Edition 88: “One Small Step….”

Negative Soundbyters – a rather dreary-and-grey morning to you all. My head feels like the weather – fuzzy. And that’s not because a fine frothy lager or a pithy pinot got the better of me – nope; think eight teeth, “Boris” hair and a very sturdy chassis – oh and a few feet tall. Phew!

Our little man believes that waking up from four ‘o clock onwards is a sensible time to start the day. Mrs H and I are of the opposite view and with half-an-eye on the baby monitor and the other half desperately hoping that calm might return, we start discussing his sleeping habits. Let me tell you how productive that conversation is before daylight has even broken; about as productive as Theresa May’s efforts to extract us from the EU with a semblance of a deal. It goes something like this:

Mrs H: I don’t know what to do.

Hoddy: I don’t know what to do either.

Mrs H: Huuurrrruummph.

Hoddy: Hurrrruuummmph.

Rafe: A loud shout-out from his nursery. Translation: “I am awake and ready for milky”.

Rafey is the Michel Barnier of tiny tots and is playing a blinder at present. All his demands are being met and he is yet to make any concessions to his increasingly desperate parents!

He is a past master at lulling me into a false sense of security. I will stagger into his room – I still have both eyes closed at this stage – and heave him out of his cot and give him a gentle rock to calm him. Some say this is not good practice; I am like “I don’t give a *&(*, I’m rocking him”. He fights me a bit but then he relaxes, gurgles and I think “Right, time to return to cot”. I lay him down, give him his “snuggle”, throw in some “shooshes” for good measure and then wait. It’s like a game of poker. His eyes are closed, but is he bluffing? I stop breathing. The room is perfectly still. Time to withdraw. Leopard crawl or tippy-toes? You may have seen that movie with Catherine Zeta Jones and Sean Connery when she does what resembles a yoga-cum-gymnastics style dance to evade a series of laser beams that criss-cross a room that sit between her and what she wants to steal. Replace the beams with creaky floor boards and a lithe, lycra clad CZJ with Hoddy in his jim-jams; one false move and the alarm sounds!

This morning I managed to get half way across the nursery before I heard that fateful rustle of his sleep-suit followed by “eh….eh….eh….eh….” and I knew the game was up. Baby Barnier was up to his old tricks! Just like Mrs May, we may have to resort to a professional to take on Baby B, but I am hopeful that “it’s just a phase”…. (This is by far the most popular parental fall-back when trying to explain away behaviour they cannot understand…. :))

And on that note let’s move to phase two of this week’s post.

Big Love

Hoddy X

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Rafe has just taken his first steps unaided.

He has used anybody-and-everybody as proverbial walking sticks over the last few months and we felt that maybe it was time for a “tot test run”.

We stood him up against the wall and stepped back a metre-or-so and waited. He also waited. We then started cajoling him as all parents are wont to do when their child is about to take that big developmental leap forward. You can picture it: excited Mrs H and Hoddy with big crazy grins and outstretched arms: “Come on Rafey, you can do it! Good boy! Come on son!” and Rafe looking back at us with a very quizzical expression on his face, a wrinkled nose, mouth turned down at the corners and “Nah, I ain’t doing it…”

Eventually he relented, in all likelihood to encourage us to put a cork in it. He put his arms out for balance, looked towards the safety zone, and tentatively put his first foot out into the unknown. I wouldn’t say that we were going berserk at this point, but my voice was a few octaves higher and Mrs H was clapping her hands and drawing Rafey towards her as if pulling an invisible string. Steps two, three and four followed in quick succession and as he closed in on Mrs H he broke out into a tot sprint and almost dived into her arms like any good winger aiming for the corner flag! He had made it….YAY!

Naturally we encouraged him to have another crack at it more out of our own excitement than his. We stood further apart and he zig-zagged across the floor still looking perplexed as if wondering what all the fuss was about.

Eventually he tired of his new “show pony” status and reached for Granny: “Enough of this,” he seemed to say. That attitude has hardened and he has now become wise to that particular wall. When I stand him up against it to “practice” his walking and “build his confidence”, he just sits down. “No Papa.” He looks at us both very suspiciously if we face each other like two gunslingers in a spaghetti western; if there is any sign that we expect him to walk between us he disappears into the utility with Granny to turn the knobs on the washing machine. I think Rafe has decided to postpone walking until Granny and Grandpa go home.

“We should be grateful,” more experienced parents have told us because once they start walking there is no way back. Batten down the hatches, forget about restaurants, install the stair guards, always have the car keys to hand for that inevitable dash (probably dashes) to A&E, safeguard the utilities cupboard (in fact all cupboards), embed a mind-map of the playpark into your psyche and start preparing yourself mentally for that next step – the scooter!

Never a dull – or inactive moment….

OUT :)

Pic of the Week

A small dose of nostalgia.....my boy.