1.  Flowers Are Red

2.  The Fastcoach

3.  Wordcount

0530.  Son 2 aged 17m stood in his cot and bellowed. I pelted down and tried to get him to go back to sleep.  Fan on.  Snuggles in bed.  Lie still.  He kept trying to crawl over to the bedside table to look for a drink.  At 0610 we were Up.  Son 1 aged 4y 4m said he wanted to watch telly upstairs, but stayed down with us singing Nursery Rhymes and playing with Son 2’s puppets.  We have an extra verse in  Baa Baa Black Sheep: “Mummy’s got two little booooyyyys, and Son 1 and Son 2 are their names.”  “That used to just be about me, didn’t it?”  said Son 1.  Up until 17 months ago, I used to sing: “Mummy’s got a little booooyyy, and Son 1 is his name.”  As soon as Son 2 arrived, I upgraded the song.  Just as I was admiring Son 1’s ability to remember things from when he was two years old he said: “They wouldn’t let me sing my special verse at my Old Nursery.”  I expect they made him colour inside the lines of drawings as well.

Son 1 and I planned to do a Big Shop after The Office, so I’d already warned Wonder Nanny that we’d be late.  I was a little bit…er… late picking Son 1 up.  I parked up the Muddy Path so he could enjoy his woodland walk back to the car.  And halfway came those four dread little words “I-need-a-poo.”  Back to the Nursery.  Afterwards Son 1 dillied, dallied and dawdled all the way back to the car.  “Son 1 will you stop being such a slowcoach!”  “I think you should stop being a Fastcoach.”  Couldn’t agree more.  This is the child who has also brought us “sadpatch” and “naughtypatch” to go with “crosspatch.”   We got a Good Big Shop done, but we were embarrassingly late. We bought Wonder Nanny two bunches of flowers.

And upstairs to the  lounge when we got in.  Son 2 toddled up the stairgate, looked up and said “Allo Mama.”  Perfect.  Wonder Nanny and Son 1 both heard it and instantly commented.  His first sentence.  He’s beaten Son 1 to that.  Son 1’s first sentence was “Chocco?  Yeah?” lying on his nappy mat, looking up at me on Easter Bank Holiday Monday, after a day spent stuffing his face with sweets.  Son 1 had about 25 words by the time he was 18 months old.  Son 2 can do Mama, Dadda, Bye bye, allo, a  vowelly version of Son 1’s name, a good shot at Wonder Nanny’s name, na na for crocodile, rah for lion, tiger, dinosaur and bear.  An even louder RAH for parrot (he’s seen a vocal one at the Bird Park) ooo ooo for owl, oo oo (as in book) for dog. Mer for cow. mouth opening and closing for fish, wa wa for duck.  Son 1 had the proper words; Son 2 makes all his up.  i get the feeling no Nursery could stop him singing whatever he likes.

1.  Hazard Lights

2.  Full Beam

3.  Festival of Lights

Standing in the rain under a Tennent’s Pilsner umbrella, we waved The Man off on his Business Trip.  He was being super-efficient, walking to pick up the car, and then coming back to get his bags.  Car double-parked outside, colleague waiting in the car, whizz in… “Daddy are you doing this dot-to-dot with me?”  “I haven’t got time, I’ve got to get on.”  Son 1 aged 4y 1m had brought his Big Activity Book downstairs specially.    Engine off, hazards on, colleague into the house and waiting while Son 1 and The Man joined the dots on Princess Jasmine and Aladdin.

Son 2 aged 13m was scooped up by Wonder Nanny, and Son 1 and I sherpa-d bags into the car.  Horrible weather, and the roads teeming.  Son 1wants to be Star Of The Week.  “What do you have to do to be Star Of The Week?” “Be smiley. ”  ”You’re my Star Of The Week,” I told him.  “You’ve done seven good things and the day hasn’t started.  You got dressed nicely; you were brave when Daddy went.  You cuddled Son 2 nicely; you were good when we were reading his books. You stopped watching telly when I said, you ate your breakfast and you put your coat on straightaway.”  Son 1 beamed in his car seat.

After Nursery, Son 1 wouldn’t hold my hand in case it ruined the henna tattoo on his palm.  His friend’s Mummy did it when she came in to talk about Diwali.  At the roundabout three miles from home he bellowed: “I need a poo!”  “We’ll be home in a minute, can you wait?”  “No.”  “Well don’t worry, we’ll sort you out.”  “It’s coming Mummy!”  “All right darling, Mummy will find you a loo.” “I’m going to burst!”  “There are some loos just by these traffic lights up here.”  Red.  For ten hours.  Green.  We pulled off into a quayside car park, and I scooped him up to some public loos.  Locked.  It was dark.  It was raining.  “I need a poo!”  I fetched yesterday’s Sunday Times from the car, found him a semi-secluded spot, spread it out on the tarmac, pulled down his trousers and held him while he performed.  And completely forgot that little boys doing poos tend to wee as well, so his trousers and one fancy school sock were soaked.  Back home I could only find one sock.  It is either on the quayside, or, lying, wringing wet with wee, in my car.  And because it is a fancy school sock, if it isn’t stinking my car out all night, I shall be peering around the Quay tomorrow at first light looking for it.