1.   Noise

2.   Toys

3.   Boys

A quiet night from Son 2 aged 14m.  Fireworks this morning though.  The Man brought the boys up their snack - banana and apple pieces.  “I want grapes,” said Son 1 aged 4y 2m. “We haven’t got any grapes,” I said.  Son 1 grizzled a bit.  Son 2 grabbed his tub, peered in, tried throwing it on the floor… grabbed Son 1’s tub, flung the banana and apple on the floor, snatched his own again and succeeded in throwing the contents out… and then hurled his Doidy cup of milk across the chair and mirror.  It was a spectacular piece of tantruming, just because he didn’t have grapes in his tub.  He was dumped back in his cot and left to stew.  Well, boil would be a more accurate description.  Jaysus if he’s like this now what happens when he’s had time to practise?

Getting Son 1 to Nursery on time was a Good Thing.  We left late, the roads were awful, and I decided to try another route which was ok until we ended up in a long stationary queue.  I’m usually pretty patient in traffic, but we’d already been late twice and I really felt like Flinging My Tub. We got there on time though, and I even saw the teacher for the first time in a week.  I like the way Son 1 goes into Nursery now.  Eyes darting around to see what the others are doing, checking out all the different toys out in all the different places… his brain really switches instantly to What-Am-I-Playing-With, rather than I-Want-My-Mum.

Back home after The Office Son 2 reached and shrieked for me as soon as I walked in, and then, once he’d clamped himself to my shoulder started looking round for the next bit of action.  I did some books with him and got him in his bath.  Son 1 went in the shower, Son 2 sat at the plug end playing with the bubbles, the Winnie The Pooh squirters and some plastic jugs.  Son 1 was cleaning toys and polishing the shower screen.  They were both enchantingly engrossed in their own games.  For two minutes, till Son 1 “accidentally” poured soapy water in Son 2’s eyes.  Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.  It was hard settling him again, but we made it.  Six weeks since I stopped feeding him, and I think he’s now happy with milk from a cup and water from a glass.

1. White linen

2. Pushing pirates

3. Three and three quarters

Four years ago, expecting Son 1 (now 3y 9m) and knowing nothing about children at all, I bought a little pair of white linen trousers in the Monsoon sale.  I bought 3m - 6m, because it didn’t occur to me that a September-born child would not really need white linen trousers between January and March.  But Son 1 wore them.  To Baby Yoga.  In the cosytoe. To breastfeeding group in the hot health centre room.  I adored them; he outgrew them, I put them away, not knowing if I’d ever have use for them again.  I got them out for Son 2 (now aged 10m,) and, being a bit smaller than Son 1,  he’s been in them for months.  He was christened in them.  He has stained the waistband orange (some puree containing betacarotene.) He’s worn them on the beach.  I put them on him today.  For a boy with a gastric bug, who ate a lot yesterday and hadn’t yet “produced”, the waist band was a bit tight.  Too tight.  I took off the white linen trousers, and put them at the bottom of the stairs to our room, heading up to the outgrown pile.  They can’t be given away, because of the mark.  They can’t be thrown away, because I can’t be parted from them.  Is pressing and framing baby clothes to keep on the wall normal behaviour, or should I just stick to photos?

I got back to The Office today, but left early.  Son 2 is coming on, he ate normal food for lunch, he did well at tea.  Son 1 was very cross about going to nursery.  At bedtime, Son 2 was sitting in the bath, playing with Son 1’s toy pirates.  “Put a pirate on the edge,” said The Man. “He loves pushing them off.”  So my game became: get all six pirates on the edge of the bath before Son 2 gets a chance to knock any off.  Son 1 joined in, sitting on my knee, a great big barrier between me and Son 2.  They played together, Son 1 laughing and laughing, Son 2 giggling and giggling.  Delicious.     

Son 1’s behaviour is getting wilder and wilder.  For him, that is.  He is nowhere near in the same ASBO league as some of his friends, and I should always make that clear.  But the incessant fights, hitting, raspberries,  and my endless streams of “No!” “Don’t!” and “Stop!” are making me annoy myself.  He’s gone loopy because Son 2’s been so ill and has had all my time.  Because he’s so articulate and sassy in his conversation, it never quite registers that this is someone who can clearly remember wearing nappies and sleeping in a cot.  This evening, snuggling down in his bed with him, I decided to have one of those mummy-child gentle conversations where, with careful, loving questions and finely-tuned listening skills, I analyse his ambiguous replies and slowly get to the root of the issue.  “I know you feel angry inside when you’re being naughty.  What’s in your head when you’re feeling like that?”  “Hit Son 2.  Throw him in the dustbin.”  He’s talking metaphorically, of course.