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!"

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.