Fire, Fire!

The boys and I spent the morning at the Firefighter Championships, climbing on old fire engines, watching fire demos and idolising the firemen that were all around us. I’m not sure what it is about firemen that gets little boys so excited, but the boys loved it, Declan has been telling me all of his plans to grow up and be a fireman, just like his “Gar gar”, Dan’s dad.

Four years and five days ago I sat on this same fire engine on my way to our wedding, I think I looked probably about as nervous as Conman looks up there, there aren’t seatbelts on that thing, and I had visions of falling off it onto the road, just my legs, uncomfortable shoes and knickers sticking up from a pile of tulle and satin.

We watched a demo of what happens when you throw water onto an oil fire – just 100ml of water caused this huge explosion.

Back when I was working in my Dad’s restaurant, one of the staff had a brain snap and poured a saucepan of water into the oil of the deep fat fryer, it wasn’t hot enough to explode (the oil in the picture was actually on fire) but it caused the hot oil to geezer right up to the ceiling. Scary as hell.

Unfortunately, that’s the end of any fun for the next fourty eight hours. This weekend has been dubbed, “The Weekend Of Doom”, I am spending it giving the house a thorough clean, and Dan is spending it doing his taxes, I might even make the kids eat vegetables this weekend just so they don’t feel left out.

Babies

Earlier this week as I tucked Declan into bed he looked intently at me and asked:

“Mummy, are you going to have a baby?”

I floundered, my brain did the mental equivalent of rolling over and playing dead whilst I racked my brain for an appropriate answer that he would understand and at the same time wouldn’t cause me to become an emotional wreck.

“Not anytime soon buddy”

“You need to have a baby with Declan!”

“That’s not how it works, Mummies only have babies with Daddies”

“Nope… Daddy is just far too tired for that.”

O.o

——————-

Babies will be soon, August the 19th marks the magical 6 month mark that I was given to wait until I even started trying to get knocked up. I still have to do some tests, and personally I don’t really see it actually happening any time soon as my cycle is completely shot to shit still. I’ve been playing crosshair bingo on fertility friend… you know the one, where you delete various temperatures until they tell you that you’ve ovulated. That’s probably the less scientific way to “take charge” of my fertility, but it makes me feel better and slightly less broken when a stupid website tells me that my uterus isn’t completely b0rked.

I started packing away the size one and size three clothes yesterday. Dan delights in each and every milestone, whereas I just want to squish them up and make little bonsai babies that I can hang on to. How dare they grow up without my permission.

Snips And Snails…

and puppy dog tails.

That’s what my little home is made of.

Connor is fast on his way to two years old, and still has yet to talk or walk. He tries, he makes plenty of progress, and then stops and regresses back to where he was.

Declan’s psych says not to worry about it at all, that his understanding of what we say to him is far too advanced for anything to be an issue.

I am inclined to agree. He has everyone of us wrapped around his finger, knowing that he can get the entire room looking and cheering at him if he takes a couple of steps unsupported, or being able to communicate without any kind of effort, just a series of nods, head shakes and points.

In my continuing attempt to cut down on the amount of unknowns in Declan’s diet I made homemade cordial last night, I slaved over a hot stove, boiled rasberries and sugar syrup down and made a beautiful 100% natural bright red drink for him to enjoy.

I gave it to him tonight, I told him it was “Mummy’s Special Cordial” and how it was much better for him than the usual stuff. He took an enthusiastic swig, pulled a face, handed me the cup back and suggested I poured it down the sink.

It’s a good job I love them.

Grotty feet and all.

You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet

For the first couple of years of Declan’s life I was convinced that it would all get easier as time went on. This whole parenting shebang couldn’t be this hard forever, right?

It didn’t.

In some ways it’s almost getting harder, as he grows I have more expectations of him and I’m more aware as each week passes how he’s moving further away from “normal”. As the months and years go by, certain problems get solved, only for new ones to pop up in their place. Just when I think he’s finally hit the ceiling and it can’t get any more difficult, he turns it up to eleven and shows me that, in fact, it can.

During my pregnancy with him this is not how I saw my future, parenting shouldn’t be patting yourself on the back because you went an entire 24 hours without looking up terms and conditions on eBay to work out whether your three year old counts as livestock, or whether you should just go the local route with a classified ad.

My niece asked about some of his behaviour and why he acts how he does. I explained that Declan just thinks a little bit differently to other kids, he has a harder time controlling himself, and doesn’t process things in the same way that they do.

“Yeah… but why?”

I wish I knew.

My Kid Is “That Kid”

I’m sure you know the one.

Declan was the toddler who would put a bucket on his head and spend half an hour running into walls at high speeds… just to see what would happen.

I’m “that mother”.

The one that let her child run into the wall repeatedly, probably bashing out any last bit of sense he had remaining. He’ll either get bored or knock himself out, right? But either of those options were far better than telling him that it isn’t wise to attempt to crack your skull open, even the mere suggestion of another activity will resort in a meltdown of Chernobyl size proportions.

When people ask me about Connor I tell them about his sweet nature, his awesome non-verbal communication skills and how much he loves to be cuddled.

When they ask about Declan, I generally use the phrase “He came out screaming, and hasn’t stopped since”.

Declan was a handful from day one, he was demanding, he was argumentative and he was possibly the most stubborn newborn you could ever imagine, he was able to argue with me before he could even support the weight of his own head.

Health wise he’s kept us on our toes, he was sick with severe reflux in his first year, started having febrile convulsions eleven months ago. Then on top of that we have all of his little “issues”, he can’t cope with day to day changes, his curiosity in how things work causes him to be incredibly destructive, he generally can’t focus on things for more than a few minutes and his independent streak leads to him getting in trouble far more than he should.

We plan every day around how Declan will react to what’s happening. I don’t generally allow anyone else to look after him, just because I know how much work it is, I don’t want them to have to experience that. It’s reached the point where I dread picking him up from a day at preschool. Once or twice a month we’ll hear how good he’s been, once or twice a week we’ll hear how feral he’s been, the rest of the time the report is “he’s been Declan”.

That’s sometimes the only way to put it. He’s been Declan.

At the beginning of February we started having fortnightly visits to a child psychologist, with the thoughts of diagnosing him (if there is anything to diagnose other than Feral Child Syndrome) and to teach Dan and I some coping techniques to make our life easier. I think I expected a magical cure. It’s not that I wanted to stop him being Declan, I just wanted our day to day life to go smoother, for my interactions with him not to be so constantly negative, and to understand how to parent him in the way he needs, to understand why he is how he is.

I just feel like we sit around and talk. I know that’s part of the diagnostic process, but I’m so frustrated with being “that mum” with “that child”, I’m fed up on the constant battles over every little thing and I would really like to drive to preschool without dreading what the day’s report will be like. I love my spirited little boy, but at the same time, I would just really like a break from it all. I know parenting isn’t meant to be easy, but it isn’t meant to be this hard either, I want that magical fix that will make everything flow more smoothly, I don’t want to be angry at my son all day and I’m getting so frustrated in waiting that to happen.

On the upside, Dan and I have worked out that with his persistence, temperament and intelligence, Declan is likely to either be a millionaire entrepreneur, or a crime lord, either way, we’ll be looked after in our old age.

Today’s post was brought to you by severe impatience and the fact that my bloody son decided to cut several holes into his tshirt with a pair of scissors today whilst at preschool.

Good Days

When someone asks me how I’m doing I’ll normally answer something along the line of “I have good days and bad days”, even if I feel fine at that particular moment, I’m very aware that if I say I’m fine then people will start to think I’m in denial and not coping. Then if I say I’m not fine then they’ll think I’m having a breakdown and, again, not coping. I have visions of them carting me off to the nuthouse if I say the wrong thing and so I try to remain neutral in what I say to most people. It’s true that I have good days and bad, most of the time I just don’t feel like going into details about which side of the scale I fall on at that particular time.

Maybe I just over think things.

Today was one of the good days. Both of the kids are sick so the house remained fairly calm, Connor slept most of the day, and Declan was content to read and play with his cars instead of spending the day bouncing off the walls.

It felt normal, and normal is all I need right now to consider it a good day

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

[picture from our frame painting yesterday, see the post on CraftBlog]

Anyone that follows me on twitter knows that we have on going issues with Declan going to sleep, if it takes less than an hour between putting him into bed and him falling asleep then I consider it an achievement, but it can sometimes go as long as two, sometimes even three hours. He’ll ask for drinks, he’ll ask to go to the toilet, he’ll even poo in his nappy so he can get up and get his bum changed.

So when he came running into the lounge at about 8pm tonight, it was nothing unusual, nor was it unusual for him to announce the moment he stepped through the doorway, “Mummy, Daddy, I just pooped!“.

Was wasn’t expected was the follow up to that.

“…and it was BEAUTIFUL!!”

My kid takes pride in everything he does.

Including bowel movements apparently.

Smile, Though Your Heart Is Breaking

If I come out of the other side of this learning one thing, it’s to truly appreciate what I do have, to enjoy the moments that make me smile and keep me going each day.

Like the love Dan has for the boys and myself.

Connor’s refusal to ever grow up.

Completed projects.

And interruptions

Making The T-Shirt Fit The Crime

It all started so innocently. A bit of afternoon painting to fill up the time in between coming home from preschool and eating dinner. Sounds great right? Whatever could go wrong.

Allow me to present a photo essay of what could go wrong:

Declan likes to consider himself a post-modern impressionist.

He decided he needed a different application method.

I should probably make a crappy joke about being caught red handed here.

Right about this point I made the silly mistake of turning around to get Connor some milk. I turned back to see my eldest has moved on from paper and is now turning himself into an installation piece, smearing paint over his face and arms. Cue a quick dash to the bath with strict instructions not to touch anything.

Despite his protests I eventually convinced him it was going to take a little more than washing his hands to get rid of all the paint.

I’m not sure what’s worse about this photo, the state of his face or just how shaggy his hair is getting. The kid looks like he’s waiting for Fagin to contact him about an opening in the petty crime career path.

Lesson learned – never turn your back on a three year old when he’s armed with poster paint.

Little Conman was less that impressed with all the chaos.

Welcoming The Early Stages Of Insanity

Yesterday I sat down and sorted a pack of sprinkles into colours. It didn’t occur to me until Dan asked what the hell I was doing that this might be a little strange, I just didn’t want the decorations on my cupcakes to clash.

The day that I’d planned to make Declan’s cupcakes for his preschool birthday celebration was the same day my waters broke and I went into hospital, and then when I had Robyn on his actual birthday it obviously put something of a spanner in the works. As such Declan’s third birthday has managed to be dragged out over a month with the various celebrations and trips out.

Fortunately this is the last one, his birthday tea at preschool. Ten minutes where he is the focus of everyone in the room followed by the consumption of cupcakes, the only way it could get any better would be a personal appearance from Spiderman – we’re saving that one for his fourth birthday though.