest examples of gothic architecture in the country and ate ice-cream.

Ice-cream helps us think

I could feel privileged to live in a place where it's possible to cycle just under five miles into the centre of a bustling university town, despite living in a village with acres of fields across the road from our house. And once in said town there is a massive secure bicycle park in which to lock up our bikes, because it is simply assumed that people will cycle, and will need somewhere to put their bike. (This is the same bicycle park we used when LittleBear was still transported on the back of my bike, and which has a "borrow a pushchair" scheme run from the bike shop next door, allowing you to cart your small infant around town once you've got them there. This may still be the most awesome thing I found when I had a little boy on my bike.)

I could feel pleased that my LittleBear and his LittleLegs were able to cycle just over nine miles today, without a single complaint, allowing the world to open before us with all its glorious opportunities. With every passing week we are tethered less and less to the things that we can't do with a young child, and provided with more and more things that we can and will do because we have a young child with whom to do them.

I could feel proud that I have a LittleBear who is sensible and listens and who knows there is a difference between being told to stop making an annoying squeaking noise at bath-time and being told to stop before reaching the white line on the road. Because if he's going to choose which instructions to follow and which to ignore, I may be annoyed that he ignores any of them, but at least he doesn't ignore the one that would see him flattened by the traffic.

I haven't even finished my gin yet and I know which way I'm going to look at today.


* In the end, I managed Mezquit for him, on a double word score, which he then followed up by putting "Dread" across the end on a triple word score, with the "E" converting "Mezquit" to "Mezquite". Yes, we do resort to the dictionary a lot while playing. We have our own house rules for Scrabble. It's more Scrabbish.
 

Elementary

Occasionally, I think I may be supplying my son with inappropriate reading material.

Last summer, on a trip to a bookshop, I gave him free reign to choose any book that he wanted. And he chose a book about the periodic table of the elements. Being of a scientific bent myself, this delighted me, and we have happily read sections of it together, and I've brought home bits of this and that from work for his box of "precious things". All children* have pieces of Molybdenum and Tantalum in a box don't they?

But now and then I have rather odd conversations with him...

"Mummy, is my shirt made of Tungsten? Because it says Tu in it"

Which shows an endearing grasp of the concept of chemical symbols, if not their details, and a simultaneous lack of awareness of the clothing brands of leading UK supermarkets.

"I like the noble gases Mummy. My favourite is Helium, because it makes balloons float. Hydrogen would be better because it's lighter, but it's more dangerous."

Can't argue with him there, and nor can the Hindenburg.

"Actually, I think I prefer Xenon and Krypton, because you can get more points for them in Scrabble."

Which is also true, and I confess to feeling a glow of pride when he put "Xenon" on a triple-word-score without any intervention from me.

I'm not entirely sure, however, that my enthusiasm for science and imparting its beauty and majesty to my son has the full backing of all members of the bear household...

On announcing that "everything in the world has holes in it**", LittleBear was asked by his other parent, "Has Mummy been telling you about science again?"

Meanwhile, on the occasion that LittleBear's homework involved finding items outside that began with every letter of the alphabet, naturally LittleBear chose "Xenon" for "X", as he had discovered in his marvelous book that there are trace quantities of Xenon in the air. So far, so good. And then he asked me to bring home a mass spectrum from work to go in his homework book. I started to feel we were heading into slightly alarming territory at this point. Feeling a few minor qualms about what his teacher would think of this, I slipped a little note into his homework explaining how we had reached this point, what with Scrabble, and a book about the Periodic Table, and me making mass spectrometers and all, and I apologised and attempted to explain that I'm not actually a deranged Tiger Mum after all. (I may be deranged in many ways, but not in the field of driving my poor child to learn atmospheric chemistry from an early age.)

Which is how it came about that LittleBear's lovely headmaster stopped me at the school gates one day to laugh at me, and tell me how much he and LittleBear's teacher, Miss M, had enjoyed me digging an ever deeper hole for myself with my note. Because nothing says I'm winning at parenting quite like being mocked by my son's headmaster.


* For the record I would like to point out that Tigger's daughter (aged 10) is attempting to collect as many different elements as possible, and Piglet's son (aged 8) is pretty hot on Tom Lehrer's son "The Elements", so while I may be odd, and my child may be odd, at least my friends and their children are odd too. We may just go off and be odd somewhere together.

** A slightly more in-depth approach to atomic theory than I'm prepared to go into here is required to assess this statement. 

A learning experience

Last weekend, BigBear abandoned us for the day went to a football match, leaving me pondering what LittleBear and I could do instead. LittleBear was somewhat peeved not be allowed to go to the football match, but given it was 200 miles away and he doesn't like the sound of a hairdryer, let alone 25,000 roaring fans, we declined to give him the chance to go. I was somewhat disappointed not to be able to go, as it's now coming up for seven years since I went to a match in the flesh, and it would be nice to go again. So we deserved to do something fun together.

And so we did. I booked LittleBear in for a session at the local fun climbing centre. But, knowing my LittleBear as I do, I knew that fear and uncertainty were a potential risk, and that he needed a little compatriot to climb with, to encourage and inspire him. So we went with FearlessFriend and her younger (slightly more fearful) brother.

We sat through the safety briefing, with LittleBear on my lap, not quite brave enough to be separated from the security of my arms. With many glances over his shoulder and anxious frowns and shrugs cast my way, he made his way to the front to be fitted with a harness, before darting back to me to examine clips and buckles together. The safety briefing including the imprecation that non-climbers were not to enter the "arena" unless it was absolutely necessary and they were wearing a hi-viz jacket, and that unless you had a particularly small child who needed your presence, parents should stay firmly ring-side. And since FearlessFriend had NervousBrother, their mother (my friend) opted to be a hi-vized parent, while I looked after our bags and what seemed like 37 coats and jumpers.

And, as I suspected/feared, LittleBear was rather unsure of himself. In fact, on his first few attempts, he looked like nothing more than a frog that someone had nailed to the wall, unable to move any limbs as they were all splayed around him with no possible purchase to push or pull himself in any direction. I stood, out of range of instruction, virtually hopping from foot to foot, itching to give my boy some tips on how to use his reach and upper body strength in combination with his legs to ascend.

Climbing frog getting stuck

But, I was too far away for him to hear, and I was not one of the privileged few in the arena, so I had to remain on the sidelines, developing a nervous tic as I suppressed the urge to dash in and offer suggestions. And LittleBear barely got above his own height off the ground.

But then, he watched FearlessFriend romp to the top of a climb. And he watched other children, and how they tackled it. And he went and queued up to try something he preferred the look of. Before I knew it, he was finding his own techniques, and using his body with increasing strength and agility, until he made his way to the top of a climb.

LittleBear conquers the wall

He was not a natural at it, as FearlessFriend was, but he worked it out himself. And he kept trying, and he didn't give up, and he didn't need me to tell him what to do or how to be better. And he came out of the arena with a huge smile on his face, asking if we could climb every week, and asking if he could have his birthday party there.

And I need to remember this. I need to remember that he can and should try and fail, and try again, and fail again, and keep trying. And that he will find enormous rewards and pride in managing without me, no matter how much I want to "help". And this may be the hardest lesson I have to learn - when to step in, and when to step back. Because I don't step back enough at the moment, and I need to, because when I was forced to, he didn't sink, he flew.

Slightly going out

So here we are, a month and a half after our not-enormously-successful attempts to have a babysitter. And it would still be nice to go out, once in a while, and not traumatise LittleBear too badly. Fortunately, my dear friend Piglet has volunteered to step into the breach, being one of LittleBear's Trusted and Loved People*. Yesterday was our wedding anniversary, (nine years. Nine years?! How did that happen?) and we decided to take Piglet up on her offer.

We prepared LittleBear for this event, without making a Big Issue of it, just mentioning it and reminding him that this was Completely Normal. And he was fine, and unperturbed by the idea. At first.

Then came bath-time, which was fine.

And then we tucked him up in bed, and aside from a little clinging, it was fine.

And then, five minutes later, a gentle whimpering sound started emanating from the monitor. And yes, LittleBear was getting increasingly upset about the idea of us going out, and being left "alone". I jollied him along a little, and he stopped the greebling, albeit reluctantly.

Piglet arrived, and popped upstairs to let him know she was now in the house, and give him a kiss and a cuddle. And all was well.

So, finally, we went to give LittleBear a last kiss and cuddle before going out...

... and there was a pathetic little scrap, huddled up in his bed, tears streaming down his cheeks, begging me not to go.

I suppressed my rolling eyes, suppressed the wave of frustration, and also suppressed the gut-wrenching need to sweep him up in my arms and promise never to leave him. Because beneath those tears, I was fairly certain that actually he'd be fine. So, I reverted to my "jollying" tactics and talked about all the things he could think about and plan while falling asleep, and reminded him we were only a few hundred metres away really, and reminded him that Christmas had not been that long ago, when he'd had Piglet look after him for much longer, and it had all been fine.

We dried his tears, kissed him and left, hearts in mouths. Hearts in somewhat pursed and grumpy mouths.

Happy Anniversary BigBear.

We simply went to one of the local hostelries, and had a meal and a drink. There was a certain amount of tension and stress about proceedings as we both stoically tried not to think about our baby crying himself to sleep. But within half an hour there was a telltale burble from my phone to report that LittleBear had not let out so much as a whimper after we left, and was fast asleep.

And breathe...

We were almost having a nice evening until a random middle-aged man with his laptop came and asked if he could sit at one of the spare seats at our table, which rather put a damper on our ability to converse in peace and privacy, so after an enormous hour and half out, we trundled home again.

But at least we went out.


* This select band appears to currently consist of LittleBear's blood relations, and Piglet. When probed about why he didn't want anyone else to babysit, he started with "I can't explain..." before giving it some thought and informing me, "I don't feel safe when you're not here to cuddle me if there's something wrong. Piglet is good at cuddles." He has conceded that there is one other parent-of-a-friend that he would consider allowing to look after him. I guess that gives us something to work with.
 

Golden rule

The first rule of Fight Club is that you do not talk about Fight Club.

Only slightly less well known is the first rule of having a child who sleeps. It's remarkably similar - the first rule of Good Sleeping is that you do not talk about Good Sleeping. This is for many reasons...

Firstly, it's just not fair. At least 50% of your friends will have a child who is not a good sleeper; they will be surviving on brief snatches of an hour and half of sleep, interspersed with a wailing or vomiting or insomniac child. They do not want to know that you are getting a solid eight hours sleep. They may take a pause from clawing their own eyes out to claw your eyes out instead.

For those of us who are either not brimming over with the milk of human kindness or whose empathy has been erased by the trauma of dealing with every permutation of crisis that one's own child presents, there is another reason for not mentioning you child's ability to sleep. You will jinx it. The moment that you inform anybody, even in a hushed whisper, that your little darling sleeps for twelve hours without a murmur it will be the last night that this happens for several months. You will suddenly have a child who cannot fall asleep without being held, or a child who wakes at midnight needing a drink, at 2 AM needing help blowing their noise, at 4 AM having lost their favourite cuddly toy, and at 5 AM because it's time to play. If you have the audacity to offer advice on your own fantastically successful bedtime routine, it will immediately cease working for you. Bath-time will become a war-zone; bedtime stories will be required to last for an hour and a half; sleep will not come without seventeen dinosaurs and a cuddly squid being aligned with the earth's magnetic field, but your child will not tell you about this requirement, he will simply object, frequently and vociferously that everything's wrong.

As I said, the first rule of Good Sleeping is that you do not talk about Good Sleeping.

And why do I mention this now?

Because after yesterday's food-related post, I exchanged anecdotes with a friend about her children and food. Her children are Good Eaters but Bad Sleepers. Mine has, historically, been the opposite. We agreed that we all had our crosses to bear. But it was too late. I had already transgressed. I had mentioned LittleBear and Good Sleep.

So this morning he woke up at 5:30am.

He felt poorly.

He was too hot.

He felt sick.

He didn't know what to think about.

Could he have a bucket please? In case he was sick.

He burped and stopped feeling sick.

Could he have a drink of water?

He needed to go to the loo.

Four times.

Could he have a tissue to blow his nose?

He still felt sick. Or thirsty. Or both.

After an hour and a half of this, it was time to get up, at which point he decided he felt sick again. Until he'd eaten a piece of toast and beaten me at Scrabble, and then he felt fine, apart from the dark circles under his eyes.

I might feel sick now. Or maybe it's the side-effects of the high doses of caffeine with which I'm attempting to navigate the day?



Footnote
It would appear I've basically written this post before. Maybe lack of sleep makes me repeat myself. Who knows? Maybe lack of sleep makes me repeat myself. Who knows? Maybe lack of sleep.....

Food, again, as always

Is the Pope Catholic? Do bears....? Will I inevitably end up writing about my son and food?

I think we know the answers to all of the above.

Last week, as I collected LittleBear from school, I was summoned to one side by his class teacher. Apparently he's struggling with certain lunches. Like I didn't know that already. On this occasion, he ended up gagging on his lunch and spitting it out. It was chicken in barbecue sauce, so I don't really blame him. The problem appears to be that the lunch supervisor insists that he eats everything, or at least some of everything, and if there's one thing that bitter experience has taught me it's that attempting to force LittleBear to eat anything is futile, counter-productive and liable to end in tears. For everyone involved.

I explained* to the class teacher that there are certain things that he doesn't like, particularly those things that involve sauces, and that I really don't mind if he doesn't eat them, as long as he is able to have whatever carbohydrate and vegetable is available without someone helpfully pouring the sauce all over that too. I'm sure the school is doing its best to do the right thing in attempting to get all the children to eat something at lunchtime, but there has to come a point where forcing a child to eat is the wrong path. Gagging on their food is probably that point. I don't want my boy to end up in the position I was in at primary school - the only child left in the school hall, with a plate in front of me and a teacher beside me as we had a show-down for the entirety of the lunch-break over a brussels sprout. I won. I didn't eat the brussels sprout. But nor did I get play time that day. This is not the future I dream of for my child.

I could, as various people have suggested, move LittleBear over to packed lunches. Except that would involve me having to make packed lunches, and I need more to do like I need a hole in the head. It would also involve LittleBear missing some of his favourite meals, which he is adamant would be unacceptable. The school has a three-week menu, and one can opt to have packed lunches every day, or perhaps every Tuesday, or every Tuesday-and-Thursday, or some other repeating pattern. What one can't do is have packed lunch on Tuesday one week, Wednesday the next week and Monday the third week. Which is what we'd have to do to try to avoid LittleBear's most-hated meals. So, again, packed lunches are not the answer.

Last year, in his first year at school, there didn't seem to be much of a problem. He ate the things he liked, and didn't eat the things he didn't like, and nobody made a fuss. He was encouraged to try new things, but not forced. I don't know whether there's been a change in policy, or whether it's simply a different expectation for the older children than for the tiddlers that start at age 4.

Fortunately, LittleBear's lovely class teacher has asked that I bring her a marked-up copy of the menu, indicating which are the things that LittleBear really, really struggles with, and she will "have a word" with the lunch supervisor so that he isn't forced into eating them. I don't know if this is a feasible proposition or not, because I find it hard to imagine the lunch supervisor being interested in having bespoke instructions for one child amongst the rabble she has to oversee. I also find it hard to believe that all the other children dutifully eat everything they're given without cavilling. Surely it's not just my little boy? Surely the lunch supervisor doesn't insist they all eat everything? Surely the others don't simply bow to the imprecations to eat everything? Surely it's not practical to make my LittleBear a special case? Surely he's not that different? Is he? Is he?


* Yes, I did feel as though I were the worst kind of helicopter parent protecting my special snowflake from facing things he doesn't like. And then I remembered how many years we've been living with this anti-sauce position, and how many ways round it we've tried, and I just felt weary with it all, and no longer embarrassed.