Not Now Later

The Bean Diary

Today was the last day of term and all the reception children came bounding out of class clutching plastic cups from which grew beanstalks of varying heights. This half-term's theme had been growth and one of the projects was for each child to germinate a bean and investigate and observe its growth. Today they were to take home their beanstalks.

After presenting me with a term's worth of junk modeling, a P.E kit bag, bulging school bag and an Easter basket, Louis handed me the cup. I peered inside to see a clump of soggy cotton wool and a moldy looking bean.

'Oh well, not to worry sweetie' I said as another parent marveled at their child's towering plant. Louis burrowed in my handbag for a snack and I balanced the cup on top of the heavily loaded buggy.

Later, back at home I discovered The Bean Diary in his school bag. On the front page was his name underneath which he had drawn a rather optimistic picture of a healthy, tall beanstalk with lush green leaves. The diary made dismal reading. He wrote,

Week One: A bin (accompanied by enthusiastic colourful sketch of bean in cup )

Week Two: No, my bin has not grown (accompanied by pencil drawing of bean in cup)

Week Three: Nothin (no picture)

Week Four: My bin is ded (accompanied by an angry black scribble representation of bean)

Tonight there were a few tears before bedtime as he considered his bean's failure to sprout. I reassured him that within the next few weeks seedlings would be appearing in the trays in the greenhouse and we could observe those instead. 

In the meantime I might just hurl his bean out of the kitchen window, but keep an axe close at hand, just in case.

First Born

I didn't really understand why people got quite so excited when I had my first baby. I got cards and gifts from people I hadn't seen in years, from neighbours of relatives, from parents of friends and from people I'd never met. There were flowers, baby clothes, cuddly toys, cheques, toys, ornaments and rather obscurely, a knitted Scottish bagpipe player from somebody in New Zealand. I was overwhelmed by the generosity of people keen to share in the joy of the birth of our first child.

Maybe they were relieved that, at my advanced years, I had finally produced a baby. Get to your mid to late thirties and people start wondering if there are fertility issues or maybe, God Forbid, you don't want kids. We all know the kind of aspersions cast on women who choose not to have children.

I'm certainly not sure that all the well wishers surfaced to celebrate new life as such. My consequent pregnancy and baby were met with much less fuss and excitement. Rather perhaps, people wanted to celebrate the birth of our first child. They were marking the occasion of us becoming parents. 

My oldest friend gave birth to her first child yesterday, a girl. She texted me late last night to tell me that her baby was fast asleep on her chest. I was elated. While she was probably in a state of amazement, shock and postpartum discomfort, I was skipping around with joy at the news of the safe arrival of her baby. Forget the fact that she was probably feeling like a leaking, hormonal, exhausted mess who was as much bewildered as mesmerised by the little person laying on her. 

Becoming a parent is an irrevocably, life-changing event that gives us unprecedented worries, vulnerabilities and responsibilities, but also gives an unparalleled experience of love. Maybe that's why people go overboard when a first born arrives. 

And yep, I'm joining them in going overboard. I've spent the day grinning ear to ear and frivolously shopping for gifts. I even briefly thought about cooking some hearty casserole or something to drop off sometime next week. Decided against that, considering that the new parents could probably do without a bout of listeria. 

   

Stop me before I start attempting to knit something! 
 
 
 

Potty Prodigy

Tilly is not yet eighteen months, but much to my dismay she is showing signs of wanting to potty train. Let's make it clear straight away that despite the title this is not intended to be a proud-mummy-boast-post about my daughter's toilet skillz. As far as I'm concerned, I would happily wait at least another year until she went nappy-less. 

Louis showed absolutely no interest in potty training until he was just over two and a half and then bingo, everything fell into place, all initiated by him, all very stress free. He had about three accidents, (none of which involved poo) but that was it. 

The potty was still kicking around in the bathroom from last year, and the other week Tilly discovered it, pulled off her nappy and performed. A one-off I thought, but she's been doing the same every night at bath time and now she looks for it at other times in the day. She's even been trawling through Louis' drawers and attempting to put on his Lightening McQueen pants. 

So, is she ready? I know that in the olden days we were all supposedly toilet trained by the time we were one, but things are a bit different nowadays. Of course I give a huge whoop and do a little cheerleader-style 'Go Tilly!' dance every time she delivers, but should I be ditching the nappies and shopping for Peppa Pig knickers? Wonder what Freud would say about pull-ups.