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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.