Monday 19 December 2011

Christmas excitement

AS anticipated, Christmas is causing a great deal of excitement in the Wright household.

Every day, without fail, Harry asks me if it's Christmas yet. It's the Advent calendar that's responsible for most of the fun and games, though – and restricting Harry to one chocolate per day is proving to be a difficult task.

But it's not just Harry who's getting swept up in the festive spirit. Melissa, as usual, is torturing us with endless compilations of Christmas music, while the house is filled to bursting with decorations. Honestly, I can't open a kitchen cupboard without disturbing twinkle lights or a bauble at the moment.

Despite this, I am excited about the big day. In particular, I can't wait to set up Harry's new train set (Thomas the Tank of course). There's no doubt that having children really brings out the big kid in you.

Having said that, this train set is already causing problems. When I asked Harry what he wanted for Christmas (probably in early November), he said he wanted a train set. Being organised, we decided to take advantage of a half price offer and bought one.

Typically, when we took Harry to a grotto a few days later, he told Father Christmas he wanted a racing car set. What do you do? I have tried dropping a few hints about how nice a new train set would be but so far Harry's not budging. “I want a racing car set daddy,” is his stock response.

I'm just hoping he isn't too disappointed on Christmas morning when he finds he's actually got a train set instead. And if he is, at least I'll enjoy playing with it.

One thing's for sure, I'll hold off buying presents until the last minute next year.

Monday 12 December 2011

Sleep tight

SLEEPING is without doubt the most discussed aspect of Harry's life in our house.

From the moment he was born, it's been our main preoccupation: how's he sleeping? Is he sleeping at the right time? Has he slept through? And so on.

I thought that this focus would wane as time went by but, so far at least, it hasn't. This is not to say that Harry is a bad sleeper. It's true that he tends to wake a bit too early for my liking (getting to seven is a cause for celebration) but generally he sleeps through without complaint.

However, the issue of bedtime has been on the agenda in recent months; it's gradually been getting later and later. To start with, we thought this was just coincidence but after a few weeks, we realised something more fundamental was affecting him, namely his nap in the day.

Although Harry is only a couple of months away from his third birthday, he's always enjoyed his midday snooze and, truth be told, Melissa and I have quite enjoyed the peace and quiet. The decision to put a stop to it, therefore, was a painful one.

For a start, Harry can be a bit of a monkey when he's in need of a nap (I now understand completely when I hear exasperated parents say “he's just tired” in an apologetic voice). Then there's the effort involved in keeping him awake – particularly if he's in a car.

The other day, I picked Harry up from my parents' house and spent the duration of the journey asking daft questions, shouting, singing and making silly noises in a desperate attempt to stop him dropping off before we got home. We made it – just – but it left me feeling very guilty, particularly after Harry looked at me with barely open eyes and said: “I just want to go to sleep daddy.”

All of this effort is worth it, though. The bedtime is now half six (it had drifted to eight-ish) and he's sleeping for a full 12 hours. At least that gives us time plenty of time to recharge our batteries too.

Big news...

HARRY is coming to terms with some big news: he will soon have to share his home with a baby brother or sister.

I'm not sure he quite understands what a big change this is going to be (let's face it, I'm not sure I understand it fully) but his reaction so far has been thoroughly entertaining.

For a start, he tells everybody he's having a baby sister. The truth is we don't know what we're having and we don't want to. Harry, however, is so confident when he says he's having a little sister that people think we're hiding something. Even my mum suspects that we've found out, told Harry, and then decided not to tell anyone else.

He's also taken to telling people that he's got Peppa Pig and Barney (his cuddly little dinosaur) in his tummy. “They'll be out soon, like the baby in mummy's tummy,” he tells people earnestly. Occasionally he will study Melissa's bump for a few minutes before asking: “Can we get that baby out yet?”

In preparation for the new arrival, Harry decided that he would get out his old travel cot. After helping him to set it up I popped out of the room. When I returned a minute or so later, Harry was lying down in to the cot. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied: “I'm waiting here until that baby comes.”

As I say, I suspect that Harry might find things a little bit more challenging when the baby does arrive – it's due in March – particularly when he realises he's got competition for his mum's attention.

Nevertheless, when I got home from work the other night, Harry gave me a demonstration on how to hold a baby properly using one of his cuddly toys (Melissa had been giving him lessons). He was very gentle, which was something of a surprise as Harry can be a little heavy handed. Perhaps there's nothing to worry about after all.

Friday 25 November 2011

Honesty is the best policy

I've known for some time that Harry does not understand tact. This was made perfectly clear to me when I asked him why he didn't like lying next to me in bed.

“It's because you're too hairy, daddy,” he told me. “It's not very nice.”

Fortunately, these rather blunt declarations have been limited to Melissa and myself so far – but all that changed last weekend when a friend of mine visited.

Harry hadn't met this friend – who will remain nameless – before and was, to start with at least, fairly cautious. However, he soon found his feet.

Unfortunately, this friend of mine had been out for a few drinks the previous evening and had, I would guess, decided upon a kebab on the way the home.

Harry obviously picked up on this too. While we were standing in the kitchen, Harry asked me what the funny smell was. Trying to be polite, I replied that it was probably the sausages I'd cooked earlier.

“No it's not,” came the reply. “It smells poo-ey.” I swiftly changed the subject.
Some time later, Harry was sat next to this friend in the back of my car while we went to an indoor play area.

“You smell funny,” Harry announced. My friend either didn't hear or pretended not to hear.

By this point, I was struggling somewhere between acute embarrassment and desperately trying not to burst out laughing.

To be honest, it was almost a relief when my friend left. I asked Harry if he'd had fun. “Yes I did,” came the answer, “but your friend is a bit smelly.”

At least I know who to go to if I ever want an honest opinion.

Friday 18 November 2011

Don't panic!

I have discovered several new emotions since Harry arrived on the scene; from a feeling of pride when Harry does something well, to the sense of hopelessness you feel when he's ill and you can't do anything to help him.

However, one of the most powerful emotions is panic. When you suddenly realise something is wrong, it's as if the pit of your stomach has just dropped out – rather like being trapped on a particularly violent rollercoaster.

It happened to me last weekend when we took Harry to Chirk Castle. He was tearing up and down a ramp, completely oblivious to my warnings about tripping over and hurting himself. As I stood watching him, he tripped and fell landing, chin first, with a thud.

Fortunately he wasn't hurt and was back on his feet within seconds – and the feeling of panic passed just as quickly as it arrived. I had the same feeling when Harry disappeared recently at a playbarn.

For what seemed like minutes but was actually probably no more than 30 seconds, I couldn't see him anywhere. Then I spotted him – he'd somehow managed to find a way into the out-of-bounds area behind the play equipment.

It's reassuring to know that Melissa suffers just as badly from 'Harry panic'. At swimming last week, she convinced herself that Harry had swallowed her pound coin from the locker and proceeded to bang his back in an attempt to get him to cough it back up.

Harry, obligingly, started coughing which made her panic even more. I'm not sure how long this went on for, and I can only imagine what the people in surrounding cubicles thought of the commotion. Eventually, Melissa decided that he must have swallowed it and survived and gave up the rescue operation – before finding the coin clasped very tightly in his hand.

Friday 11 November 2011

Grandparents

We all know that Harry can wrap any one of us around his little finger whenever he wants. All he has to do is flash one his cheeky smiles, grab us for a cuddle or say the right thing and we give in.

Today, Harry had me dancing around his playroom to the sound of the Wombles (don't ask) at half past seven this morning. It was not a pretty sight.

But if Melissa and I find it hard to say no to Harry, his grandparents are even worse. It wouldn't be fair to say he gets everything he asks for, but it wouldn't bee too wide of the mark either.

Whenever he stays at Melissa's mum and dad's, for instance, he asks for bacon and egg for breakfast – something he doesn't have at home – and, invariably, he gets it.

It's the same with my mum and dad and I'm absolutely sure Harry knows he can get away with far more when he's there.

Not that this worries me. When I was little, going to nan and grandad's was always a treat and I'll be quite happy if Harry grows up thinking the same thing – just as long as he doesn't expect the same treatment at home.

On this subject, though, I would like to apologise to my dad for landing him with a bit of a headache. A couple of weeks ago I told Harry that I had an old Scalextric set in the loft that I would get down for him (Harry has his own mini set). I couldn't find it, however, and soon realised that it must be at mum and dad's.

Harry, of course, wasn't about to let the matter rest and pestered dad into venturing into his loft. Unfortunately when dad found the set it didn't work and, according to mum, he then spent hours hunched over the cars trying to repair them in time for Harry's next visit. In the end, he managed to get one of the cars working which, given that the set is probably about 25 years old, was some achievement.

Harry, though, was not as impressed. When I asked him if he liked the racing car, he told me: “Yes but only the blue car works daddy. Granddad couldn't mend the other one.”

Fright night...

A Halloween party for ten children. How hard can it be? In a word, very.

We'd decided it would be a good idea to host a Halloween party and, in my naivety, I had imagined a couple of spooky-themed party games followed by sandwiches and cake.

The reality – with half a dozen or so children chasing each other around the house – was somewhat different and I was surprised at just how much noise a room full of children can make.

Anyway, Harry was quite excited at the prospect of the party. Unfortunately, when it got under way, Harry took exception to other boys and girls using his toys. Consequently, I spent the first 15 minutes making Harry hand back the toys he had grabbed off his unsuspecting guests.

With order restored, Harry decided he wanted some crisps. “I'll take them to the boys and girls,” he announced. To be fair, he did manage to hand out – literally – one or two crisps while putting as many in his own mouth as he could manage.

Then it was time for pass the parcel. Harry was first to sit down but when he was handed the present, he wanted to open it rather than pass it on. We managed one minute 29 seconds of 'Ghostbusters' before a rushed and slightly fraught game was brought to a conclusion. With a mini riot looming, the planned apple bobbing was swiftly abandoned.

There was a brief respite when the food arrived and the room fell silent. The peace didn't last long though, and it was at about this point that Harry decided to take off his clothes. Apparently, somebody had spilled juice on his toe. Before I could stop intervene, his skeleton costume was in a heap on the floor and Harry was racing off in just his vest and pants.

But while it may not have been the relaxing Sunday afternoon I had envisaged, it was good fun. Will we be having another party next year? I'll get back to you.

Monday 31 October 2011

All smiles

NOT long after Harry was born, a friend said to me: “If you think being a parent's good now, wait until Harry's two or three, when he's talking.”

At the time, I didn't think things could get any better; now I understand exactly what my friend meant.

Harry is able to articulate his emotions more clearly than ever. This morning, as I was about to leave for work, he said to me with an earnest expression on his face: “I don't want you to go to work ever Daddy. Ever, ever, ever. I want you to stay here with me.”

I felt guilty all day.

Of course the reverse is true when I arrive home. I'm welcomed in a blur of limbs and excited chattering, as Harry attempts to relate the events of the day in about two minutes.

I've also noticed that this welcome is even warmer if Harry's just had a telling off from his mum.

But perhaps the best welcome was at his swimming class a couple of weeks ago.
I finished work early and was able to sneak into the back of the viewing gallery at Waterworld to watch the second half of the lesson.

About five minutes before the end of the lesson, Harry spotted me. The smile he gave was fantastic, all the more so because it was completely natural (unlike some of the smiles he gives – particularly when he wants his own way).

He beamed at me for the remainder of the class and ran straight over to me when it finished. Despite getting soaking wet, I felt about 50 foot tall. If there's a better feeling in the world, then I've yet to discover it.

Monday 24 October 2011

Silent night?

I know that being a parent is all about making sacrifices.

Whether it’s turning down that trip to the pub because you’re going to be up early the next day or going along to a birthday party rather than the football, parenthood changes your priorities completely.

And as I’ve said on several occasions, I would not change it for the world. Having just been banished from my bed to make way for Harry, though, I’m beginning to understand that so far I’ve got off lightly.

Harry had been feeling off colour for a few days. A blocked nose had been waking him up during the night and on several occasions he’d relocated to our bedroom.

Generally one of us would try to guide him back to his own room, but on a few occasions we’d taken the easy option and allowed him go to sleep between us. But with Harry snoring and tossing and turning, Melissa and I were both struggling to sleep which wasn’t helping matters.

Melissa was obviously suffering more than me and it all got too much for her last Friday when I was unceremoniously ejected from the bed. This meant sleeping in Harry’s bunk, which was evidently designed for children.

I managed to bump my head, my back and goodness knows what else trying to get comfortable, before finally dropping off just in time to be woken by Harry, who leaned to within an inch of my face before saying, loudly: “Hello daddy, why are you in my bed?” “Because you’re in my bed,” I replied. “Can I go back to my bed now?” “Mummy says no, sorry daddy. Let’s go and build a train track.”

So there we are, evicted from my own bed. Melissa said she slept much better thanks to the extra space created by my departure, so at least somebody was pleased with the arrangement. Harry has recovered so we’re now sleeping again. I can’t help feeling that I’d better get used that bunk though.

Monday 17 October 2011

Kitchen chaos

Melissa: “Martin, what time will you be home?”

Me: “I don’t know… about half six. Why?”

Melissa: “Harry is emptying the spice rack into a saucepan. There’s Chinese five spice everywhere. Oh dear, now he’s got a whisk and icing sugar. Harry stop that now. Are you sure you can’t be home any earlier?”

Me: “Erm I’ll try to leave as soon as possible, but it won’t much before half six. What do you mean there’s five spice everywhere. What’s going on?”

Melissa: “Just hurry up.” Phone line goes dead.

This is the conversation I had with Melissa earlier this week while sitting on the Leader’s newsdesk surrounded by bemused colleagues. To be honest, I was a bit bemused too – and a little bit worried about what I might find when I got home.

As it turns out, by the time I got home order had been restored and Melissa had somehow managed to clean the kitchen. It turns out that as a reward for being such a good boy, Melissa had promised to help Harry bake a cake.

Unfortunately, I had done the shopping last weekend and had forgotten to buy eggs so the cake-making was off the agenda. Harry – who certainly fancies himself as a cook – was not to be deterred. He had emptied whatever he could get his hands on into a saucepan and proceeded to whisk away in a cloud of icing sugar and spices.

Melissa looked worn out – the episode had obviously been stressful. All things considered, I was grateful to have been in work. It reinforces my view that going to work is the easy end of the deal; looking after a two-and-a-half-year-old trumps being a journalist every time.

Tuesday 11 October 2011

Car cleaning

WHEN I was younger I used to wonder why on earth my dad made so much fuss about us eating in his car.

The merest hint of a sausage roll would have my dad breaking out in a sweat, leading to a sharp exchange with mum. “You’re not going to let them eat in the car again are you?” he’d say, to which my mum would reply: “Don’t worry, they won’t make a mess.”

Funnily enough, I remember the sausage rolls but I don’t really remember the mess they left behind.

Now, however, I can see where dad was coming from. Whenever Harry has a snack in the car, the fallout somehow seems to cover the entire vehicle.
Of course, there’s also the sticky and/or greasy finger prints on the doors and windows. In short, keeping the car habitable is no easy task.

Mind you, I get off lightly. Melissa has to ferry Harry around in her car almost every day and by the time the weekend arrives, her car looks like a bomb (of the pastry or crisp persuasion) has exploded in it.

Not that Harry minds. As I’ve said before, he loves cleaning and he always jumps at the chance to vacuum the car – so it’s a win win situation for him.

Unfortunately, cleaning the car can be a long process particularly when you have to share the vacuum cleaner with Harry.

Dusting is not without its difficulties either – the other day I caught Harry trying to push the nozzle of the polish can into the CD player. When I asked him why, he told me it was dirty. Serves me right for asking I suppose.

In fact, we often end up with more fingerprints on the windows after cleaning the car. But at least Harry enjoys himself.

Tuesday 4 October 2011

Goldfish watch

I’VE never been a big fan of pets.

I put this lack of enthusiasm down to my childhood. My mum used to say that with four children, there was no room for any other animals in the house.

However, I have read many good parenting articles that suggest it’s good for children to have contact with pets from a young age. Melissa’s mum had obviously read something similar because a few months ago she decided to buy Harry a fish tank with all the trimmings. All I had to do was supply the fish.

To be honest, goldfish seemed like a reasonable compromise. Initially, Harry was very interested in them; he would press his nose up against the tank and make ‘O’ shapes with his mouth to mimic the fish, which he named Orange and Red (because of their colour).

Harry was also determined to find out what happened when he shook the tank, which meant that poor old Orange and Red had to be under constant surveillance.

However, this initial enthusiasm quickly waned and looking after the fish fell to me. “I’m not cleaning them, that’s your job,” was Melissa’s judgement on the matter. So apart from the weekly water change, things have settled down to the point where I thought Harry had actually forgotten all about them.

But it seems Harry now has a renewed interest in the welfare of Orange and Red. When I returned home from work the other day, Melissa told me that Harry had fed them in the morning. Unfortunately, he’d then tried to put a banana in the tank (which thankfully has a lid on it) because, he said, they were still hungry.

Needless to say, the surveillance operation is back in full swing.

Friday 23 September 2011

Food, glorious food

IN the two and a half years since Harry arrived on the scene, without doubt the most consistently stressful aspect of life has been mealtimes.

There is pressure – from the minute babies are born – to make sure they are feeding properly. There’s the whole breast milk versus bottle milk debate and, as soon as that one is dealt with, you have the challenge of weaning.

It has to be said that we were pretty fortunate with Harry. He had a big appetite from the moment he arrived and that took away a fair amount of stress. The switch to solids was also relatively straightforward – you could puree up just about anything and Harry would devour it without complaint.

Since he turned two, however, things have changed. Don’t get me wrong, he still loves food and his big appetite remains but there are now some things that he refuses to put anywhere near his mouth.

Trying to be a responsible parent in these circumstances is challenging. Of course you want your child to grow up eating fruit and vegetables and nothing processed. The reality – at least in our case – is that that you have to compromise.

Harry loves certain fruits – particularly bananas, grapes, pears and apples. Try getting him to eat tomato or melon, however, and you’re likely to end up wearing it. On the vegetable front, he’s pretty good and will eat just about anything if he’s in a good mood, although his favourites are potato, sweetcorn, peas and, somewhat surprisingly, courgettes.

Typically, Harry also loves plenty of things he shouldn’t: crisps, biscuits and, just like his mum, chocolate and lots of it. He eats cheese at every opportunity and would probably have baked beans for every meal given half a chance.

Harry’s favourite meal, though, would probably be a roast with all the trimmings. In that sense at least, he takes after me.

Monday 19 September 2011

England or Wales?

THERE’S always been a little bit of tension in our household about Harry’s nationality.

Harry was born in Wales and his mum is Welsh, and very proud of it. I, on the other hand, am English, and also proud of it. We’ve come to an agreement that Harry will decide where his loyalties lie when he’s older (and, more importantly, which football, rugby teams, and so on he will support).

At least he won’t have much of a choice when it comes to cricket – there is only one national side with Test status and that’s England.

Regardless of the nationality debate, because we live in Wales Harry will be taught Welsh at school and I agree completely with Melissa that this is a very good thing indeed. In fact, it’s already started now that he’s attending Chirk pre-school playgroup four days a week.

When I was putting Harry to bed the other night, as he was drifting off to sleep he started singing un, dau, tri (one, two, three) to himself. I was very impressed and immediately told Melissa about it. Of course, she knew already and told me that the same day he’d said bore da to the ladies greeting him at playgroup. I was even more impressed.

I asked him about this the following day and Harry proudly told me that he said bore da when he went to playgroup.

Melissa has already decided that I need to learn Welsh so that I will be able to help Harry with his homework. So the pressure’s on. I am actually looking forward to it, although I’m sure Harry will pick it up a lot more quickly than I will.

Friday 9 September 2011

Funny phrases

Harry’s little phrases are a constant source of amusement. Honestly, at times it’s like listening to an old man. Shortly before I was due to leave work the other day, I got a call from home. It was Melissa. “Harry wants to speak to you,” she said.
There was some fumbling then Harry’s voice: “Don’t be home late daddy. I want you to mow the lawn.”
And there’s plenty more where that came from. One of his favourite questions when I arrive home is: “Any news? Any good news? Any bad news?”
If you ask Harry how he is, he invariably replies: “Not bad thank you.”
Perhaps his favourite question is: “What are you talking about?” This comes up all the time, particularly when Harry enters a room in the middle of conversation – he obviously doesn’t like to miss out.
If I’m ignoring him and he wants to get my undivided attention, Harry has a habit of climbing up onto my knee, taking hold of my face and saying: “Daddy, be quiet, Harry’s talking, it’s very important.”
Of course there’s also the ultimate question: why. We’ve had a lot of this lately. Whenever Harry sees something new, he wants to know why. If you ask him not to touch something, he wants to know why. This can be frustrating after a while – for both of us.
At other times, he simply copies things he’s heard one of us saying. The other day as he got up off the sofa, he put his hands on his legs and said: “Oh my knees” – a phrase he’s picked up from Melissa’s dad.
The best bit is when Harry unexpectedly announces “I love you daddy”. This is, however, rare and even then often follows the distribution of chocolate buttons. It’s still great though.

Something's wrong

FOR some reason, I had an inkling that something was wrong before I opened the door. When I did so, my suspicions were confirmed by the look of resignation on Melissa’s face and by the extremely unpleasant smell coming from the kitchen.

A shelf had collapsed in one of our kitchen cupboards and the only item to smash, unfortunately, was a bottle of fish sauce – a potent concoction made of fermented fish and used in Thai dishes.

I immediately asked where Harry was (he was nowhere to be seen), and Melissa told me he was on his potty in the living room. Fortunately, he was out of the way when the shelf fell down, although he was quite excited by the noise and had been quite keen to help Melissa clean up.

Things, however, were about to take a turn for the worse. I walked in to the living room to find Harry stood up pointing at the carpet shouting: “Poo on floor daddy.”

For some reason, Harry had decided to empty out the contents of his potty, and it wasn’t pleasant. When I asked Harry why, he tucked his chin into his chest and said: “Don’t know daddy, sorry.”

Melissa was at a loss to explain Harry’s behaviour. Apparently he’d been really good all day and wasn’t even particularly tired (the most common excuse for naughty behaviour).

Anyway, the combination of fish sauce and the potty incident prompted a frenzied spell of cleaning from Melissa, while I got the less challenging task of putting Harry to bed.

When I returned downstairs, everything was back to normal – apart from a strong smell of bleach. I don’t think we’ll be having Thai curry for a while though.

Wake up call

Harry is nothing if not inventive – and he is particularly creative when it comes to waking me up in a morning.

The other morning, I heard Harry padding into our bedroom but before I could open my eyes, he’d jumped on to my pillow, grabbed my face and told me it was time to wake up and clean the cars.

This was, it has to be said, a bit much first thing in the morning but at least it wasn’t the most painful wake-up call I’ve had.

That award goes to the day when Harry decided to carry the Argos catalogue into our bedroom. It’s a pretty hefty publication but on this occasion he managed to get it into our bedroom and somehow hoist it up onto the bed before finding the strength to drop it on my head.

It was a bit of a shock. “Sorry daddy,” he said as I rubbed me head furiously. “It’s a bit heavy for Harry.”

Unfortunately, the Argos catalogue is currently Harry’s favourite book – even overtaking the Three Billy Goats Gruff – and he will sit for ages, flicking through the pages saying he “needs” this or that. He even takes the book to his bedroom at night to keep it safe.

When I ask him who’s going to bring him all of these things he needs, his reply is always the same: “Santa.”

I’ve tried to explain that Christmas is still a long way off but Harry is undeterred. At this rate, the book might have to go missing soon – otherwise, it’s going to seem like a very long time until Santa squeezes down our chimney.

Fashion advice

I THINK it’s fair to say that everybody finds parents embarrassing from time to time.

It’s particularly bad, if I recall correctly, from the age of about 12 to 16. At this stage of your life, pretty much everything your parents do makes you want the ground to open and swallow you up.

I am reconciled to this eventuality; Harry, I am sure, will be utterly embarrassed by me in future. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was Harry dishing out fashion advice to me just yet.

I was therefore a bit shocked when Harry told me that he didn’t like my tie shortly before I left the house to go to work the other morning. “It’s pink daddy,” he announced. “Pink is for girls.”

Suitably chastised, I changed my tie. “That’s better daddy,” was Harry’s conclusion. Anyway, he’s now taking matters into his own hands and choosing clothes for me to wear. Generally, anything stripy is good (“Harry likes stripes too, daddy”) and anything else, well, causes friction.

The side effect of all this fashion advice is a very messy bedroom floor – Harry likes to take every item of clothing out of the wardrobe when deciding whether or notI should wear it.

Some days, though, I get it right. “I like your shirt daddy,” he said yesterday morning. He even told me morning that he wanted a shirt, suit and tie like mine. “And a case to put my dinner in,” he added.

At least it’s not just me in the firing line. When Harry stayed at my parents’ house a couple of weeks ago, he made my mum change her top because he didn’t like the colour.

As Harry is fond of saying, “I am a bossy boots.” He’s spot on with that even if his fashion advice is a little bit suspect.

Tuesday 16 August 2011

Bedtime

WE’RE having plenty of fun putting Harry to bed at the moment.

I’m not really sure why bedtime is proving to be so tricky but, whatever the reason, as soon as Harry sees his bed he seems to find new reserves of energy. On a couple of occasions it has taken more than an hour for him to drop off, which is hardly ideal.

Whenever I put Harry to bed, I always try to make sure he’s a calm as possible, speaking quietly and trying not to get him excited. Most of the time, I fail miserably and within minutes he’s bouncing around the bed while I try to persuade him to lie still.

In response, my tactics start with persuasion, then switch to bribery before ending up – usually – with a stern telling off. Harry’s response, generally, is to laugh leaving me wondering what I’m doing wrong.

Reading a story to him doesn’t seem to have the desired calming effect either. In fact, his favourite book at the moment – the Three Billy Goats Gruff – has precisely the opposite effect and whenever big bad troll is mentioned, Harry joins in with the action, growling and baring his teeth.

Eventually, he does give up, exhausted, leaving a frazzled parent in his wake.

There have been a couple of entertaining moments along the way though. On one occasion, Melissa crept upstairs to do the ironing while I took Harry to bed. Harry then announced he needed the toilet, jumping out of bed and heading for the bathroom in our bedroom, prompting Melissa to hide behind the bedroom door before dashing downstairs, desperately trying to avoid being caught.

And the other night, I popped my head around his door to tuck him in – only to find he had disappeared. After a few seconds of blind panic, I heard snoring and found Harry fast asleep – underneath his bed.

The conductor

I’M FAST learning that it’s difficult to have secrets when you’re a parent.

Harry is quite happy to tell anybody – including perfect strangers – everything. Most of the time, this isn’t particularly interesting but at times it can be quite embarrassing.

Earlier this week, for instance, I arrived home from work and Harry ran over to me telling me how he’d got a poorly leg. It turned out he’d fallen over earlier in the day and grazed his knee – but there was no way he was going to let his mum get away without telling me.

I had been caught out in similar circumstances a couple of days earlier when Harry told Melissa how he’d fallen off a chair while I was making his tea. As I say, you can’t get away with anything.

On Saturday, when we visited Chirk Hospital Fete, Harry was absolutely mesmerised by Ifton Colliery Band.

As soon as the band started playing, Harry began waving his arms to mimic the conductor, singing Ten Green Bottles at the top of his voice, even though that particular song wasn’t part of the band’s repertoire.

He refused to move until they had finished playing, whereupon he started asking them to play Happy Birthday for daddy. “It’s daddy’s birthday soon,” he pleaded. As I say, there’s no escape.

Eventually, we managed to distract Harry by promising him a ride on the Glyn Valley Tramway Trust’s train. We did have a great time at the fete, though, and Melissa even picked up a second for her damson jam. Not that Harry noticed; by this time was back in front of the band waving his arms and singing Ten Green Bottles.

Thursday 4 August 2011

Never a dull moment

It goes without saying that life with Harry is never dull. In fact, it’s getting more entertaining by the week.

When I arrived home the other day, I found both Melissa and Harry covered – literally from head to foot – in emulsion. It turns out that Melissa had decided it would be a good idea for Harry to help her paint his playhouse.

Of course Harry was delighted to get stuck in and, judging by the photographs, had a whale of a time. Unfortunately, since this rather messy episode, Harry has been determined to do more decorating and is not easily put off. When I told him we’d run out of paint, his reply was: “That’s alright daddy, you can use my paint if you want to.”

To distract him, we’ve been doing plenty of digging in the garden, which happens to be Harry’s other favourite occupation. He spends his time barking orders – dig weeds over here daddy, and so on – while I have to get down on my hands and knees and dig around in the soil.

If I’m feeling adventurous, we dig potatoes. The best bit about this is watching Harry load the potatoes into his little tractor and trailer before trundling off up the garden and delivering them to the conservatory.

I have also been trying to encourage Harry to take more of an interest in football, with mixed results. On a couple of occasions, he has really enjoyed playing and he certainly seems to have decent coordination when it comes to running and kicking a ball at the same time.

Unfortunately, and as you might expect, he doesn’t have a particularly long concentration span and we’re soon heading back to the shovels to dig again.

Regardless of this, playing football with Harry is another one of those magical moments of parenthood. Now all I’ve got to worry about is getting Harry to concentrate on a game of cricket…

Wednesday 27 July 2011

Trying trains

Sometimes even good ideas can go wrong as I found to my cost last weekend when I decided to take Harry to Chester on the train – forgetting that the races were on.

The plan was simple. I would catch the train with Harry and Melissa – travelling by car so she could get some uninterrupted shopping done – would meet us there.

I should have known things were about to take a turn for the worse when we had our first drama of the day shortly after we’d arrived at the station. Harry announced he needed the toilet precisely one minute before the train was due to arrive. I did try asking him to hold on but Harry was insistent. So out came the potty while I stared nervously down the track. We made it – just; I was putting the potty back under the buggy as the train pulled in.

Then things really started to go haywire. As the carriage doors opened, I realised just how busy the train was. I refused to give up, though, and squeezed on board somehow – much to the delight of those already packed in like sardines.

Hanging on to Harry with one hand while attempting to fold up the buggy with the other proved too much and in the end I gave up. I settled for standing up, while Harry decided that the most comfortable on my shoulder.

It was not, it has to be said, a particularly pleasant experience; it was extremely hot and the atmosphere was, how can I put this, slightly intimidating given that there was a fair amount of drinking going on. Having said that, the people vying for elbow space around me were very understanding and even helped lift the buggy off when we got to Chester.

All of this, it seems, had no impact on Harry. He was fast asleep by the time we reached Ruabon and proceeded to snore loudly for the rest of the journey. In all, it took about 40 minutes to reach Chester, but having to hold Harry for that length of time made it feel a lot longer. One thing’s for sure, I won’t be using the train on race days in future.

Sleeping - again

Harry is now sleeping in a bed rather than a cot and, by and large, he’s taken to it pretty well although it’s not been without its moments.

There are two areas in particular that have proved to be a challenge. Firstly, keeping Harry in his bed when he’s going to sleep is a much more tricky proposition without the cot.

At the moment, one of us is taking him to bed and reading him stories to keep him safely tucked up. Now I like Thomas the Tank Engine as much as the next dad, but it’s already starting to become a little bit too familiar.

The other challenge is making sure Harry stays in his own bed during the night. Whereas climbing out of the cot took considerable effort, it’s now easy for Harry to jump out of bed and head for our room.

As a result we’re constantly alert to the sound of Harry’s little footsteps padding across the landing in the middle of the night. Most of the time, it’s simply a case of turning him round and putting him back in his bed. However, he seems to be developing a knack for climbing into our bed without waking us up, which is a bit more worrying.

The first time this happened, I woke up and was surprised to find Harry snoring away alongside me, spread-eagled and taking up as much room as possible. “What time did you bring him in?” I asked Melissa. “You tell me,” came the rather grumpy response. Harry, oblivious, carried on sleeping.

When he did finally open his eyes, I asked him why he had got into our bed. “Crocodiles in Harry’s room,” came the grinning reply. Perhaps I should invest in a couple for our room as well.

Thursday 14 July 2011

Harry Don't

I remember mum saying that when my brother was little, she used to worry that people would think his surname was ‘Don’t’ because it felt as if all she used to say was ‘Barry don’t’.

I now know how she feels. Keeping Harry out of trouble is a full time occupation and Melissa and I are forever saying ‘don’t’ or ‘stop that’ to him.

Last weekend we were weeding the vegetable patch and, as usual, Harry wanted to help. Rather than walking around the vegetables, though, Harry was determined to walk through them, which resulted in some rather fraught exchanges and one or two onions pulled a little bit sooner than expected.

Then, when Melissa decided to plant some flowers, Harry followed her around pulling up every single one. We later discovered some hidden in a watering can. It sounds funny now, but it wasn’t at the time and for a while it sounded like all we were doing was telling Harry off.

I said as much to Melissa later, and she replied that some days all she did was tell him off. When I returned home the other night, Melissa looked shattered. I asked her what was wrong and she said it had just been one of those days. At one point, he had covered the bathroom in shaving foam before Melissa managed to wrestle the can from his hand.

As Melissa said, it’s just part of growing up and Harry learning where the boundaries are – and how far he can push them. When we do tell him off, he frowns and says things like ‘No cross daddy. Harry want happy daddy.’ It doesn’t make discipline any easier.

Anyway, Melissa has now decided that we need to try a naughty corner.

The idea is that when Harry misbehaves, we make him stand in a corner for two minutes. The advantage of a naughty corner is that it’s completely portable, as opposed to a naughty step which may or may not be available depending on where you are. Will it work? I have no idea – but it’s got to be worth a try.

Monday 4 July 2011

Missing out

That was one of the longest weeks of my life. Melissa and Harry spent the week at the seaside in Harlech, leaving me home alone.

It wasn't quite a week - Monday to Thursday to be precise - but being away from Harry (and Melissa of course) was painful. It’s the longest I’ve gone without seeing Harry and while I expected it to be bad, I didn’t realise just how much I’d miss him.

For a start, the house was completely silent – a real shock to the system as I’m used to walking in to a barrage of noise and activity when I get home from work. For the first day or so, it was quite a novelty but then it just felt, well, lonely walking into a deserted home.

It wasn’t just the noise that was missing either. Getting in from work and immediately being dragged outside to play is the most effective way of relieving stress I’ve yet discovered. I also missed the cuddles, the sound of Harry giggling and his cheeky smile when he’s done something he knows he shouldn’t.

One evening I phoned and spoke to Harry who was fine until Melissa told him to say night night to me. When responded by shouting that he wanted daddy - the lump in my throat was more like a boulder.

But I suppose it wasn't all bad. The fish tank got a good clean, the lawn was mowed and - whisper it quietly - I even managed to tackle a bit of ironing, badly of course. The best bit, though, was when I arrived in Harlech on Friday – the welcome from Harry was something else.

Half an hour later, normal service was resumed when I gave Harry a telling off for emptying out a tube of toothpaste on the bathroom floor. By the time he went to bed, it was as if we hadn’t been apart.

Hospitals

Last week we had to take Harry to The Maelor for an eye operation. It wasn’t a major procedure by any means – he had a blocked tear duct that meant his eye was prone to running. However, he had to have a general anaesthetic and that was the scary bit.

Having been to the pre-op the day before the operation, Melissa called me in work and said I would have to take the day off. “There’s no way I can take him down to be put out,” she said.

It was the worst bit. I took him down to the anaesthetic room where, despite a room full of terrifying machines, Harry managed to keep a stiff upper lip. He even let the nurses attach the heart monitor without fuss, even though his bottom lip trembled a couple of times. However, when they attached the cannula he began to cry, looking at me as if to say ‘how could you’. Within seconds of the injection he was flat out, leaving me feeling terrible.

We then had to wait an hour while the operation was carried out – which meant an hour of staring at my watch and pacing up and down the corridors of the hospital. It wasn’t a nice feeling. After what seemed like an age, we got the message to say he was in recovery and practically ran to get him. All I could hear as we dashed in to the room was Harry shouting ‘daddy’.

He was very grumpy - a combination of being woken up, something he's not keen on at the best of times, and being ravenously hungry (he wasn't allowed to eat or drink before the operation).

Eventually I asked a nurse if Harry could have something to eat. Thankfully she said yes and I swear I've never seen a piece of bread disappear so quickly. Before he'd finished, Harry wanted another slice. He sat on the bed and said 'Ask lady for more toast.' When I told him I would speak to her in a minute, he responded by asking for his shoes saying, 'Harry go ask lady for toast'. We knew he was on the mend.

The staff on children’s ward who looked after us were absolutely fantastic and helped make the experience as pleasant as possible. The playroom was also very impressive - Harry didn’t want to leave when we were told we could go home.

The following day, it was as if nothing had happened; Harry woke us up by putting a soaking wet, freezing cold flannel on our heads. Perhaps it was revenge for that anaesthetic.

Friday 10 June 2011

Talking sense

I'm sitting writing this waiting for Harry to go to sleep in the room next door.

At the moment, he's talking away to the various toys that share his bed, telling them about the day at the seaside he's just spent with my mum and dad.

And while I would like to go downstairs and get some tea, it’s lovely listening to him chatting away.

What it also does is reinforce how far his speech has come on since Christmas; he's now stringing long, often complicated sentences together, telling us about something that has happened or, more often, something that he wants to happen.

As my granddad said at the weekend, he's becoming a real little chatterbox. This is an understatement; Harry just doesn't stop talking.

He often surprises me by throwing a new word into conversation. The other day, for instance, he announced that we should go outside. "It's beautiful," he said, which isn't the sort of statement I'd expect to hear from a 28 month-old.

Of course, Harry's ability to pick up new words has its downsides, and we have to be careful what we say now because he's likely to repeat it, parrot-like. He's also picked up a couple of bad habits, including say "Eh?" when he doesn't quite catch what you've said. This is immediately followed by a reprimand from Melissa or myself, whereupon Harry looks sheepish and says "pardon".

Mind you, I was even more shocked the other day when I was sitting on the sofa when Harry tried to push past unsuccessfully. “Move big bottom, daddy,” he said. I was speechless.

If that's as bad as it gets, though, I think we'll have got away with it.
Anyway, he's just shouted "Daddy working on computer." I think that's my cue to go downstairs.

Locked in

I’ve got a confession to make: on Sunday Harry managed to lock me in the conservatory – and with Melissa sound asleep upstairs, I was stranded.

It all happened pretty quickly. Harry and I got up at about 7am, went down and ate breakfast in the kitchen before going through to the conservatory, which has an outside door with a lock on it.

After playing for about half an hour, Harry announced that he was going to fetch his tools from the dining room and promptly disappeared next door. I flicked on the television to watch the news headlines and settled back on the sofa, waiting for Harry to return.

Sure enough, a minute or two later, Harry appeared at the door, tools in hand, but instead of coming into the room he grinned and shut the door. Again, I thought nothing of it, until I heard the lock click.

I jumped up and immediately tried the door. To my dismay, it was locked – I’d foolishly left the key in – and I was trapped. Harry soon realised I was stuck and started shouting ‘Daddy’, while I tried to keep calm and explain how to go about unlocking the door.

Despite his best efforts, though, the door remained firmly locked while I frantically tried to work out how to escape.

I knew I could get outside but as both doors into the house were locked, it wouldn’t be much use. My last resort would have been the kitchen window, but it looked very small and I wasn’t convinced I would be able to squeeze through.

So, putting aside my dented pride, I decided to try a different tactic – getting Harry to wake Melissa. Harry responded brilliantly, running to the foot of the stairs and shouting “Mummy, help daddy, now!”

Five minutes later, a sleepy looking Melissa emerged – and immediately burst out laughing when she realised what had happened, although she later told me she’d panicked when she first heard Harry shouting, worrying that I had fallen and hurt myself.

Needless to say, the key will never be left in the lock again.

Tuesday 31 May 2011

Christening chaos

Harry is turning out to be a bit of a singer. Clearly he doesn’t take after me; my singing career ended at the age six when I was dropped from the school choir after a particularly horrific rendition of ‘When I’m 64’.

Anyway, Harry sings at the slightest excuse, with Bob the Builder a particular favourite at the moment.

The words often get a bit jumbled, but the tune is always there. Harry’s even taken to banging away on Melissa’s piano and singing at the same time. As I say, he’s already a far more accomplished musician than I will ever be.

But my favourite musical moment so far came at a Christening last week.
Keeping Harry quiet had proved pretty difficult during the first part of the service, and we did get one or two disapproving glances from members of the congregation while we tried to keep the noise down by feeding him sandwiches and chocolate.

But we lost the battle well and truly when the priest got to the point in the ceremony where he lights a candle to symbolise turning towards the light. Harry stood up on the pew and started singing – at the top of his voice, of course – ‘Happy birthday to you’.

To be fair, one or two people giggled; several others frowned. Melissa and I were trying desperately to be serious, but it was impossible to keep a straight face.

When he’d finished singing, Harry gave himself a round of applause for good measure while we tried to get him to sit down quietly.

We’ve got another Christening next week – hopefully it will be an altogether quieter experience.

Tuesday 24 May 2011

Potty training part two

Harry’s potty training is going very well, and we’re now getting out and about again.

Post-nappy life isn’t without its challenges though. For instance before leaving the house now, I have to spend five or ten minutes trying to persuade, then bribe (chocolate buttons seems to do the trick most effectively), Harry to have a wee. To Harry this is one big game of course, which doesn’t make things any easier.

Then there’s the need for speed when Harry announces he wants his potty. I took him for a fairly long walk the other day and he managed to use his potty three times during the trek. On the first occasion, I only just managed to get Harry and his potty out of the pushchair in time. Crouching down on the side of a busy A5 was a first for me, but it didn’t seem to bother Harry at all. In fact, the only tricky bit was getting Harry back into his pushchair afterwards.

Being outdoors is one thing, though, and I was far more nervous about what would happen when I took Harry to an indoor play area.

So when we went last week, I admit I did consider putting Harry in a pull-up nappy before venturing on to the play equipment. My main worry was that Harry would decide he wanted the toilet when we were stuck at the top of the equipment.

However, my conscience got the better of me, and we braved it without the nappy – and it all went surprisingly well. It did cost me a flapjack to get him to go to the toilet at one point, but I was able – smugly, of course – to report to Melissa that there had been no accidents.

So Harry has taken to potty training pretty well. So well, in fact, that when I put him to bed (in a nappy) the other night, 15 minutes later he was shouting ‘Daddy, wee wee, quick’ at the top of his voice. I couldn’t ignore him obviously, but I’m sure this was just another part of Harry’s game.

Tuesday 17 May 2011

Charge!

Harry, like all youngsters, can get a bit carried away when he’s enjoying himself.

The other day, for instance, I arrived home to find him sat at the kitchen table painting. Two minutes later, I was sat next to him, joining in the fun. Everything was going well until I decided to lean over and paint on Harry’s piece of paper. He looked at me, help up his hand and said: “Stop daddy, Harry’s paper.”

I should, with hindsight, have left it at that. I didn’t of course, and leaned over to paint on his paper again. Five minutes later my face was covered in paint as Harry decided to put a stop to my interference once and for all. As Melissa said afterwards, it was my fault for antagonising him.

I also managed to cause trouble when we visited Chirk Castle. We had a great time running around the grounds, and Harry was particularly taken with the soldiers guarding the entrance to the castle with their pikestaffs.

Interest in history, I thought, should be encouraged, so I bought Harry a sword and helmet. I then taught him to shout “charge” and chase me. Unfortunately, Harry decided that charging at strangers with his sword raised would be much more entertaining than chasing dad.

There was one uncomfortable moment when Harry decided to attack two elderly ladies. Fortunately, I managed to grab him – much to his disgust – before any damage was done.

In the end, I convinced Harry that it was better to charge while sitting on my shoulders, which may not have been historically accurate, but was certainly safer for the other visitors. In future, though, I think I’ll concentrate on games that don’t involve swords.

Friday 6 May 2011

First name terms

Harry is a handful. From the minute he wakes up, to the moment he closes his eyes at night, he’s a bundle of energy that just doesn’t stop.

Our strategy to cope with all this energy is simple: tire him out. At the moment, this means spending as much time as possible in the garden taking part in Harry’s favourite activity – digging.

The other day, I went to get him when he woke up in the morning and his first words to me were: “Daddy, digging, outside. Now.”

He certainly likes being outdoors, although the lovely weather we’ve been enjoying lately means Melissa and I often have to chase him around the garden with the suntan lotion, which can get a bit messy. Believe me, hanging on to a determined two-year-old who’s been smothered in sun cream is a lot more difficult than it sounds.

As well as his boundless energy, Harry’s also got a wicked sense of humour. On Sunday, we were messing about in the front room and I was tickling him when he suddenly shouted: “Stop it Martin.” Now I had heard him call me Martin a couple of days earlier, but on that occasion he was just copying his mum; this time, though, it was completely unprompted.

Melissa burst out laughing, while I was left momentarily speechless. Of course, as soon as he realised he’d said something funny, Harry kept calling me Martin over and over again. His comic timing was spot on.

And it’s not just me – he’s taken to calling Melissa’s dad Terry and my dad Colin, and I’m convinced it’s just to get a laugh. Goodness knows what’s next, but we’re going to have to be very careful what we say in future.

Potty training

Soon after Harry was born, a friend told me that life as a parent was a constant challenge. Just when you think you’re on top of things, she said, everything changes.

I’ve often thought of that statement since and it came to mind immediately we started potty training. Now I was dreading potty training, mainly because I hadn’t got a clue what to do.

Fortunately, Melissa was far more organised and had come up with a plan to kick things off. Essentially, this plan meant not leaving our house for several days to get Harry into the swing of using the potty without any distractions.

As it turned out, the first couple of days were as challenging as expected; eleven pairs of pants the first day, and about eight the second. I’ll admit to being slightly relieved at having to go to work. By the time I arrived home, Melissa – understandably – looked completely drained.

After that, however, things started to improve markedly and the number of accidents has now fallen to just one or two a day.

After four days of training, Melissa had to work and it was my turn to look after Harry – which did cause me some anxious moments. I must have asked him if he needed his potty at least once every five minutes and, by the end of the day, poor old Harry was looking at me in frustration saying: “No, not now daddy.”

Anyway, the warm weather meant we were at least able to play outside and Harry surprised me by taking to using his potty in the open air straight away. It means we’ve been able to spend hours on end in the garden, which is now looking very tidy this year as a result.

Two weeks on, and we’re able to get out and about – with the potty going everywhere with us, of course. There is the odd accident now and again, but it’s not half as bad as I thought it would be. Long car journeys are still a worry, but I’m sure we’ll get there somehow.

Friday 15 April 2011

Holidays in the sun

Just over 12 months ago, we went abroad for a holiday with Harry. It was good but Melissa in particular found the whole thing a bit stressful. In fact, she found it so stressful, she declared afterwards that we wouldn’t be setting foot on an aeroplane for at least four years.

Thankfully, after another bitterly cold winter, her resolve weakened and a couple of weeks ago we jetted off for some sunshine in Tenerife.

Of course, Harry’s changed a great deal in the last year – we didn’t need to worry about his food or drink this time around, which immediately made things a great deal easier. The fact that Harry is now much more content playing with his toys also made things much more straightforward on the four-and-a-half hour flight.

We spent most of the week either on the beach or playing about in the sea or swimming pool, which suited me down to the ground; my sandcastle building skills were quite impressive by the end of the week.

Melissa’s mum and dad also came with us – and there’s no doubt that having grandparents on hand helped Melissa and myself relax. As much as we both love Harry, it’s also nice to have an hour’s rest now and again, if only to get your breath back. It still amazes how much energy a two year old has.

It wasn’t all plain sailing though – literally in Harry’s case as I managed to tip him off an inflatable and into the sea, quite by accident. I was then public enemy number one for a good half hour and boy did I feel guilty when he looked at me afterwards with an expression that said: “I trusted you, how could you let me fall off?”

Still, Harry doesn’t hold grudges and he was soon back to digging sandcastles on the beach. Now I can’t wait until our next holiday – in Yorkshire. I just hope the weather’s as good so I can brush up on those sandcastle building skills.

Thursday 14 April 2011

Bad news for ducks

I wrote recently about Harry picking up bad habits. Well, he’s got another and it’s not good news – particularly for ducks.

Let me explain. Harry has always enjoyed going to feed the ducks, even if he is a bit reluctant to hand over the bread most of the time (he prefers to eat it himself).

However, when we visited the Mere in Ellesmere a couple of weeks ago, his attitude had changed. Instead of throwing bread towards the swans, Harry charged towards them shouting ‘Shoo!’ at the top of his voice. As if that wasn’t enough, he also started swinging his leg as if he was about to aim a kick at them.

I grabbed him, of course, and gave him a ticking off, although I must admit, it was difficult to keep a straight face. I then told him to say sorry to the ducks, which he did – reluctantly.

Within minutes, however, he was chasing the swans again, shouting ‘shoo!’

By this time, we were drawing disapproving glances from other people, and one family – feeding the ducks without incident – looked particularly unimpressed.

We swiftly moved on to the playground – thankfully a duck free zone – before we were escorted from the mere side.

I’ve since been doing my best Poirot impersonation, trying to find out who he’s copying but so far my investigation has proved fruitless – and Harry’s not for telling me either.

Whoever’s responsible, though, it’s clear that feeding the ducks with Harry will never be a very relaxing experience.

Flattery?

IF imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery, then we must be doing something right with Harry.

He mimics just about everything we do, from facial expressions to phrases, leaving us in fits of laughter most of the time.

Melissa, for instance, has a habit of shrugging her shoulders when she says ‘don’t know’. Harry has now developed the same habit, although in his case, it’s basically a stock answer when he’s challenged about why something is broken.

Harry’s also got a great ‘hurt’ look that he must have copied from somewhere (I blame Melissa), which he employs very effectively if we say no to him. It’s often accompanied by a ‘please…’ which, as he’s well aware, makes you feel like a terrible parent.

My personal favourite, however, is Harry mimicking me having a shave. Harry stands on the toilet, toothbrush in hand, dipping it in the water and scraping it along his face every time I pick up the razor. It’s hilarious, if a bit messy.

Of course, we’re also conscious that Harry will also pick up any of our bad habits, and Melissa and I have to be on our toes constantly to make sure we don’t say anything out of turn in his earshot.

My brother, Barry, who loves nothing more than making mischief, managed to cause trouble when he visited my mum and dad recently. Barry – despite protests from my mum warning that Harry would copy – decided it would be a good idea to sit on the coffee table.

Harry, who hadn’t shown any interest in the table previously, was soon sat on it – proud as punch – with his feet up, grinning wickedly at my poor mum. And I can tell you with absolute certainty Harry knew exactly what he was doing.

Friday 25 March 2011

Trouble in the supermarket

Sometimes I get a little bit overconfident when I’m looking after Harry – and it invariably leads to trouble.

It’s happened a couple of times this week. On the first occasion, Harry and I were doing the weekly shop and I decided (and I’ve still no idea why) that I would allow him to get out of the trolley and walk around the supermarket holding my hand. This, it has to be said, was not a very good idea.

Within minutes, it was chaos. Harry was trying to escape, leaving a trail of fruit and veg on the floor, while I was frantically trying to pick up the debris with one hand and grab him with the other. When I finally managed to get hold of Harry, he tried to wriggle free by making his body completely floppy – that peculiar technique young children develop for evading adults. He ended up in a heap on the floor with me stood over him trying to sound stern but reasonable which, given the flustered state I was in, wasn’t easy.

Of course, when I returned home it soon became clear that I’d manage to forget half of the items I was supposed to buy. Frankly, though, it was the least of my worries.

The following day we decided to clean the cars and, thankfully, Melissa was on hand to lend some support. We dressed Harry in his all-in-one, wellies and hat, and with his reins wrapped around my arm, we set to work.

To be honest, it wasn’t a complete disaster and our cars did get a bit of a clean. However, after just a couple of minutes, Harry was soaked from head to toe. A couple of minutes later, I was dripping wet too when he decided to my head needed a wash.

Then it was Melissa’s turn. Harry managed to wrest control of the hose from her grasp and promptly directed into her wellies. She was not amused, and it might be some time before the cars get another spruce up.

Green fingers

I’m starting to think that Harry is going to be a green-fingered sort when he’s older.

He’s certainly very enthusiastic about getting stuck in when it comes to digging in the garden, and he gets extremely excited at the prospect of digging up produce.

I think his enthusiasm goes back to September when Harry and I spent an afternoon digging up the last of the potatoes. Harry was fascinated and whenever he eats potatoes now, he says: “Daddy, dig, ‘tatoes, Harry.”

Now, with the weather starting to improve, we’ve been able to get in the garden again – and Harry certainly hasn’t forgotten about the potatoes.

Last weekend, we spent an afternoon clearing and tidying. While Melissa concentrated on the flower beds, Harry and I tackled the vegetable plot. Harry was like a little shadow, pushing his wheelbarrow around piled high with his shovel, spade and rake.

Out first job was getting up the remaining parsnips. Harry did end up on his bottom a few times when the vegetables refused to budge but, on the whole, it went reasonably well.

Then we had to dig over the rest of the plot, a job Harry enjoyed, particularly when we found a few potatoes still in the ground. This really fired Harry’s enthusiasm and he spent the next half hour digging frantically and excitedly handing me stones and clumps of mud, saying: “Daddy, ‘tatoes.”

What amazed me, though, was Harry’s concentration. Normally his attention wanes after about 20 minutes but in all he was out with me for an hour and a half – and he didn’t try to escape once. In fact, the only reason we had go inside was to give Harry his tea.

I’ll certainly have no excuse for an untidy garden this summer.

Monday 14 March 2011

CD chaos

FOR many men, their CD collection is among their most prized possessions. In my case, the order (alphabetical by artist, with albums arranged in order of release date) is also critical.

Harry clearly doesn’t share my enthusiasm. My precious CD collection is tucked away in two large cupboards behind the door in our bedroom.

Until recently, even when Harry did notice these mysterious cupboards, he wasn’t quite strong enough to open them. However, that all changed last week when Harry worked out how to open the doors and promptly set about rearranging my CDs.

Of course, this all happened while I was at work, so you can imagine my distress when I walked into our bedroom to find cases, inlay cards and CDs strewn across the floor.

Harry had obviously taken a dislike to one particular cover and had decided to tear it in two, while I still haven’t managed to track down one disc that has mysteriously disappeared.

Melissa, who cannot fathom my obsession with CDs, was less than sympathetic.

I suppose it’s just one of the hazards of having a toddler roaming around the house. That’s not say that Harry is particularly naughty when it comes to grabbing things he shouldn’t; in fact, he’s very good most of the time. When he’s tired, though, nothing is safe.

Earlier this week, I called to pick Harry up from my parents’, only to find my dad trying to get the television to switch on. Apparently, a tired Harry had managed to press something that had stopped it working. Thankfully there was no permanent damage – which is more than can be said for my CD collection.

Wednesday 9 March 2011

Words...

I imagine it’s fairly common for toddlers to have favourite words. Harry’s favourite changes every couple of weeks – often provoking a fair amount of amusement in the process.

A couple of weeks ago it was beer. I thought this was hilarious, even if it was a little bit uncomfortable when he told strangers he was having beer for tea (it wasn’t true, obviously).

My mum and nan, however, were less than impressed when Harry started shouting beer during a trip to the supermarket, so it was quite a relief when he decided that his new favourite word was ‘naughty’.

At the moment, everyone is naughty. On Saturday morning, Harry woke Melissa up telling her she was naughty for leaving her coat hanging on the back of a chair. ‘Away,’ he said, pointing earnestly to the wardrobe. I keep getting told off for leaving drawers open or for not shutting doors.

Harry certainly knows what he’s doing – and he knows when he says something funny or cheeky; you can tell by the wicked smile afterwards.

He’s also not averse to a bit of emotional blackmail to get his own way. I took him to the supermarket last weekend and, after being pretty well behaved and sitting in his trolley for the best part of an hour, he suddenly decided he wanted to get out. I tried bribing him with chocolate buttons, but by the time we got to the checkout, he was practically standing on the seat trying to climb out.

It turned into a battle of wills – and I was determined to keep him in the trolley. However, my resistance crumbled when he held his arms in the air and said: ‘Daddy, cuddle. Please.’ What could I do? The cheeky grin told the world he’d beaten me. Little rascal.

Tuesday 1 March 2011

The Three Peaks revisited

I know it's a couple of years since we did it, but I stumbled across this YouTube slideshow of our Three Peaks challenge the other day.

For those who don't know, we did complete it in 24 hours. Good memories.


Baking

Melissa is braver than me; whereas I tend to shy away from Harry’s more messy activities, Melissa embraces them with relish.

Unfortunately, there was no escape last weekend when Melissa told Harry we would be baking.

Harry had tried his hand at baking a few days earlier – and, of course, thoroughly enjoyed himself. There were, Melissa told me later, a couple of disasters along the way: blue food dye was thrown everywhere and hundreds and thousands ended up in the quiche. On the whole, though, Harry had been very good, she said.

Despite these reassurances, though, I wasn’t convinced and, I admit, I was a nervous wreck when we started baking cakes. Harry was beside himself with excitement and set about cracking the eggs gleefully. As you can probably imagine, his hands were covered in it.

We did end up with a fair amount of shell in the mixture, which put me off straight away. I simply don’t like the thought of crunchy fairy cakes.

But while I was trying to fish out pieces of shell, Harry was busy tipping flour into the mixture. It was chaos, and the kitchen was practically engulfed in a cloud of flour.

By this point, Melissa seemed to be having as much fun as Harry, and she particularly enjoyed my futile attempts to restore order. Eventually, we somehow managed to get some of the mixture into the cake mould, although there were very few chocolate chips left by this point; Harry had eaten most of them before we had the chance to get our hands on them.

Incredibly, the cakes tasted fine at the end of it all, which probably means we’ll be doing it all over again this weekend. I can’t wait.

Wednesday 23 February 2011

Gentle wake? No chance

I DON’T think I’ll ever get used to Harry’s ability to go from being fast asleep to wide awake within seconds. Honestly, it’s as if someone flicks a switch and he’s off, causing mischief while we’re still trying to come round.

The other morning, Harry woke up about six and a sleepy Melissa carried him into our bed. I was still dozing – well, pretending to be asleep might be more accurate – but Harry was having none of it.

He grabbed my chin, put his face millimetres from mine and said book, meaning that he wanted me to read with him. Of course, I did the decent thing and turned over, mumbling something about his mum wanting to read. Melissa, by now pretending to have gone back to sleep, was also turned away from Harry which didn’t please him one bit.

After a few minutes of trying to get a response, though, Harry gave up with Melissa and clambered on to my head. “Dad-da, book,” was all I could hear. Eventually I gave in and leaned over to turn the light on, whereupon Harry dived out of bed and started fiddling with the alarm clock.

Within seconds we were listening to heavy metal – Harry, it seems, has a knack of tuning in to the loudest radio stations. Melissa, incidentally, tried to sleep through all of this. Harry responded by grabbing her feet to pull her out of bed.

I’d like to say these events are unusual; they’re not. I once had an alarm clock that had a ‘gentle wake’ setting – the idea was a buzzer that started off quietly and got progressively louder so it didn’t startle you. Unfortunately, the days of a ‘gentle wake’ are long gone now.

Harry the chatterbox

HARRY is turning into a right little chatterbox. This is a big change because he was a pretty slow starter when it came to talking.

He did have a couple of essential words – apart from mummy and daddy – such as juice, dinner and no, but generally he preferred to grunt and point to get his message across.

However, a couple of months before Christmas, his vocabulary suddenly started to expand at a quite remarkable rate.

Having done a bit of research (well, using Google to look up ‘babies talking’), it seems that toddlers can learn up to 10 words a day by the time they’re two, and I can quite believe it.

Every day he’s using new words and new sounds, while his pronunciation is improving rapidly as well. He’s also starting to string one or two words together, which I find very exciting. It also makes car journeys much more interesting – when I pick him up from my mum and dad’s, he talks all the way home about what he’s been doing.

Although he still gets frustrated when I don’t understand him, having a conversation with Harry is definitely one of those ‘wow’ moments that you experience as a first time parent.

Of course, there are one or two downsides to Harry’s ever expanding vocabulary. While we were at the checkout in the supermarket last weekend, Harry kept saying ‘beer’ to the cashier, which was a little bit embarrassing.

The following day we took him to a restaurant which had a large mirror behind our table. When Harry spotted the mirror, he stood up, turned to face it, shouted ‘mirror’ at the top of his voice, and then kissed his reflection. He did make up for it though, saying ‘please’ when the waiter asked if he wanted ice cream. I was a very proud dad.

Monday 7 February 2011

Splash mats

When Harry was about eight or nine months old, a colleague asked me if we’d invested in a splash mat to sit underneath Harry’s high chair. At the time, there didn’t seem much point but now I can see the logic behind such an investment.

Harry has a very good appetite and is now quite happy to feed himself. However, as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, he will no longer sit in his high chair, preferring instead to sit at the kitchen table.

On the one hand, this is real progress and makes meal times much more relaxed for Melissa and myself. On the other, it also creates a fair bit of mess. Harry’s coordination is generally very good but – on occasion – he loses concentration while his fork or spoon is in transition from his plate to his mouth.

This can make things really messy – and it sometimes takes a fair amount of restraint on my part not to intervene. As you can imagine, some foods are better than others; soup is a particular problem, and about half of it normally ends up down Harry or on the floor.

The other frustrating habit Harry has developed at mealtimes is pushing his plate away when he’s finished eating. Most of the time, this is not a problem; occasionally, though, he pushes it a bit hard and it ends up on the floor.

We’re then left frantically trying to clean up the mess before it stains the walls, floor and so on. A splash mat might well be the way forward.

I shouldn’t complain though. Harry has a fantastic appetite and he certainly isn’t fussy when it comes to food, although he does have his favourites. At the moment, honey has replaced ham as his food of choice, although I’m pleased to say that from time to time he now asks for ‘mar mar’ (Marmite) on his toast. That’s my boy.

Monday 31 January 2011

Under siege

OUR house is under siege - courtesy of Harry and his toys. A few years ago a friend of mine told me he had banned his children and their toys from their front room because, he said, it was being taken over by toys. At the time, I remember thinking it seemed a bit harsh; now I can understand his sentiment.

A combination of Christmas and Harry's birthday have left us surrounded by toys. Our front room is an ever-changing obstacle course, with crayons, trains and trucks all waiting to trip you up at the slightest lapse in concentration.
I've lost count of the number of times I've stepped on something by accident, leaving me hopping around the room in agony, much to Harry's obvious delight. And if I'm not falling over the toys, I'm having to be build or fix them.

Harry's favourite at the moment is his wooden train. Now I must admit, I love the train set and we've bought him a couple of expansion sets to make it a bit more interesting - for Harry and for me. The upside is that we are now able to build some pretty elaborate railways, complete with viaducts and crossings; the downside is that it takes up most of our sitting room which, consequently, generally looks a bit like a building site.I can live with the railway, though.

What I find much more difficult to deal with is Harry's constant desire to tip everything out. I blame Melissa for this. She has, from a very early age, encouraged Harry to tip up his toy box and get all of his toys out to play with.

It wasn't so bad when we were only dealing with a handful of them but now he has so many, I can’t resist trying to tidy up after him. This is a game in itself because, if Harry catches you, he immediately empties everything out again and you're back to square one.Speaking of games, Harry is very keen on hide and seek. When he wants to play, he tells you to count, then scurries off before shouting ready, or 'eddie', at the top of his voice and giggling hysterically as you look for him.

To start with, Harry struggled with the concept of hiding but he's definitely getting better. On Wednesday, I lost him for a full five minutes when we were playing upstairs. I was getting a bit worried until I heard a giggle coming from the wardrobe in the spare room.

Monday 24 January 2011

Harry turns two...

Harry was two this week and I can hardly believe it’s been that long since I was pacing around The Maelor anxiously awaiting the arrival of our first child.

Although we’d been to the antenatal classes, nothing could have prepared us for the changes that were about to happen in our life.

And while the panic of those first few days has subsided – remembering to sterilise everything and trying to work out how to fasten a nappy successfully – our life has changed beyond recognition.

On Tuesday Melissa, with me helping out, spent the evening baking a train-shaped birthday cake. Then we had to decorate it – another first for me.

It was worth the effort though. Watching Harry blow out the candles before jumping up and down and applauding was magical, as was his cheeky grin after he’d managed to grab a chocolate wheel off the cake before we’d had chance to put it out of reach.

In fact, the whole of his birthday saw Harry in a state of high excitement. From the moment he opened his first present until the departure of the last visitor at about 6pm he hardly stopped – with the exception of an hour-long nap in the morning.

We took him to an indoor play area in the afternoon where he played happily for a couple of hours, climbing, jumping, and flying down the slide as fast as he could.

As if to emphasise just how grown up he is now, he didn’t need any help climbing the play equipment, although he did want one of us to wait for him at the bottom of the slide.

Watching him interact with the other children reinforced the impression that he’s now a little boy rather than a toddler. There was one particularly cute moment when he took a little girl’s hand and tried to persuade her to race him down the slide. She refused, which prompted a brief frown from Harry, before he hurled himself down the slide again, squealing at the top of his voice.

Monday 17 January 2011

Harry and the quest for chaos

Life with Harry is never dull. If I’m not chasing him around the house, he’s chasing me. It’s great but there are plenty of challenges along the way.

Last week Melissa called me at work to ask what time I would be home. She sounded stressed. Very stressed.

It’s Harry, she said, he’s being a monkey. It later transpired that Harry had given Melissa a taste of the terrible twos a few weeks early. After emptying her make up draw on to the bedroom floor, he’d gone into the bathroom and started throwing toys down the toilet.

While Melissa was trying to stop him, he’d somehow managed to get his hands in the toilet bowl, and was trying to fish out the aforementioned toys. It sounded chaotic, although I must admit I had to stifle a giggle when she told me what had happened.
Needless to say, when I arrived home an hour or so later, Melissa handed Harry over to me and – would you believe it – he was a little angel, playing happily with his train set until bed time.

It is surprising how quickly things can descend into chaos, though. I’ve been caught out a few times recently, most memorably when I was trying to get Harry’s dinner and he decided to empty the kitchen cupboards. By the time I’d mashed the potatoes, our kitchen floor was strewn with pots, pans, tins and jars. To make matters worse, every time I tried to put something away, Harry simply took it out again. Melissa, when she arrived on the scene, was not impressed.

Speaking of Harry running riot, we finally took down the travel cot in our bedroom this week. It had proved very useful in keeping Harry under control while we got ready in a morning, but once he’d mastered climbing out of the cot we were always fighting a losing battle.

So we’re now busy rearranging our bedroom to make sure all the lotions and potions are out of Harry’s reach. I’m sure, however, that he’ll soon find new, more inventive ways to make mischief – he seems to have a knack for it.

The difference between Momma and Mummy

I can’t believe how quickly Harry is growing up. I know I’ve said this before but lately the pace of change seems to be increasing all the time. Of course the fact that he’s talking makes a big difference. Hearing him ask for ‘mummy’ rather than ‘momma’ may not sound much but to Melissa and I, it’s worlds apart.

In other ways he’s becoming more and more of a little boy, rather than a toddler. He is, for instance, quite happy to sit or lie on the floor playing with his train set quite happily for half an hour or more on his own. The only sound he makes is the choo-chooing of the trains.

Boxing Day was a bit of a watershed moment for me though. I took Harry downstairs after his bath to get him tea. We walked into the kitchen and Harry asked to sit on a seat at the table, rather than eat in his high chair.

Normally I would have insisted on the high chair but Harry had been full of cold and hadn’t been eating very well for a couple of days, so I relented. He sat at the table, spoon in hand, waiting for his tea and when I put it on the table, he told me to go away. Again, I would normally be reluctant to do so (if only for the sake of minimising the mess!) but I made another exception.So while I did the washing up, Harry sat with his back to me and cleared his plate. There was very little spillage and Harry was quiet as a mouse the whole time. I kept taking sneaky glances to make sure he was alright but I needn’t have worried.

As you might expect, Harry remembered this the next day and he duly ate his breakfast sat at the table. Since then, he’s not been in his high chair and, barring one or two slightly messy moments, it’s going remarkably smoothly.

Of course there’s plenty of time for that to change but, whatever happens, I can’t see Harry getting into his high chair ever again.