It Worked!

Some things work and some things just don’t.  Absolutely everything looks great on paper and in theory but the practising of it can tell a very different story.  Like taking deep breaths.

Counting to 10 (or 100!) taking a step back and choosing our battles.

For me taking deep breaths does not work.  The opposite in fact.  It’s almost as if by inhaling deeply I am providing more oxygen for my already glowing fire to rage out of control.

Counting to 100 is out of the question.  That just allows them to continue to fight amongst themselves and buys them more get out of doing homework/changing their clothes time.

Sometimes taking a step back works.  I’ve often made a coffee, closed the kitchen door behind me and sat on the decking with Juno for company.  All in the time it would have taken me to count to the aforementioned 100.

I’m still working on choosing my battles. 

But something that does work, worked beautifully for me just this morning.

Lovely Liam seems to be having a bit of difficulty finding himself at the moment.  I jest he waited until he turned four to try the terrible two’s.

There have been a few power struggles since he started back in Montessori after summer break.  He loves it there so I know this is not the problem.

He has begun waking at night again and experimenting with a bit of sleep walking which makes me uneasy as I fear the stairs. 

This morning we were in the café where the boys love to go after the school run.  Ok, where I love to go.  The café where I love to go after the school run.

As you are all well aware, it was bucketing down rain and we were experiencing proper rain gear weather. 

Lovely Liam had a moment just as we were finishing up and firm words were exchanged.   

To no avail.

I was left with him and the ensuing struggle with his rain coat.  There was a bit of a walk back to the car and he would have been soaked through so there was no question of him not putting it on.

The dilemma was, how did I go about this without stoking his fire into a full on screaming fit in the café where I love to go after the school run.

“Can you put your coat on?”

“No!”  Had he been a serpent, he would have been swaying in front of me, exhibiting very strong stay away signals.

 “Look, I’ll help.”

“Don’t want it on!”

Looking back, I was automatically taking in deep breaths and beginning to count.

“Right, you have a choice.”  All the books say to do this; give them an option but make sure they pick the outcome you want them to pick.  Again, on paper it all sounds wonderfully feasible. 

“You don’t have to wear it but you will get soaked out there.  And I am not changing your clothes when we get home.”  I let that one sink in for a moment.  Lovely Liam cannot abide even one single droplet of water on his clothes when he is supposed to be dry.

“The choice is yours:  Wear your coat and keep dry or get wet and sit in uncomfortable clothes all morning.  What’s it to be?”

“Oh-KAY!”  Eyeballs to match the ‘tude.  But he put on the coat. And we walked back to the car.

Where there was a monumental struggle to stop him from splashing through every single large puddle on the way.

But I’d already picked my battle so I let him have his fun.

  

You're Two and a Half

You’re two and a half.  You’re cute beyond words and you have many words.  Lots of them not so choice!  Overnight you went from “mama” to full on proper “mammy.”  Baby talk was gone and you went straight to pronouncing your brothers’ names and pointing out vegetables on your plate.

You’re two and a half.  I have no idea how much you weigh but already you’re tall.  You can reach up and stretch far across the counter to help yourself and get the step for when you cannot.

You’re two and a half.  You tell me when you need a nappy change but resist Big Boy Pants and the potty.

You’re two and a half.  Already you recognise people by their cars in the school yard.

You’re two and a half.  You carry around a pair of knotted tights for your comforter.  You share them with me in the morning and play tug o’war with the dog with them.

You’re two and a half.  You love carrots and chicken, yogurts and apples.  Marshmallows and slices of bread and jam.

You’re two and a half.  You make the same face when you are being affectionate and in a temper. 

You’re two and a half.  You love to swim, play in the dirt and draw.

You’re two and a half.  You have your oldest brother wrapped round your little finger.  Almost. 

You’re two and a half.  You love to wake me up by telling me to “open eyes” and when I do, you shout “boo!”

You’re two and a half.  You think your older brother’s Montessori friend is yours too, and talk about him incessantly.

You’re two and a half.  You refuse to allow your daddy to go to work without a “tiss” and a hug.

You’re two and a half.  You have red hair that tickles my nose when you’re in my arms. 

You’re two and a half.  You are always smiling and laughing.  You have a word for anyone who so much as glances your way but are not too fond of them approaching you first.

You’re two and a half.  You love to watch the video on my phone where the wind catches your empty crisp bag on the beach and you run after it. 

You’re two and a half.  You love tractors.  You prefer savoury to sweet.  You watch Dora and Blues Clues.   You tell me to “stop songin’” when I sing along to the radio.  You steal the cutlery from the drawer.  You eat raspberries like they’re sweets.  You love to flush the toilet.  You know to wait for the green man at traffic lights.  You like to sit in the laundry basket and be carried back to the house. You pronounce marshmallows as “mash-eye-oh’s” and now so do we. 

You’re two and a half.

You’re my heart.

Hands

They hold.  They love.  They caress.

They have the power to hurt.

They feed.  They create.  They bond.

They need someone to hold them sometimes.

They clean.  They write.  They grasp.

They have broken things out of anger.

They tidy.  They drive.  They steer.

They hold bedtime story books.

They organise.  They open.  They clench.

They collate memories in albums and scrapbooks.

They fetch. They carry.  They hurt.

They rest a weary head on occasion.

They juggle.  They soothe.  They calm.

They brush away bad dreams and fears.

They heal. They work.  They beckon.

They push away and immediately pull near.

They foster.  They gather.  They play.

They have strength.  They have weakness. They have experience.

They are familiar.  They are home.  They are security.

They are my hands.

Let Autumn In

I have always felt “melancholy” towards the end of summer. When I was younger, the very first sight of the harvest being taken in would strip me of something.  It used to feel like my soul; like it was the slow death of something.  Something sucking the lifeblood out of nature.

Told you I felt melancholy.     

This year was no different. Kind of.

For the last week or so I have been woken each morning by flocks of swallows dive-bombing the gable end of the house, cherry picking the daddy long legs that cling to the wall.  Stocking up before they make their flight to sunnier climes. 

When I go for a walk in the garden, the diehards that are left swoop and chatter above my head as they dip and dive for tasty flies.

Pretty soon, the skies will be empty.

When it is the very early days of spring I know which trees bud first.  In the same way, when autumn is chomping on the heels of summer, I know exactly where to look for the first red and brown leaves.

I think I’m primed to looking.  I can’t help it.  I look until I find.

From the beginning of August I knew each and every tree on the road with even just a tiny section changing colour. 

Now I don’t have to look.  Every tree has a red, orange or brown section.  Driving under a canopy of trees at a set of traffic lights each morning, I am guaranteed to have a couple confetti down onto the car.

Autumn is in.  Whether I like it or not.

And if I am to be totally honest it’s probably not autumn that bothers me; more the fact that winter follows autumn.

I don’t dig winter.

This year, though, I decided to face facts and let autumn in. 

It helps that, in my opinion, autumn is probably the most beautiful of the seasons and in that respect, my second favourite. 

I also happen to like Halloween more than Christmas and as that falls at the end of October it is another reason to put on my happy face.

Who doesn’t like a good bonfire on a darkening evening; the kids get to go trick or treating and enjoy their mid-term break.

One of my favourite blogs is called myinternalworld.  From the moment I discovered it, I felt she was talking to me.  She always has something to say, something that reaches out and connects with me. 

One of her recent posts, What Autumn Gives has inspired this blog post.

One piece of advice that struck a chord with me was fake it till you make it.  In other words, even if you don’t feel very cheerful, pretend you are.

Last weekend I went outside into the warm autumn sun and knelt down on the damp earth to plant spring bulbs.  Literally planting proof that summer is on its way when they peep above the ground next April.

Just this morning I didn’t feel like it when I woke up, but I decided I was going to bring 

Lovely Liam, Smallest Boy and Juno to the park after the school run.

We collected Gruffalo nuts, also known as acorns, for a nature table and for ourselves to plant as we do every year. 

Juno made two new doggy friends and I was hugged skinny by the boys for “an awesome visit to the park.”

I might have stumbled on the not so secret, secret, folks; keep it simple.  By far the way to go. Forget the Big Stuff. 

Take a moment to enjoy what is happening around you now and most of all, let autumn in.

A&E Round Two

At the time of writing I was waiting for Mister Husband and Shy Boy to come home from A&E.

Nothing serious.  History repeating itself which kept me calm.   I knew what to expect so I was not the least bit surprised when A&E was his last port of call for the day.

Shy Boy woke with a whistle and a wheeze in his chest.  He went to school as normal but on coming home it was clear he needed to see the GP.

Over the course of an hour he had two rounds of a nebulizer plus a dose of steroids.

His oxygen levels improved and I was glad to see his complexion pinking up but he was still “tugging” with his breathing.

So for the second time in as many months, and it has to be said, years, we visited A&E.

When Shy Boy was 7 months old he had a particularly nasty case of bronchiolitis and he needed to be nebulized.

For as long as I can remember he has had a loud, sharp bark, particularly at night.  Not totally unlike a seal.

On occasion I would notice a wheeze in his chest but it never developed.

Monday we were told he most likely had several small asthma episodes over the years but as they were minor, we didn’t notice.

Straight away I remembered the handful of wheezing, coughing and chesty issues he had.  A year ago on summer holidays, he asked for “a go” of Oldest Boy’s puffer to help his chest.

Something worth noting, if a child is to develop asthma, it will be by the time they are two or three years old.  Not older.  And as a result, there is a strong possibility they will grow out of it. 

Within twenty four hours Shy Boy was all but 100% improved.  I kept him home from school, more for my own peace of mind than anything else.  But I also wanted to make sure he knew how to use his puffer correctly.

Then he told me Oldest Boy had come to him in the school yard to see if he was ok and my heart almost did two things; burst with pride for Oldest Boy keeping a concerned eye on his younger brother and broke with the guilt of sending Shy Boy to school when he was feeling so badly.

But there is a lovely upside to the whole episode.

Shy Boy was in great form altogether.

I can quite honestly say I have not seen him so chipper in quite a while.

I think the small bit of attention he received did wonders for his self-worth.  I think he thoroughly enjoyed the one on one time with his daddy the night before.  The half hour journey to the hospital in the van, the treats afterwards and when he got home, I slept in beside him.

He’s great now.  He needs his puffer a lot during the day to help his chest but this is expected to decrease considerably until he may not need it so regularly.  If at all.

This evening, he is coughing a little bit but hasn’t requested his puffer at all.

I think he’s almost cured.  Now all I have to do is purchase a large staple gun somewhere to keep his clothes on.