Chez Spud

Raising boys…raising girls…raising children. Are they the same? I’m completely ill qualified to make any kind of judgement since I am the mother of boys, and boys alone. And that’s how it will stay. There will be no more Baby Spuds, for various reasons but not least because I don’t want any Girl Baby Spuds. Girls are great, don’t get me wrong, I am one myself etc etc…I just don’t want to parent Girl Spuds…I’m totally blissed out by my Boy Spuds. I love our family dynamic…one MrSpud, Two BoySpuds, One Coach Potato….and that’s the way it will stay.

So, are boys different? When Bertie, my first born, was about 5 seconds only I read ‘Raising Boys: Why Boys are Different and How to Help Them Become Happy and Well-Balanced Men’ by Steve Biddulph. OH MY GOD! Look at the title, sheesh, way to go and heap on the responsiblity. Scream. I can’t remember much about it, although I distinctly remember that boys are generally not ready for formalised learning until they are 7(ish) and that they need male mentors. I can remember panicking about the ‘male mentor’ thing but life moves on, and we have a fair number around these days. And I’ve cut my hair really, really short…so…I count, right?

In recent weeks I’ve been confronted with the statement that ‘boys do better if they are allowed to take risks’. On TV (thank you St Gareth Malone via the BBC’s Extraordinary School for Boys) and through another Mum of Boys. I vaguely considered this, and then dismissed it as I’m not one of life’s risk takers and, thus, I don’t encourage it in others.

Or I didn’t, until yesterday. Bertie went to school. The sun shone. I thanked the Google gods for giving me a job which is totally flexible, took the day off and kept Diggy out of nursery. We hung out a bit and then headed down the fields.

Our original plan had been to gather some apples to feed to the horses in the field at the bottom of the garden. But a hole in the bag meant we were down to only 2 apples by the time we’d got there, and thus that activity was over pretty fast. We continued…

We got to the stream, shallow but fast and with no clear way across other than a few big stones and slippy bits of concrete. My plan was hand out and watch the water. Diggy’s plan was to spend 2 hours IN the stream, crossing backwards and forwards, leaping from stone to stone, testing the sailing capacities of every leaf/stone/piece of bark around.

I resisted for about 30 seconds and then realised I should just let him DO IT! Most likely the risk involved him tipping over, filling his boots and getting wet…perhaps with a graze. The most likely worst case was he would fall and bash his head. The VERY worst is that he would fall and smack his head and kill himself but, let’s face it, he could do that anywhere.

So, despite my usual reticence, I just let him ‘be’. I didn’t say ‘be careful’, or ‘slowly!’ or ‘mind out!’ and all those usual things mummies say because, let’s face it, what’s the point? I said ‘be careful’ once and Diggy said, in measured tones, ‘Mummy..remember..I’m In Charge’.

Action shot: arrghhhh….

So, was I right to let him take a few risks? Should I let him? But is it limited to boys…should girls be ‘allowed’ or indeed ‘encouraged’ to take risks? Do we need more risk takers?

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Parents as Experts
• The Gallery: Playtime
• Angels & Demons
• Photo A Day: All together now
• Children and Technology

When my boys were babies I thought to answer to any parenting issue could be found in books or on the internet. No problem was insurmountable, if something wasn’t ‘working’ I just hadn’t researched the issue deeply enough. A bit more googling, a smidge more online chat, the purchase of yet another parenting tome would sort it.

Of course I was quite wrong, the answers to parenting problems can’t be found in books. Books are good for suggestions, online communities more so and the latter was a wonderful support network for me throughout those dark days. Even if no-one could help me learn how to put a baby down for a nap/not wake up 10 times a night/feed without being constantly distracted etc, they could suggest things that might work whilst holding my hand and offer much needed sympathy and empathy.

When Bertie was about 1 or so, I read somewhere that, as a parent, I am the expert of my own child. I wish I could remember where I read it, because it struck me as being so profound. It’s a pretty common theory now but, a few years back, it was the first time I’d come across this idea despite my endless reading and research. It was so ‘freeing’ for me because, in a second, I felt liberated from the constant, gnawing anxiety of ‘always wanting to do the right thing’. I read all the research, I followed all the guidelines…I breastfed exclusively for 6 months, the boys’ slept in our rooms for the first 6 months, they were weaned at 6 months and not a second before etc etc. I felt slightly ‘panicked’ all of the time but reading, and suddenly understanding, that I know more about my children than anyone else and that what I, as their parent, think/know/suspect counts every bit as much as the professionals.

I doubt I would have done much differently had I had this moment of clarity earlier on, but perhaps I might have panicked a little less. Perhaps I’d had done all the reading, followed the guidelines but just relaxed in to my decision rather than being so tediously dogmatic about it. Who knows. It doesn’t matter, it’s over now anyway.

But being an ‘expert in my own child’ paid some dividends this week. I potty trained Diggy in a morning. We started at 8am, he had one accident at 10am. After than he utterly refused any attempts to make him sit on the potty, insisting that he knew himself when he needed to go. And he did. And that was that. since then he’s been clean and dry, and just takes himself off to the loo when he needs it. Or asks to use it when we’re out an about. Job done.

So what’s so special about that? Well, I think it’s fairly unusual to be clean and dry, and going to the loo totally unaided and unprompted in a morning. But I’m not boasting. I’ve got nothing much to boast about because he’s 3.5 years old. And that, of course, is REALLY old to be toilet trained. I’m way way way off the ‘guidelines’.  And this is our 5th or 6th attempt at potty training, so I’m not exactly up there in a medal position as potty training goes.

What’s ‘special’ is that I don’t care that it’s taken us until he’s 3.5 to potty train him. Doesn’t matter to me that he’s way, way behind the ‘normal’ and probably a few people have been raising eyebrows that he’s been in nappies for so long.  Knowing that I am the ‘expert of Diggy’ gave me enough confidence to knock our previous attempts on the head very rapidly since he clearly wasn’t ready.  Every previous attempt has been ‘game over’ by lunchtime, with a massive pile of soggy clothes and Diggy crying and asking for a nappy. The ‘books’ might say he must SURELY be ready at age 3ish, but the child was saying otherwise.

And that has proved to be so. Because when he was ready, he was REALLY ready. And it was done easily, painlessly and without a pile of soggy pants. He’s so matter of fact about it all, like he’s been out of nappies for years. He can’t understand what all the fuss is about with me and MrSpud heaping praise on him. In fact we’re going to have to stop all the whooping, and just treat it as the norm as he is clearly doing.

A very dear friend of mine is due to give birth to her first child very shortly, and my sister-in-law in a few months. Of course there will the usual pile of presents and a few handmade hooky gifts of course. But what I would love to give them is the confidence to know that they will be the experts in their children, an understanding that the professionals have an essential role in advising and guiding and providing up to date information on current research. But, in the end, parenting isn’t a science – far from it. It’s not even an art. It’s just parenting, it’s just life, just a bunch of people who love each other muddling through the parenting path..one sleepless night at a time. So, to Marie and Lisa…I give you the gift of confidence in your instincts and doing what is right for YOUR child and YOUR family. One size doesn’t fit all, the answers can’t be found in books, sometimes there just aren’t any answers…sometimes you just have to put your head down and battle through it. All things shall be well. All manner of things shall be well. xxx

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Raising boys…taking risks
• The Gallery: Playtime
• Angels & Demons
• Photo A Day: All together now
• Children and Technology

Tara’s theme this week is ‘Playtime’ which is a whole lot easier than previous Gallery themes. A quick trawl through my archive unearthed a million shots of the Megaboys in the park having a ball and yet, curiously, not one of me chewing my own arm off out of boredom. Curious, since that is how I spend pretty much every trip to the swings because….sssshhh….I absolutely HATE the swings and always have done. It’s my least favourite Mummy Chore I think. All that hanging around and ‘look at me!’ and ‘will you push me?’ blah blah. It’s better now that both boys can confidently climb up anything, but in that past there was that boring ‘hovering’ that had to be done in the hope of avoiding a trip to A&E.

A friend of mine with older children described to me, with great glee, the moment when her youngest learnt how to swing without help. She said it was like one of the Great Shackles of Parenthood being lifted from her shoulders. Roll on that day, I say.

I think my lack of love for the park shows in the way I process my swings shot. Kind of moody huh?

But, take me out of the park environment, and Playtime starts to look a whole lot more vibrant!

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Photo A Day: All together now
• The one where I win all the parenting prizes
• Taking photographs of strangers’ children
• Photo 366 – Week 1
• Competition! Win a family portrait shoot courtesy wish.co.uk

I’m sitting on my hands. I’ve some news to share, really exciting news. But I can’t share it for a while. Quietly screams…

So here’s Diggy, fast asleep this evening…perma thumb in his mouth of course. Looking so angelic and, to be fair, his behaviour has massively improved in recent weeks. I no longer laugh in the faces of strangers who stop me in the street to admire his white blonde curls and tell me he ‘looks like an angel’. Love that boy xx

Earlier this week I splatted a few of my demons. And on Facebook of all places. Opens brackets and mounts soap box…I wish Facebook would push off. It’s not that interesting, it’s clunky as hell, it has all kinds of appalling and sneaky privacy issues and ‘keeps me connected’ with people I’d rather forget. And yet I can’t bring myself to delete my account. What if I ‘miss out’? (on what?). Plus, I really really enjoy some of Ye Olde Photos which organised and motivated school friends post up from time to time. I hardly ever go on FB anymore, it’s like my dirty little secret. Closes brackets and steps off soap box.

So, I was pottering around Facebook and I spotted that an old school friend had added yet another 80′s horror school photo. I clicked on the thumbnail and, in a heartbeat, I was 13 years old and the ‘cool older boys’ were staring at me, striking a pose and snapped in their usual ‘lair’. I had a really strong physical reaction to the sight of 4 rather feeble looking 15 year olds with shocking hair and sleeveless sweaters tucked in to their pleated front trousers. FFS I’m 39 years old but, apparently, old habits die hard.

They weren’t unpleasant, those boys. They weren’t bullies, they weren’t bad. They were just…cool. We were all in awe of them, and were desperate for them to notice us and like us. Ideally, we wanted them to be our boyfriends but we were clumpy 13 year olds and that was out of the question of course. They would hang out outside the ‘bootroom’ during break, lunch and after school…a vantage point which meant they could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the school. I would watch them from my day room, up high..safe…wishing…hoping…

But every time I walked past them, they’d go quiet. I’d look at my shoes, clutch my books to me tighter and scurry past. Then I’d hear talking, whispering, laughing and I’d was certain it was about me. Eventually I adopted a ‘safety in numbers’ approach and would only go past them with a couple of friends. It made us bolder, but still there would be the silence…the laughing.

So I gave in. I couldn’t BEAR to walk past them anymore, I couldn’t stand the whispering. So I would look to see if they were ‘in place’ and, if they were, I would walk the long way (very long) around the front of the school to get to where I needed to be. Anything to avoid the whispering…the laughing..the silence.

Time passed. Two of them left a year later, the other two went on to the 6th form and the Bootroom was no longer their lair. I got older. I cared less. And eventually ‘the fear’ left me.

And I never gave it another thought until a few days back when Facebook slung my teenage past in my face. I peered at their faces, the faces of BOYS with ridiculous haircuts. I didn’t laugh at my young self for feeling the way I did, because I know exactly how painful it was at the time, and how skin crawlingly awful it was to be  that teenage girl. But I know now, as I did then, that they weren’t unpleasant or cruel boys. Very possibly most of the silence…laughing…talking wasn’t aimed at me at all.  I doubt that the memory of that overwhelming feeling of self-doubt will ever leave me.

I couldn’t resist the temptation to click to see if I could access their Facebook accounts and, oh joy, I could get in to one. What a let down! He’s just a regular 40 something bloke, his bleach blonde hair gelled at 90 degrees long gone, his breathtaking good looks faded, his chiseled cheekbones sunken in to his face. He looked so appallingly normal. Like someone I’d like to have a drink with, talk about old times with, reminisce with. Ha! Reminisce with someone I never, ever EVER dared even speak to for the 4-5 years we went to school with. For the simple reason that he was cool, and I was not.

I fear the teenage years for my boys. Life is complicated, there’s no doubting that. But the teenage years are fraught. It’s a pity they turn out to be, generally, the most formative years of your life. The years where you either knuckle down and pass the exams that matter, or you don’t. The years where you get comfortable in your skin and shine, or you don’t. The years where you find enough of yourself to keep steady, or you go off the rails. Urgh. I’m exaggerating to an extent but I’m certain that our teenage years are critical to shaping who we are. It’s a pity all those hormones get in the way.

So, angels and demons….two angels sent from heaven to be my babies….four teenage demons defeated. I win.

x

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Raising boys…taking risks
• Parents as Experts
• The Gallery: Playtime
• Photo A Day: All together now
• Children and Technology

Oh, that old classic ‘pen’ shot. I don’t think I’ve done one of these before. It’s quite annoying that my children didn’t think to arrange them in so that similar shades/tones weren’t adjacent. Must get them in to Colour Appreciation Boot Camp to avoid this in the future. Taken with the Lensbaby of course. What else? Can’t…get…it…off…my…camera…send…help.

Random selection of the World According to Diggy (3) today:

Me: Look! Look over there, can you see that animal that looks like a really big rabbit? That’s a hare…look how fast he can run!

Diggy: [disappointed voice] oh. I thought it was a reindeer

Later…

Me: Who did you play with at nursery today?

Diggy: Just my own self. Who did you play with?

Me: No one. I was working.

Diggy: And did you do tidy up time afterwards?

Me: No. I didn’t need to

Diggy: [stern voice] Well, that was very naughty behaviour.

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Photo A Day: You can’t touch this
• Photo A Day: After the rain
• Never let me go
• Silent Sunday
• Lensbaby Super Wide…my nemesis

My Megaboys snuggled up this morning. Looks like they’re engrossed in a book doesn’t it? They’re not. They’d filched MrSpud’s iPhone, turned it on, broken the password and, having engaged in a little light movie snack, they are hard at work with their spelling using an app. Later they got busy with phonics on an iPad. It’s all oh..so…very 00s isn’t it? Who needs flashcards and tracing the letters when you can load up an interactive app on an iPad? There’s no replacement for 1:1 learning, and paper and pencil work…but the appeal of the ‘whizzy’ way is plain to see. Although it occurred to me, whilst watching them hard at work, that we’ve returned to the days of slate and chalk. Only the slate is a tablet of Apple loveliness and the chalk is our finger. What goes around comes around and all that. MrSpud told me that Diggy, puzzled at something not working whilst practicing his letters, looked at his finger and frowned.  That tickled me…his immediate assumption that his finger was faulty. Hope he’s got it covered by an Apple Care Protection Plan ;-)

I often ponder about whether my ingrained passion/obsession for ‘being connected’(for want of a better expression) will stay with me all my life. Or will it wane as the years get the better of me. When will I stop knowing and engaging in ‘the latest’, whether it be ‘puter, phone or gadget related or social media and whatever else is coming our way? Will I ever be like our grandparents’ generation…afraid of the VCR never mind a DVD player, unable and unwilling to use a mobile phone and referring to the internet as the “WWW DOT” as my grandad did?

Or has the technological revolution (shudder) over the last 30 years or so meant that we are the first generation of the Techno Tribe…who have been comfortable with technology and ‘being connected’ for so long that old age won’t defeat us? As octogenarians, will we still be doing the 2050s versions of Twitter, Facebook (I do HOPE that’s long dead by then), Foursquare, Spotify etc etc…and showing off our latest gadgets to our slightly alarmed great grandchildren?

It’s very rare that I’m truly curious about the future,  I much prefer to wallow in the past and enjoy today for what it is. But I would LOVE to know if my love love of CyberLife will stay with me for all my years. Or, when I’m old and crusty, will I idle away my hours crocheting, reading trashy novels and wondering why the hell I spent so much of my life glued to a computer. And was it worth it?

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• First Day at School
• Photo A Day: Genius Bar [None]
• The one where I confess a sin
• The Week in Photos
• Raising boys…taking risks

Friends, boys, rivers, paddling, swimming, fishing (and catching two!), picnics, cold beer, sunshine, blue skies, birds singing, cattle a-lowing, stoats a-running … it’s hard to imagine a more blissful summer afternoon. I’m feeling very lucky to live in such a lovely spot. I didn’t know this place even existed until today and now I’m one of The Club…one of those In The Know.

It’s a pity Yoof turned up later, complete with Fiat Panda with the BIGGEST speakers in the boot known to man. Boom boom boom went the ‘music’….rev rev rev went the car’s pathetic little engine…swoon swoon swoon went the teenage girls…hurry hurry hurry we went back to our cars and home but luckily it was bedtime anyway.

River swimming is new to me. I think I ‘may’ have swum in a river on Dartmoor many moons ago? I actually didn’t swim today, too busy snapping to be honest. But it looked oh-so enticing on such a sultry afternoon and we couldn’t keep the boys out.

This morning we swam at the gym. We swam in the inside pool. Then we swam in the outside pool. I love the outside pool, it feels like such a delicious treat to be able to swim outdoors (even if it is on a light industrial estate on the A14). But swimming in a river? With cows looking over the fence, birds singing, fish leaping etc etc? Nothing can beat that.

When the Yoof are in school you can have the place to yourself, so I’m told. I’m thinking of tactics to drive away the Yoof. Classical music? Or should I just pay them to push off? Now I’ve found paradise I’ll be damned if I’m going to share it.  On the way home I was startled by a loud noise, and looked out of the car window only to spy a horse cantering along the stream running parallel to the road. It’s that kind of place. It wouldn’t surprise me if we saw a unicorn there one day.

The rest of the day was taken up planning a rocket build. Bertie has attempted the construction with various bits of wood in the garden, but has been persuaded that he needs to draw up a plan and make a list of essential items. He’s certain we can buy them all at ‘the rocket shop’ or ‘on mummy’s computer’. Here’s what we need:

• sticks
• planks
• matches
• space suits (heavy, no gravity in space)
• toys
• mummy and daddy’s computers
• bracelets
• steering wheel
• beds
• sleeping bags
• ropes (to tie sleeping bags to beds due to no gravity in space)
• blankets
• windows
• food
• table & chairs
• sofa
• TV
• watch
• compass
• levers
• electricity
• switches
• cushions
• books
• space toilet
• light
• cupboard
• camera for mummy to take photos of the moon
• binoculars to look at the earth with
• truck to drive around the moon on
• sellotape to stick everything down with
• honey
• Our cat and a space suit for him
• telephone
• ignition key
• Space bag to carry clothes in
• torch

That’s it so far. Tomorrow could be a busy day. If I don’t blog for a while it’s because I’m on the moon taking photos, wearing my space suit (heavy).

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Raising boys…taking risks
• Parents as Experts
• The Gallery: Playtime
• Angels & Demons
• Photo A Day: All together now

I am frantically clutching at these last few precious weeks of having two pre-schoolers, just knocking about at home, pottering around together, chewing the cud and testing my patience to its very limits…

Today we decorated spoons, made houses for pandas, built improbable flying machines, ‘biffed’ a legion of imaginary Romans, invented our own version of drum & bass, used the decorated spoons to turn MrSpud’s guitar in to a cello, played ‘extreme train wrecks’ and discovered that the Ninky Nonk WILL get wedged in the train wash if you shove it in hard enough. And that was just this morning.

Later their crazy mother, oh wait…that’s me…,took them out in the mid-day sun on the hottest day of the year to the park. I lay down in the shade and enjoyed the gentle breeze. They ran around like lunatics in full sun. Here they are, pictured above,  in a moment of enforced stillness edging slowly along the balance beam because it’s, ooooooohhhh, about a 20cm drop there you know.

Just to round things off we engaged in a high octane 3 hour play date this afternoon. And yet Diggy, 3, insisted, “I’m..not…TOIRED!!!” in his strongest Suffolk accent at bedtime. The child has been up and bouncing since 5am with no rest or nap. Must be something in the water. I need something in MY water believe me, something alcoholic…

Today my son sacked the wife’s husband. That’s a complex sentence. Freud might have something to say about it. Certainly Shakespeare could have based a play on it with which to torment generations of school children. And ITV could make a shitty mini-series out of it for sure…

We were discussing the process of how houses are built and that you use an architect, like my best friend’s (AKA ‘the wife’) husband, to draw up a plan of how you want your house to look. And then the builders use the plan so they know how to not bother and do as they please what to build.

“Oh but that’s EASY!”, quoth Bertie, age 4 going on 44, “I can easily do that. Don’t let the wife’s husband do that. I’ll do it. I’ll draw the house and the builders can build it and that will be nice”.

Um, yes…but I don’t want to live in a 2 dimensional wonky house with perma-curly whirly smoke coming out of its impossibly tall and twisted chimney , with 70s hippychick flowers in the garden almost as tall as the house and a Mr Potato Head style ‘person’ squatting in the garden forever.  [hand on hip ] Am I being unreasonable? [/hand of hip]

But the main news of today is that I am a truly outstanding parent. As well as eating veg my children now eat SALAD LEAVES and have declared them to be, “YUM!”. I win…I win…punches air in manner of tragic person. Bertie has been flirting with the occasional lettuce leaf since we started harvesting our crop a few weeks ago. Today Diggy ate his own bodyweight in rocket at lunchtime and MrB ate at least two whole little gem leaves. Stands back awaiting parenting accolades, fame, fortune, book deal etc etc.

Bertie won’t eat cucumber or melon. Diggy won’t eat tomato or chicken. These things are a puzzle, but I saw actual LEAVES go in to their mouths today and not come out again. Ah, what smuggery is this? Who cares, I’ve got a 4 year old leaf eating architect. Beat that…mwha ha ha.

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• The Gallery: Playtime
• Photo A Day: All together now
• Taking photographs of strangers’ children
• That ol’ razzle dazzle
• My Ten Treasures…Treasure 1…My Chanel party shoes

“Do you mind if I take a photograph of your children?”….what would you say if a stranger asked you that question?

At the weekend we, like a couple of other families with young children, sat around the ornamental boating pond at a nearby town. I noticed an older lady with a camera, taking photos of some girls. The girls’ mother swiftly went over, and the lady introduced herself and said she takes photos of children for her books and puts them on her website. She gave the mother a business card and the mother was reassured and friendly.

Then the lady turned to another mother and asked if she could take a photo of her daughter. The mother readily agreed and, again, a business card was handed over.

Finally, she asked if she could take a photo of the boys. “I’d really rather that you didn’t”, I said politely, “but thank you for asking.” And that was that. Or so I thought.

A minute or two later she came back and politely asked me why I had an issue with her taking a photo of the boys. Attempting to be pleasant (mistake) I got drawn in to a bit of a debate about wanting to protect their privacy and not knowing who she is or what she wants to use the photos for. She got a bit more feisty at this point and explained that she is a childrens author/illustrator and she takes photos of children and turns them in to line drawings for her books. So, erm, she takes photos of other people’s children for financial gain? No thanks….

Anyway, I was beginning to feel a bit feisty myself at this point having stupidly allowed myself to get drawn in to a debate when, inside, I was screaming ‘THE REASON THAT YOU CAN’T TAKE A PHOTO OF MY CHILDREN IS BECAUSE I BLOODY WELL SAID SO!’ I could feel myself being watched, not least by one of the mothers who had allowed her daughter to be photographed and was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable about the whole thing.

The woman’s parting shot was something along the lines of ‘Well none of the other mothers had an objection so why do you?’ at which point I snapped, ‘To be honest it’s none of your business”. And she walked off muttering, ‘hmmm, well…right’.

Urgh. I hate that kind of confrontation and especially with an audience, not helped by Bertie piping up, “Why didn’t you let that lady take my photo? I wanted her too”. Bangs head repeatedly…

So, was I right to refuse or was I acting like a precious princess? I’m certainly a bit of a hypocrite since I trotted out some awful line about protecting my children’s privacy when this blog and my Flickr stream clearly fly in the face of that particular argument. My defense is that me taking photos of them and using them as I see fit is entirely different than allowing a stranger to do so. But where is the line? I share photos and stories about them online with strangers, will they think that’s an abuse of my position when they’re older? Or will they read my blog and enjoy it as a kind of family journal? Or won’t they care either way?

The whole episode left a really nasty taste in my mouth and rather upset me. It’s been festering away ever since to be honest. Did I do the right thing or did I totally over-react? “Do you mind if I take a photograph of your children?” – what would you say if a stranger asked you that?

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• The Gallery: Playtime
• Photo A Day: All together now
• The one where I win all the parenting prizes
• Photo 366 – Week 1
• Competition! Win a family portrait shoot courtesy wish.co.uk

Bertie went to his Big School today for a ‘settling in’ morning. I’ve no idea what it involved other than ‘a drink, a story, playing in the dragon’s cave and then you came to get me’. That’s a big improvement on his usual response to, ‘What did you do at nursery today?’ which is, ‘Nothing’. Great. So that’s money well spent then…

Here’s a quick iphone snap of Mr B having a last minute cuddle with His Love, our neighbours’ daughter who also went for her settling in session too. Bertie loves Imogen, but Imogen loves another. It’s a complicated 4 year old love ‘thing’. But, when the chips are down, these two stick together and what better way to start school than with a reassuring hug from a friend you’ve known since you were born?

We arrived at school, they went in to the classroom and I hung around in the doorway for a bit with Imogen’s father looking, and feeling, like a spare part. It was quickly apparent we weren’t required, so we shouted goodbye and they hardly even glanced at us, murmuring something that could have been ‘bye’ but quite possibly was ‘will you just get out of here you’re embarrassing us’. So we left and that was that.

Isn’t there supposed to be a bit of crying and clinging on? Or is that just for the parents? Sniff.

If you liked that, you might like this ...

• Children and Technology
• Another step along the road
• Photo A Day: my work here is done
• How I became my mother
• Slipping away