WHEN A HEAD-BUTT SAYS I LOVE YOU
This morning at 6.45am, not long after we’d finished reading The Chicken Chickens Go To School and James had polished off his bottle, he sat up in bed, smiled and head-butted me right on the nose. I cried out in equal parts shock and pain. It hurt! The look of surprise and remorse on James’s face quickly gave way to protracted wailing. It was clear in his mind this was not the reaction he expected from me.
The head-butt is a recent phenomenon. Previous efforts have been ill-timed, glancing blows off the side of my leg and once or twice our dog Chili has been on the receiving end of James’ advancing forehead. I’ve put it down to an extension of the rough ‘n tumble play that we were engaging in at the time, accidental collisions as opposed to full on skull warfare. But this morning was different. There had been no roughing or indeed tumbling. We’d just been reading a book. Cuddling in bed, y’know those quiet bonding moments that we parents wish there were more of. But the smile, the force of the blow and the look of shock on his face lead me irrevocably to the conclusion that the head-butt was in fact premeditated; an extension of our bonding session. A short, sharp and painful way for James to say I love you when words, or a hug are simply not enough.
It is intriguing and a little worrying that this brutish act of love almost literally came out of nowhere. He doesn’t watch violent television (Captain Feathersword’s, uh, feather sword is as close as it gets) and we’re fortunate enough to live in a pretty quiet area - no drunken youth scrapping on our street on Saturday evenings - so where exactly does it come from? Testosterone apparently. That most powerful of male hormones, responsible for world wars, professional sport, loud exhaust pipes and films directed by Michael Bay is also responsible for my son choosing to display his love with a bit of noggin floggin’.
Apparently boys go through testosterone growth spurts (really?). While most of us can still remember the acne, quaky voices and acute social paranoia it gave us in our teens, we have less memory of the affect it had on our toddlerdom. Until of course, our own sons do it to us. Granted, the head butt is a little extreme. Such testosterone related breakouts are more commonly manifested in toy throwing, high pitched squealing or wilful destruction of supermarket property. Y’know, classic 2 year old behaviour on the surface but with a distinct thuggish quality.
The solution? Go easy. Laugh. Use time out for the bad stuff like hitting and throwing toys at people and pets. You want to control that sort of of testosterone-fuelled outburst or before you know it you’ll be making excuses for your son directing films like Pearl Harbour or Bad Boys. And I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
THE LONG DRIVE
My family and I recently had the occasion to drive most of the length of the North Island, returning home from visiting the relatives. It was a landmark journey - the first long haul car trip undertaken with James, whose toddlerish exuberance is still peaking.
Toddlers aren’t meant to sit down for extended periods of time - it is hotwired into their developing brains to runjumpbouncecrawlswingplayshout, not sitsitsitsitsit. So the aim of the game was keeping the small person happy and by extension, us. This wasn’t just pure altruism at work either; we wanted to get to the end in one piece. Avoiding minor catastrophes in the back seat was going a long way towards avoiding a major catastrophe on the road. So we thought it out, took all those incremental lessons learnt from short trips and rolled them together into one big ball of diversionary tactics designed to get the most out of the journey for James and us. Here’s what we learnt:
FOOD
Don’t think you can stick to your normal routines and health-conscious food groups. Well you could, but you’d be poking a sleeping lion with a stick by insisting your child has his regular carrot sticks when he’s been kicking the back of your seat for half an hour. Besides you’d be missing a prime opportunity to use food as a means of entertainment and more importantly, bribery. If there is ever an occasion to break out the lollies and chippies, its this. It never ceased to amaze us, the power a jelly dinosaur had to stop James from trying to open the door while we were driving down the desert road. The long drive is a rare enough event to avoid forming bad eating habits so don’t worry that you’re contributing to the obesity epidemic.
TOYS
This might be stating the obvious. Toys are a fail safe right? In the first hour perhaps but the further down the road you get the less interesting the favourite matchbox car becomes. It pays to have a couple of surprise toys up your sleeve. Perhaps even a new one. In our experience something shiny and new holds the attention longer than the trusty digger that has been round the sandpit a few times. Dismantling packaging eats up precious minutes too.
PETS AND OTHER DISTRACTIONS
Wandering minds = wandering hands. The last thing we wanted to have to deal with was our family dog subjected to James’ attention-seeking inventiveness. No dog likes their tail pulled/eyes gouged/lips stretched. Even less so when their customary back seat space is hemmed in by holiday paraphernalia. We cramped our dog’s space with a sense of purpose, creating a handy barricade between child and pet.
Its also worthwhile keeping bag handles, zips, containers etc out of harms way. Its amazing what James can do within the boundaries of a car seat when time and desire permits. We have had tightly sealed suitcases liberated of their contents in the past and no way was it going to happen this time. Not with the aforementioned family pet already feeling severely short changed in the comfort stakes..
MUSIC
Again, stating the obvious perhaps. But if you’ve been resisting stocking the car with The Wiggles, that long drive coming up this summer might be the occasion to make you reconsider. Listening to Hot Potato and Big Red Car on repeat might have edged my wife and I closer to the nut house but it kept James entertained from Taupo to Levin. Hallelujah.
STOPPING
State the obvious part 3 but hey, its strategy and it works. New Zealand highways are peppered with rest stops. Many of them are just passable (a dusty patch of gravel and a rubbish bin overflowing with fast food wrappers and beer bottles), a few are great (views, waterways, toilets). We tried to stop in towns and near playgrounds. Failing that somewhere with a bit of grass to run round on and not too close to the road.
NOT EVER NEVER
Portable DVD players. Sorry, but the decline of western civilisation will in all likelihood be traced back to the day we decided we could watch television while we drove. Not for a minute am I setting myself up as a strong-willed saint who doesn’t resort to the odd screening of Toy Story to give father and son a chance to have a breather, but in the car? We’re lucky that James is still young enough not to be picky about what grabs his attention and this is one habit that we definitely do not want to form. Besides, outside that window lies the New Zealand countryside. 100 Toy Storys can’t compete with that.
My family and I recently had the occasion to drive most of the length of the North Island, returning home from visiting the relatives. It was a landmark journey - the first long haul car trip undertaken with James, whose toddlerish exuberance is still peaking.
Toddlers aren’t meant to sit down for extended periods of time - it is hotwired into their developing brains to runjumpbouncecrawlswingplayshout, not sitsitsitsitsit. So the aim of the game was keeping the small person happy and by extension, us. This wasn’t just pure altruism at work either; we wanted to get to the end in one piece. Avoiding minor catastrophes in the back seat was going a long way towards avoiding a major catastrophe on the road. So we thought it out, took all those incremental lessons learnt from short trips and rolled them together into one big ball of diversionary tactics designed to get the most out of the journey for James and us. Here’s what we learnt:
FOOD
Don’t think you can stick to your normal routines and health-conscious food groups. Well you could, but you’d be poking a sleeping lion with a stick by insisting your child has his regular carrot sticks when he’s been kicking the back of your seat for half an hour. Besides you’d be missing a prime opportunity to use food as a means of entertainment and more importantly, bribery. If there is ever an occasion to break out the lollies and chippies, its this. It never ceased to amaze us, the power a jelly dinosaur had to stop James from trying to open the door while we were driving down the desert road. The long drive is a rare enough event to avoid forming bad eating habits so don’t worry that you’re contributing to the obesity epidemic.
TOYS
This might be stating the obvious. Toys are a fail safe right? In the first hour perhaps but the further down the road you get the less interesting the favourite matchbox car becomes. It pays to have a couple of surprise toys up your sleeve. Perhaps even a new one. In our experience something shiny and new holds the attention longer than the trusty digger that has been round the sandpit a few times. Dismantling packaging eats up precious minutes too.
PETS AND OTHER DISTRACTIONS
Wandering minds = wandering hands. The last thing we wanted to have to deal with was our family dog subjected to James’ attention-seeking inventiveness. No dog likes their tail pulled/eyes gouged/lips stretched. Even less so when their customary back seat space is hemmed in by holiday paraphernalia. We cramped our dog’s space with a sense of purpose, creating a handy barricade between child and pet.
Its also worthwhile keeping bag handles, zips, containers etc out of harms way. Its amazing what James can do within the boundaries of a car seat when time and desire permits. We have had tightly sealed suitcases liberated of their contents in the past and no way was it going to happen this time. Not with the aforementioned family pet already feeling severely short changed in the comfort stakes..
MUSIC
Again, stating the obvious perhaps. But if you’ve been resisting stocking the car with The Wiggles, that long drive coming up this summer might be the occasion to make you reconsider. Listening to Hot Potato and Big Red Car on repeat might have edged my wife and I closer to the nut house but it kept James entertained from Taupo to Levin. Hallelujah.
STOPPING
State the obvious part 3 but hey, its strategy and it works. New Zealand highways are peppered with rest stops. Many of them are just passable (a dusty patch of gravel and a rubbish bin overflowing with fast food wrappers and beer bottles), a few are great (views, waterways, toilets). We tried to stop in towns and near playgrounds. Failing that somewhere with a bit of grass to run round on and not too close to the road.
NOT EVER NEVER
Portable DVD players. Sorry, but the decline of western civilisation will in all likelihood be traced back to the day we decided we could watch television while we drove. Not for a minute am I setting myself up as a strong-willed saint who doesn’t resort to the odd screening of Toy Story to give father and son a chance to have a breather, but in the car? We’re lucky that James is still young enough not to be picky about what grabs his attention and this is one habit that we definitely do not want to form. Besides, outside that window lies the New Zealand countryside. 100 Toy Storys can’t compete with that.
Monday, October 08, 2007
BALLOONS
You can read all the books, take the advice, put in the hours, be the parent of the year and out of the blue something comes along to challenge everything you think you know about your child and how to handle their temperament. Toddler mood swings, assertions of independence, discovery of the outside world - all that stuff can be handled, it has a certain logic to it. For my 2 and a half year old son James, logic gets it coat and strides off into the night however, where balloons are concerned. Yes, balloons. The merest sight of a fully blown balloon reduces James to heaving sobs, streaming snot and tearful cries of “I want to go home!” He is inconsolable. Soothing whispers, bribery, toughing it out - nothing works.
It started innocently enough at a birthday party we attended around a year ago. Much to my horror a clown had been arranged. I’ll come out and say that I’m not a great fan of clowns. The sight of a middle aged man with a three day beard and a polka dot shirt pulling plastic flowers out of his comedy trousers is not the kind of humour I think children should be subjected to. You don’t see The Wiggles resorting to clown tricks to get the laughs. Bob The Builder doesn’t have a clown friend. Anyway, back to the birthday party clown. James was quite enjoying the display of water-squirting flowers and disappearing handkerchiefs until the clown started making balloon animals. At the sound of the balloons squeaking and rubbing together poor James lost it completely. No sooner had his face creased in worry, he was at Mach 10 crying and trying to bury his face in my armpit. We had to leave. At the time I put it down to a combination of clown antics and balloon-noise. Incident forgotten.
Then at James’ own 2nd birthday earlier this year we blew up a large number of balloons as decorations, as you do. And they were no problem at all until late in the afternoon when one popped. And then another. Next thing James is buried in my shoulder again, in his bedroom refusing to take part in his own celebrations. He’s not normally prone to extravagant waterworks so something really must’ve got to him. Those blasted balloons. Mental notepad out, keep James and balloons away from each other.
Then last Friday, the concrete realisation that for now at least, James and balloons are never going to be friends. I took James to a buggy walk at the Botanic Gardens. Where, would you know it, the organisers were handing out balloons to all the children. Not a party atmosphere, no clowns, only wall to wall buggies and a blustery spring gardens. I politely declined and try to hurry James along but it was too late. What started out as a whimper quickly became long drawn out wailing. The poor wee fella! Needless to say the only buggy walking we did was straight back to the car.
I feel for James, he probably can’t quite understand why he gets so wound up either. A part of me feels helpless and a little useless too. But I try use this as a reminder that my little guy’s experiences and emotions (and I how I deal with them) can’t be neatly compartmentalized. Sometimes there is no easy answer. I guess its all I can do just to be here for him when the balloons start floating his way and to count my blessings that its only balloons and not say, toilets or parked cars.
You can read all the books, take the advice, put in the hours, be the parent of the year and out of the blue something comes along to challenge everything you think you know about your child and how to handle their temperament. Toddler mood swings, assertions of independence, discovery of the outside world - all that stuff can be handled, it has a certain logic to it. For my 2 and a half year old son James, logic gets it coat and strides off into the night however, where balloons are concerned. Yes, balloons. The merest sight of a fully blown balloon reduces James to heaving sobs, streaming snot and tearful cries of “I want to go home!” He is inconsolable. Soothing whispers, bribery, toughing it out - nothing works.
It started innocently enough at a birthday party we attended around a year ago. Much to my horror a clown had been arranged. I’ll come out and say that I’m not a great fan of clowns. The sight of a middle aged man with a three day beard and a polka dot shirt pulling plastic flowers out of his comedy trousers is not the kind of humour I think children should be subjected to. You don’t see The Wiggles resorting to clown tricks to get the laughs. Bob The Builder doesn’t have a clown friend. Anyway, back to the birthday party clown. James was quite enjoying the display of water-squirting flowers and disappearing handkerchiefs until the clown started making balloon animals. At the sound of the balloons squeaking and rubbing together poor James lost it completely. No sooner had his face creased in worry, he was at Mach 10 crying and trying to bury his face in my armpit. We had to leave. At the time I put it down to a combination of clown antics and balloon-noise. Incident forgotten.
Then at James’ own 2nd birthday earlier this year we blew up a large number of balloons as decorations, as you do. And they were no problem at all until late in the afternoon when one popped. And then another. Next thing James is buried in my shoulder again, in his bedroom refusing to take part in his own celebrations. He’s not normally prone to extravagant waterworks so something really must’ve got to him. Those blasted balloons. Mental notepad out, keep James and balloons away from each other.
Then last Friday, the concrete realisation that for now at least, James and balloons are never going to be friends. I took James to a buggy walk at the Botanic Gardens. Where, would you know it, the organisers were handing out balloons to all the children. Not a party atmosphere, no clowns, only wall to wall buggies and a blustery spring gardens. I politely declined and try to hurry James along but it was too late. What started out as a whimper quickly became long drawn out wailing. The poor wee fella! Needless to say the only buggy walking we did was straight back to the car.
I feel for James, he probably can’t quite understand why he gets so wound up either. A part of me feels helpless and a little useless too. But I try use this as a reminder that my little guy’s experiences and emotions (and I how I deal with them) can’t be neatly compartmentalized. Sometimes there is no easy answer. I guess its all I can do just to be here for him when the balloons start floating his way and to count my blessings that its only balloons and not say, toilets or parked cars.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
WHO HAS HIDDEN THE EMOTIONAL REMOTE CONTROL?
There is absolutely no question that James has my attention. We do, after all, spend all day every day together and I am never far away if not right there with him. He is not unwell; its true what they say, you can tell when they are crying for real and this is most definitely not real crying. He is certainly not bored; we lead a pretty active life, go to playgroup, music group, play outside, go to parks, play with toys, take train rides. Nor is he tired; sleeps in the afternoon, goes to bed at 7pm with no dramas and sleeps like a champion. James is in every sense a well adjusted, happy, loved, two and half year old boy.
So why does this happen?
Time: 5.40am. James has woken up with the first light and trundles sleepily down the corridor to mummy and daddy's bedroom where, like every morning, he groggily thuds on the door.
JAMES: Daddy... open the door.
ME: (very sleepily, I have been awake all of 1 minute) Okay James, hang on little buddy.
(I get out of bed, open to the door to the bedroom and hug James. Then I go to open the cupboard to get my dressing gown.)
JAMES: Noooo! Don't wear your dressing gown daddy!
ME: James, its cold buddy, I need to wear my dressing gown so I can make a cup of tea and get your bottle.
JAMES: Nooo! I don't want a bottle.
ME: James, let go of my leg mate, I need to put my dressing gown on.
JAMES: (crying) I want a bottle!
ME: (gently) Okay buddy, I'll go and get your bottle. You wait here.
JAMES: Noooooo! Daddy stay here, don't shut the door.
ME: (still gently) You can come with me and help me get the bottle mate.
JAMES: (crying even harder) I don't waaaaaant my bottle!!
ME: Okay James, stay here while I go and make a cup of tea.
JAMES: (like a tap, the crying has topped and this next sentence is delivered very jauntily) Daddy can get my diggers!
(Note, James' diggers are a group of around a dozen toy diggers, dumptrucks etc. He takes them everywhere round the house. In the morning they usually make the journey from his bedroom and end up on my bedside table. See photo for proof).
ME: (slightly bemused by the suddden about turn) Sure mate, I just need to have a pee first and make a cup of tea.
JAMES: (suddenly and shockingly crying harder than ever) Nooooooo! I want daddy to get my diggers!
(James follows me, crying, to the toilet where he pulls at my dressing gown with surprising strength causing me to...well lets say I mopped later that morning and washed the dressing gown)
JAMES: (still crying) Daddy's not allowed to go wees! I want my bottle!
ME: Shhhhhh, its okay little buddy I'm going to get your bottle and your diggers and bring them to the bedroom. You watch.
(James pads off down the hallway into our bedroom and I follow soon after with the diggers. I then carefully retreat to the kitchen where I prepare the beverages and return to the bedroom. I find James in bed, sucking his fingers with several books laid out in front of him. He looks up at me smiling.)
JAMES: (quietly, contentedly) You can read me a book daddy!
Wow. What a trip and it is not even 6am. I am in constant awe of this behaviour. It doesn't upset me, far from it. I am fascinated by the randomness, the thought processes that James cycles through with such rapidity. I don't feel helpless, just pure, mountain spring awe. It is, I have decided, like an emotional remote control that someone has gone and sat on thus pressing all the buttons at once. Chaos reigns; the volume goes uuuuuP...and goes dooooown. The pictures flash randomly, its impossible to keep up...and then, just as suddenly as all the buttons are squeezed the remote is discovered only for the holder to casually say, "oh, I've been sitting on it all along. Silly me. Lets watch...the happy channel!"
There is absolutely no question that James has my attention. We do, after all, spend all day every day together and I am never far away if not right there with him. He is not unwell; its true what they say, you can tell when they are crying for real and this is most definitely not real crying. He is certainly not bored; we lead a pretty active life, go to playgroup, music group, play outside, go to parks, play with toys, take train rides. Nor is he tired; sleeps in the afternoon, goes to bed at 7pm with no dramas and sleeps like a champion. James is in every sense a well adjusted, happy, loved, two and half year old boy.
So why does this happen?
Time: 5.40am. James has woken up with the first light and trundles sleepily down the corridor to mummy and daddy's bedroom where, like every morning, he groggily thuds on the door.
JAMES: Daddy... open the door.
ME: (very sleepily, I have been awake all of 1 minute) Okay James, hang on little buddy.
(I get out of bed, open to the door to the bedroom and hug James. Then I go to open the cupboard to get my dressing gown.)
JAMES: Noooo! Don't wear your dressing gown daddy!
ME: James, its cold buddy, I need to wear my dressing gown so I can make a cup of tea and get your bottle.
JAMES: Nooo! I don't want a bottle.
ME: James, let go of my leg mate, I need to put my dressing gown on.
JAMES: (crying) I want a bottle!
ME: (gently) Okay buddy, I'll go and get your bottle. You wait here.
JAMES: Noooooo! Daddy stay here, don't shut the door.
ME: (still gently) You can come with me and help me get the bottle mate.
JAMES: (crying even harder) I don't waaaaaant my bottle!!
ME: Okay James, stay here while I go and make a cup of tea.
JAMES: (like a tap, the crying has topped and this next sentence is delivered very jauntily) Daddy can get my diggers!
(Note, James' diggers are a group of around a dozen toy diggers, dumptrucks etc. He takes them everywhere round the house. In the morning they usually make the journey from his bedroom and end up on my bedside table. See photo for proof).
ME: (slightly bemused by the suddden about turn) Sure mate, I just need to have a pee first and make a cup of tea.
JAMES: (suddenly and shockingly crying harder than ever) Nooooooo! I want daddy to get my diggers!
(James follows me, crying, to the toilet where he pulls at my dressing gown with surprising strength causing me to...well lets say I mopped later that morning and washed the dressing gown)
JAMES: (still crying) Daddy's not allowed to go wees! I want my bottle!
ME: Shhhhhh, its okay little buddy I'm going to get your bottle and your diggers and bring them to the bedroom. You watch.
(James pads off down the hallway into our bedroom and I follow soon after with the diggers. I then carefully retreat to the kitchen where I prepare the beverages and return to the bedroom. I find James in bed, sucking his fingers with several books laid out in front of him. He looks up at me smiling.)
JAMES: (quietly, contentedly) You can read me a book daddy!
Wow. What a trip and it is not even 6am. I am in constant awe of this behaviour. It doesn't upset me, far from it. I am fascinated by the randomness, the thought processes that James cycles through with such rapidity. I don't feel helpless, just pure, mountain spring awe. It is, I have decided, like an emotional remote control that someone has gone and sat on thus pressing all the buttons at once. Chaos reigns; the volume goes uuuuuP...and goes dooooown. The pictures flash randomly, its impossible to keep up...and then, just as suddenly as all the buttons are squeezed the remote is discovered only for the holder to casually say, "oh, I've been sitting on it all along. Silly me. Lets watch...the happy channel!"
Monday, September 10, 2007
THE MOWER FIXATION
James has many fun-triggers - people, activities, toys, filmed entertainment, food - that get him excited. Some of these things are fleeting, mere flings, flights of fancy in his busy life. Some things last longer, reach peaks of enjoyment and then taper away. And some things are hot wired into his remarkable little brain to such an extent that he exhibits Steve Austin-like powers of perception where they are concerned. There is no tapering, no fling, these are the love stories of his toddlerdom.
One such love affair is with the humble lawn mower. The gravitational pull of this mild-mannered grass cutting implement is at its most powerful around my trusty Masport. When I'm mowing the lawn nothing else on earth exists except the dribble down the front of his jumper as he watches me slack jawed through the window.
But the real power of this fixation lies in its unexpected reveal. In the car, driving to Porirua, suddenly, "Dad! That tractor is mowing the lawn!" He can barely see over the window ledge but sure enough in the distance, through some bushes, beyond a cluster of school buildings is a speck of a tractor with a mower attachment. There is no question of hearing it; the radio is on. But somehow with a nearly 360 degree view of the passing landscape, passing cars, pedestrians, buildings, James is able to pick out the ant-sized John Deere trimming the football field. If the Yanks heard of this I'm sure they'd use him to find Bin Laden. The trick would be getting him to mow the lawn at Al Quaeda HQ.
James has many fun-triggers - people, activities, toys, filmed entertainment, food - that get him excited. Some of these things are fleeting, mere flings, flights of fancy in his busy life. Some things last longer, reach peaks of enjoyment and then taper away. And some things are hot wired into his remarkable little brain to such an extent that he exhibits Steve Austin-like powers of perception where they are concerned. There is no tapering, no fling, these are the love stories of his toddlerdom.
One such love affair is with the humble lawn mower. The gravitational pull of this mild-mannered grass cutting implement is at its most powerful around my trusty Masport. When I'm mowing the lawn nothing else on earth exists except the dribble down the front of his jumper as he watches me slack jawed through the window.
But the real power of this fixation lies in its unexpected reveal. In the car, driving to Porirua, suddenly, "Dad! That tractor is mowing the lawn!" He can barely see over the window ledge but sure enough in the distance, through some bushes, beyond a cluster of school buildings is a speck of a tractor with a mower attachment. There is no question of hearing it; the radio is on. But somehow with a nearly 360 degree view of the passing landscape, passing cars, pedestrians, buildings, James is able to pick out the ant-sized John Deere trimming the football field. If the Yanks heard of this I'm sure they'd use him to find Bin Laden. The trick would be getting him to mow the lawn at Al Quaeda HQ.
Monday, August 27, 2007
THE ALLURE OF JOHNSONVILLE
Cap in hand I can honestly say that I have tried to like Johnsonville. I even looked at a couple of places to rent there. I was adamant that the health and wellbeing of James and Camille coupled with handy amenities took precedent over say, the vast hills of gorse that encircle the concrete slab of a shopping district which is only an exhaust fume's-breath from the motorway. No we didn't rent there. If we had I fear I would be undertaking the modern day equivalent of shooting myself in the leg to avoid front line duty in wartime.
Up until today trips to Johnsonville have been limited to supermarket expeditions. They've got a pretty good 24/7 Woolworth's and an average to crap Countdown. But I'll shop wherever the nappies are cheapest and this means, occasionally, Johnsonville. But today was different. No shopping list, only James, a train ride and me needing to check out the Johnsonville pool for pre-school swimming lessons.
To be fair the pool is okay - nothing too flash but I'll reserve judgement till we actually go and swim there. My attempts to get information on a pre-school swimming program were however unsuccessful. There was no written information at hand and after a flimsy excuse about new programs coming up and therefore a re-editing of material I was given a phone number to ring. Because the pool, the pool doesn't organise their own swimming lessons. When I enquired as to why, an officious looking man in a stiff shirt appeared and asked if 'everything was okay?'. His tone of voice suggested he was dealing with a drunkard trying to get into a bar as opposed to a father and son enquiring abbout paying to use the pool. I walked out of the door with the theme music from Curb Your Enthusiasm ringing in my ears and James tugging at my lapel. Like I said, judgement is reserved.
Squinting at the sun reflecting off the thousands of gorse flowers ringing Johnsonville like a crown of, er thorns I thought it might be nice to find a wee park for James to run around in. And here's where things come a bit unstuck; the only playground we could find existed inside the gargantuan McDonalds, the proud centrepoint of J'ville. As a matter of fact it was a big ask finding a blade of grass - every inch of land not built on has been lovingly laid over with robust, grey, concrete. Not to be outdone we decided to check out some roadworks. Diggers and dumptrucks are just about the most entertaining sight for young James and we were treated to a solid 4 minutes of dumptruck 'n bulldozer action before...all the workmen went to lunch. Bugger. Oh I nearly forgot, on the way to the roadworks we found another playground too, this one much smaller and located in the Burger King.
So. We've walked the length of the shopping district - correction, I've walked, James has sat atop my shoulders - and found not one but two playgrounds, no grass and some heavy machinery lying idle. Perhaps a coffee. Rest the legs and the shoulders, treat James to a fluffy and a marshmallow. And here is where the nightmare turns into a fully fledged, brutal horror. THERE ARE NO CAFES IN JOHNSONVILLE. Yes I know there is a Starbucks and do you honestly think that counts? Not in bloody Wellington it doesn't. In fact I don't think I've ever seen fewer 'bucks per head of population than down here. Also not counting are the three 'bars and cafes' I came across. Here's a hint as to why; all three had proudly flapping tarpaulins advertising cheap beer should you wish to start drinking before midday.
Thanks Johnsonville, I'll be back to see you when your nappies are on special.
Cap in hand I can honestly say that I have tried to like Johnsonville. I even looked at a couple of places to rent there. I was adamant that the health and wellbeing of James and Camille coupled with handy amenities took precedent over say, the vast hills of gorse that encircle the concrete slab of a shopping district which is only an exhaust fume's-breath from the motorway. No we didn't rent there. If we had I fear I would be undertaking the modern day equivalent of shooting myself in the leg to avoid front line duty in wartime.
Up until today trips to Johnsonville have been limited to supermarket expeditions. They've got a pretty good 24/7 Woolworth's and an average to crap Countdown. But I'll shop wherever the nappies are cheapest and this means, occasionally, Johnsonville. But today was different. No shopping list, only James, a train ride and me needing to check out the Johnsonville pool for pre-school swimming lessons.
To be fair the pool is okay - nothing too flash but I'll reserve judgement till we actually go and swim there. My attempts to get information on a pre-school swimming program were however unsuccessful. There was no written information at hand and after a flimsy excuse about new programs coming up and therefore a re-editing of material I was given a phone number to ring. Because the pool, the pool doesn't organise their own swimming lessons. When I enquired as to why, an officious looking man in a stiff shirt appeared and asked if 'everything was okay?'. His tone of voice suggested he was dealing with a drunkard trying to get into a bar as opposed to a father and son enquiring abbout paying to use the pool. I walked out of the door with the theme music from Curb Your Enthusiasm ringing in my ears and James tugging at my lapel. Like I said, judgement is reserved.
Squinting at the sun reflecting off the thousands of gorse flowers ringing Johnsonville like a crown of, er thorns I thought it might be nice to find a wee park for James to run around in. And here's where things come a bit unstuck; the only playground we could find existed inside the gargantuan McDonalds, the proud centrepoint of J'ville. As a matter of fact it was a big ask finding a blade of grass - every inch of land not built on has been lovingly laid over with robust, grey, concrete. Not to be outdone we decided to check out some roadworks. Diggers and dumptrucks are just about the most entertaining sight for young James and we were treated to a solid 4 minutes of dumptruck 'n bulldozer action before...all the workmen went to lunch. Bugger. Oh I nearly forgot, on the way to the roadworks we found another playground too, this one much smaller and located in the Burger King.
So. We've walked the length of the shopping district - correction, I've walked, James has sat atop my shoulders - and found not one but two playgrounds, no grass and some heavy machinery lying idle. Perhaps a coffee. Rest the legs and the shoulders, treat James to a fluffy and a marshmallow. And here is where the nightmare turns into a fully fledged, brutal horror. THERE ARE NO CAFES IN JOHNSONVILLE. Yes I know there is a Starbucks and do you honestly think that counts? Not in bloody Wellington it doesn't. In fact I don't think I've ever seen fewer 'bucks per head of population than down here. Also not counting are the three 'bars and cafes' I came across. Here's a hint as to why; all three had proudly flapping tarpaulins advertising cheap beer should you wish to start drinking before midday.
Thanks Johnsonville, I'll be back to see you when your nappies are on special.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The poor wee fella is full of cold tonight. He's coughing gently, persistently and the lack of breath is making his cheeks flushed, sticky with his tears. Its a very well known cliche, most recently uttered by Tony Soprano (as I recall it), that every parent would surely take their children's pain upon themselves rather than see them suffer. The fact that even Tony Soprano said it speak volumes about the power of the emotion - this is the captain of the New Jersey mafia talking here!
If I was pressed into saying what part of this job I find toughest, I'd say it is having to stay inside with a sick boy when the sun is hammering down and all James wants to do is anything that takes him outside. James LOVES being outside. Anything that involves (in his words) "getting the digger and digging a big hole and putting it in the dumptruck and breaking it up into little pieces whoooosh". The best place to do this is of course outside where he has access to spades, buckets and most importantly, soil.
And if its not gardening its the playground. The wee chap is remarkably proficient on the flying fox, the swings or the ladders - anything that gets him high off the ground. And speaking of playgrounds we have just this week discovered Jungle-Rama, a vast new rave coloured, largely inflated playground in Newtown. Its utterly brilliant and will happily keep James entertained at least till he's married.
But we haven't done any of that today. Couldn't even do the normal wet weather save. So when you can't take the wee chappie outside and the sun's shining and the dog is sulking and the boy is clinging - help! What do you do? You reach for the DVD remote folks and you call up Winnie The Pooh, and Tractor Tom and Thomas and Bananas Gorilla. I'm not proud of it... but it worked goddamit, it worked.
If I was pressed into saying what part of this job I find toughest, I'd say it is having to stay inside with a sick boy when the sun is hammering down and all James wants to do is anything that takes him outside. James LOVES being outside. Anything that involves (in his words) "getting the digger and digging a big hole and putting it in the dumptruck and breaking it up into little pieces whoooosh". The best place to do this is of course outside where he has access to spades, buckets and most importantly, soil.
And if its not gardening its the playground. The wee chap is remarkably proficient on the flying fox, the swings or the ladders - anything that gets him high off the ground. And speaking of playgrounds we have just this week discovered Jungle-Rama, a vast new rave coloured, largely inflated playground in Newtown. Its utterly brilliant and will happily keep James entertained at least till he's married.But we haven't done any of that today. Couldn't even do the normal wet weather save. So when you can't take the wee chappie outside and the sun's shining and the dog is sulking and the boy is clinging - help! What do you do? You reach for the DVD remote folks and you call up Winnie The Pooh, and Tractor Tom and Thomas and Bananas Gorilla. I'm not proud of it... but it worked goddamit, it worked.
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