Michael (pointing to label on freebie toy given out at McDonald’s): What that?
Me: It’s an M.
Him: No, is zips.
Me: I suppose it does look a bit like a zip.
Him: No, zips, sips, tzips.
Me: Chips.
Him (happily): Yes, tzips.
Michael
Confusion
Michael (combing his hair and looking at himself in the mirror): Michael est belle.
Mr. Waffle: Michael est beau.
Michael (crossly): Michael est BELLE.
Mr. Waffle: Ta soeur est belle, tu es beau.
Michael (furious): MICHAEL EST BELLE.
Mr. Waffle: Michael est belle.
More mornings
Last night the Princess arrived into our bed, most unusually, at 3.00 in the morning and stayed there alternately chatting and poking until 6.00.
This morning we had the usual chivying, hurrying and harrying to get out the door with an extra nugget of exhaustion for three of the main players. The Princess was, perversely, extremely good. I am not sure whether this is as a result of engaging in charades last night when she got to pretend to be each of us in the morning in turn. It was funny. She enjoyed our appreciative laughter but maybe she finally realised that we would like it, if she would just get dressed in the morning.
Anyhow, Mr. Waffle was tired, sick and short-tempered. Michael came out of the kitchen and said crossly “Daddy, a bit mean”. Daniel sat up in his chair. His lower lip wobbled. “What’s wrong darling?” “Daddy fâché, Daniel sad.” “What that noise?” “That’s the sound of Mummy’s heart breaking”. Alternatively, it could have been Mr. Waffle saying “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’ll toughen them up”. At least he’s not feeding them Calgonit; you will be pleased to hear that there appear to be no ill effects to date.
Daniel and Michael – State of Play
Daniel is increasingly speaking in sentences. He finds the formulation “can I?” very useful. Can I look? Can I see it? Can I do it? He’s beginning to get to grips with grammar. Before when he needed help he would say “help you, help you” urgently. Now he says “help you me”. Since Christmas both he and Michael have learned to say “yes” and he has a particularly forceful and sibilant yes.
He loves dental floss and reaches a chubby arm for it the second he gets into the bathroom. He will pull out metres of it, if let. He loves getting his teeth flossed as well. I would like to put this on youtube for my dentist but I cannot. The second I pull out my camera, Daniel runs around to the back and says “can I see?” Remember waiting weeks to get photos and they were all the tops of people’s heads?
He does not seem to need much sleep. This is a matter of considerable regret to everyone; particularly Michael who shares a room with him and needs lots of sleep. Often of an evening, Daniel will be bellowing for room service (‘more milk woman, make it quick’) and Michael will be rocking in his cot moaning with his hands over his head.
Michael seems to be a born leader and Daniel is happy to follow him into whatever mischief he proposes.
A couple of weeks ago, Michael wore an underpants for the first time. He showed it proudly to Daniel and got a hug for his achievement. This was short-lived as he wet himself about 5 minutes later and we were disheartened and decided to hold toilet training for another day.
Michael is, according to the creche, ready to be toilet trained. At home this manifests itself as follows:
Me: Michael before you get into the bath, do you want to do a wee?
Michael: Yes, Michael the pot.
Michael sits on the pot. Nothing happens and I put him in the bath where he, invariably wees straight away.
Michael (gleefully): No the bath Michael, the pot!
Both of them are obsessed with sticks, Daniel particularly so and he likes to pick up a stout stick when we go out for walks and attack innocent saplings with it.
They are both counting, Daniel with rather more success than Michael – getting to 10 more or less (usually less 5 for some reason) and learning colours. This latter is proving more challenging and they constantly point to items and say a colour at random “red!” “no, sweetheart, that’s black”, “yes, black!”
They both spend a lot of time saying, “c’est qui ca?” which means (to them) who or what is that? Mr. Waffle found himself held up for several minutes outside the newsagents identifying Johnny Halliday, Carla Bruni and the like while Daniel pointed persistently at pictures saying the magic words. I was at home with Michael at the time confirming in response to repeated requests that each of the 16 bottles on the windowsill in the kitchen contained milk.
Our paediatrician says that we mustn’t compare; oh dear.Â
Technical Skills
Princess:Â Mummy, Mummy come quickly Michael is playing with electricity.
I arrive in to find Michael has plugged in the television and turned it on. He is sitting mutinously on the couch, clutching the remote and challenging me to remove it from him on pain of hysterics.
Please note that his older sister still does not know how to turn on the television.
Pumpkin terror
For a child who is physically daring, Michael is a scaredy cat. He was terrified of our pumpkin for Halloween and it could only be deployed for about half an hour before we had to abandon the effort in the face of his terror*. He still points to the windowsill and says “Pumpkin, scared” even though it has now been taken away and incinerated by the bin men. It also extends to a fear of pumpkins on the street or the supermarket. He is scared of the wolf music for “Peter and the Wolf”. He is scared of me, if I pretend to tickle him. He quite likes being tickled, it’s when I wave my fingers about in the air that he gets nervous and has to bury his head in my shoulder and tremble.
NaBloPoMo – H is for Heyer, Hustvedt and Hornby.
H is a fruitful letter. Georgette Heyer is my favourite author. I am not exactly proud of this but I am proud to be at an age where I can admit it. I read my first Georgette Heyer on a camping holiday with my family when I was 12 or 13. My mother remembers me pumping up air mattresses with my nose deep in a book. I remember sneaking round to the back of the tent to be left in peace to finish off “The Reluctant Widow”. I can still remember my surprise and shock when the heroine married the hero. “But she hated him” I thought to myself. I had much to learn in the ways of romantic fiction.
I only like Georgette Heyer’s regency romances, not her historical novels or her detective fiction. I have read these books so many times that the plots are horribly familiar, alas. But still, I suspect I shall read them many, many more times, at least there are about 20 of them so I can alternate my pleasures. If you care, my favourite is “Cotillion”.
Siri Hustvedt is probably my next favourite author in an entirely different way. Whereas Georgette Heyer is a comfortable old pair of slippers, Siri Hustvedt is a slinky black dress. Her books are really, really interesting. I come away from them bubbling with excitement, full of new and interesting ways of thinking about things and desperate to talk about them. She writes beautifully. I took “What I Loved” to hospital with me when the Princess was born. I can’t imagine ever finding a Siri Hustvedt book disappointing.
Nick Hornby completes the H trio. I like Nick Hornby’s books. They’re entertaining and readable. I would always buy a new Nick Hornby but I probably wouldn’t be rushing to reread the old ones.
Any H suggestions? Tomorrow we will have, wait for it, i.
*On reading this post, my husband said that he thought only George Bush was allowed to use the word “terror” that often in one phrase.
