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.

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.

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.