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, 31 October 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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