First contact…

It’s bothered me for a while about how the boys are going to respond to the fact that I’ve been writing a blog, with them as the core topic.  Would they be intrigued, bothered or embarrassed about it being about them?

Well, tonight, unexpectedly, I found out, with Master Jack as the one asking questions.

He’s been reading a book about a 14 year old that has circumnavigated the globe, which was a fascinating book in itself, but there were references within the book about ‘blogging’, as he’d kept his notes and memoirs online.  Claire had to explain to Jack what a blog is, understandably, but also then mentioned that he geek-o dad had been keeping notes himself.

So tonight, instead of the now-traditional bedtimes stories as written by Charles Dickens, we picked out and read a handful of Brett Rigby Blog Posts. Hardly comparable, but made me proud/happy that someone was interested to ask about it!

We started with the very first blog post, introducing the world to my inner-brain, set the scene a little, explained a few Brett-devised things, such as his project codename, and then skipped some of the boring pre-birth stuff, as this seemed a little dreary to him. And to me, by now!

Obviously, being a boy and now fie years old at that, he bored quite quickly of the occasional blog post I picked out, as they were interesting to me, but not him.  Unless of course they happened to mention the words ‘wee’ or ‘poo’ and the like, as (being me) I obviously wrote them with some sarcastic humour… to which he loved.

We read the first post that I had written in 2014, where at this point, Oliver was well and truly in our little lives for sure, but this particular post was about Jack and how I’d forgotten how young he still was at that age, and I suppose still is, relatively-speaking. Despite it being written six months ago, though, nothing’s changed in terms of Jack’s sleeping abilities and is always awake before 6am and fighting with us as to why he’s not allowed to go downstairs by himself.

Very conveniently for Claire and I, I read the ‘Amazon-Jack’ blog post to him, as this sort of re-iterated what we’ve been trying to get across to Jack about his fantastic reading abilities, and that it comes as a result of some hard work on Claire’s part, as well as some very heavy credit-card spending, I might add!! I suppose that as he’s not know any different and is probably too young to be interested in comparisons between himself and his peers, he thinks that it’s ‘normal’, which I know it is, but he’s able to read signs on shops now, ‘help’ me navigate when driving by reading directions on roadsigns and so on.  What I am trying to say (badly) is that I feel he and his reading is a product of invested time and hard work on our part, which I know that we are both very proud of, knowing that whatever he does in life, where-ever he goes, he’s always going to read something, and that we did that for him, as opposed to ignore him and let him watch TV until 10pm. 

Anyway, I digress, he read in that blog post about how his reading bands jumped from one to the next, and again and again and it sort of looked for a moment that he might have twigged that reading is probably the best thing in the world, and the smile on his little face might have suggested that he liked it – which I know he does. 

Showing this blogging-lark to him for the first time also highlighted to Claire, Jack and I as to how much I had initially written, but had subsequently slowed right down on since then. Obviously, I have my reasons for not being able to write as much as I could have done, but it also reminded me that I do actually like doing this, and that maybe I ought to write more. Especially given that Oliver will discover this one day and will also want to know about things related to him as well as all of us, so had better get writing, thus adding to the mental weight of being a blogger!!

Bubble Guns

Oliver is now two, and is perfectly aged for potty training.

Or so we thought.

He’s had and understood the idea about weeing into a potty or toilet for a little while now, but we’ve been struggling to convince him about the poos.  He even ask for a nappy, such that he’d then toddle-off into a quiet corner somewhere to think. And to squeeze one out. And just for kicks at seeing his mum or dad having to clear it up, I’m sure the little monster squashes it in a little by sitting down a bit, such that’s stuck to his bum cheeks and smeared all over.

So, of course, we reverted to what any self-respecting parent would do.

Bribery.

Oh yes. And if you’re a parent that’s never bribed your child, then I call you liar.  Except, clever parents these days put a positive spin on it, and call it “positive reinforcement”, or something like that. Bribery, plain and simple, and it works.

Claire bought a (cheap) battery-powered, bubble-blowing gun from the supermarket. Quiet clever, that you screw a bottle of bubble mixture to the butt of the gun and theoretically, pull the trigger to find bubbles galore.

Well, as this was the bribery device, it sat on the high shelf in it’s packaging and out of reach, and when Oliver was sitting on the toilet, we’d tell him about this gun, teasing and taunting. Erm, I mean, positively reinforcing the notion of a child-friendly bubble-producing firearm.  And he’d respond, asking for it, because we’re grown ups and are really good at describing toys in a carrot/stick manner and he’d be convinced that he needed it, sometimes to the point of tears.

But there’d always be a little sadness when he wouldn’t ‘produce’, so to speak, and we’d end up with the phrase of ‘no poo, no gun’. Heck, I’d buy him five more if he’d have just poo’d a little chip out. But no. Stubborn-minded, just like… his mum. Or his Grandad Garry.

Each time, every 30 or so minutes we’d take him to the toilet and dangle him over it so that he wouldn’t fall in (again - ha ha haaaaa!), asking nicely and politely for a poo, but producing a wee, and so we’d keep up with the taunts. And reinforcements.  Or whatever.

But then when my mum was about to go, after having them whilst we were both at work, Oli came running into me, with the removable insert to the potty from the lounge (yes, lounge – they’re *everywhere*) saying “dad – look!”.

Obviously, seeing what you know to be an important piece from a potty-jigsaw being carried by a small child, you have to assume the worst and panic. Like, headless-chicken almost, thinking it’s brimming full of child-wee and probably already sloshed over the sofa and half of the dog. Panic.

I took this off like he had handed me an unexploded grenade or something, only to find its contents were not that liquid and runny, but full of what I can only describe as ‘curly man-poo’, and from that phrase alone, I’m sure you’ll already have a perfect picture sewn neatly into your brain as to what I’ll remember for years to come.

Yes. Indeed. The boy had poo’d and poo’d like a trooper.

And what did he say next?

“Bubble gun!”

I rest my case.