top marks

As my aim here is to document Snooks’ world for his later perusal, regardless of how ...erm… smug I may sound, I feel it necessary to note the arrival of his first school report.

The Engineer and I stumbled across it by accident. Tasked with picking the boy up from school for the first time (I was otherwise engaged – more of this later), remembering the necessary snacks, the medicines which had to be taken within minutes of pick up time, the deal about the park (he can go sometimes, weather permitting and on our terms) and to actually be there on time, Daddy had come home with the enveloped clutched in his hand without opening it.

When we realised what it was we were transfixed. As I have said before, Snooks’ world when he is out of my hands is a mysterious black hole. I am occasionally allowed fragments of incomprehensible information, much of which could be imaginary. For all I know he could be sweeping chimneys all day. So this, this two sheets of typed A4 covering observations about his communication skills, his number work, physical and social skills made for a gripping read. Snooks overheard me reading aloud some of the comments, prompting him to come and shout at me to stop - his worst nightmare seems to be that his father and I might find out who he is.

But he had nothing to fear as the praise was high and the could do betters very few. None of it came as any surprise other than perhaps the keen interest he has shown in cookery. His disinterest (which seemed to be the issue) in writing could be a little embarrassing considering my profession, though I gather boys are often slow to get on with putting pencil to paper. The truth is, Snooks is disinterested in anything which involves sitting still and this includes Eating, Putting On Shoes and Watching Television. No, we have no worries.

Which brings me to my whereabouts on the auspicious day. Well I was on my way to a job interview, suited, prepped and nervous as a cat. The approach of full time education for Snooks and the hollow coffers left after four years of unpaid work and the worst recession in years meant this day had finally come. On the way into the Smoke, rather enjoying the familiar overground and underground route I asked myself this question; Does it matter that I have a law degree (LL.B), a teaching qualification (P.G.C.E), the industry professional qualification in journalism (N.C.E) and a City and Guilds accreditation in teaching adults to read and yet I am happy to be a ‘housewife’? Not to me, I thought. I am not sure whether this shows a startling lack of ambition or a healthy grip on reality. However, that is how it is.

Snooks seems to be on the right track at school and has some good foundations for learning in place. He is happy and has friends. That is good enough for me.

pint-sized sage

As I chased Snookie down the road on his way to school just now, I shouted after him “Come back you pint-sized pirate!”

I stole the nomenclature from Captain Hook – or the Disney version at least – but it fits our Snooks well. He scooted away in his skull and cross bones bobble hat as fast he could, ensuring we reached the gate just in time. Sometimes he rumbles these subterfuges and drops anchor half way there insisting that he is ‘too tired to go to school’. I have been known to carry him, and the scooter the rest of the way. But he loved my frustrated rascal, as I’m sure did all the construction workers and council road-cleansers we encountered along the way.

It’s a far cry from yesterday, which was my birthday and so technically should have been full of cake and candles and jollity.

Instead both Snooks and I slumped into a wretched mood shortly after the 7am present opening and remained thus until a good hour after the Engineer had returned home from work. We were finally restored by steak frites and some excellent music at our favourite birthday haunt where Snooks ate lasagne, chips and bread and then lay down to sleep across three dining chairs.

The wretchedness arose from a cocktail of high expectations and adrenalin overdrive which Snooks and I both enjoy whenever a ‘good time’ is in the offing. And this explosive combination generally amounts to the following; he thinks a celebration means no one has to obey instructions; I think a celebration means he will miraculously start to obey instructions. He is disappointed; I am disappointed. We both hate being disappointed.

I know how it sounds. He is three years old. And I am … one year older than I was yesterday. Who is supposed to be the grown up here? Well quite. And get this.

After I had stretched and stretched to try to bring birthday fun to the daily face washed, teeth brushed, dressed, combed, supermarket shopped, lunch eaten, face washed, re-dressed, hair-brushed, dragged to school battle, I finally snapped. I shouted in fury into his terrified and confused face because I cannot have a pee in peace. Having dropped him at school, I wanted to run back and bring him home and make it better. Instead I wandered around feeling wretched, on my birthday. No amount of cards or cake or candles or calls from friends seemed to make it better.

Then Snooks returned from school and seemed his usual self, until he called up the stairs to me that he wanted to tell me something.

I stood at the top as he sat at the bottom and looked up at me and said: “Mummy when you shouted at me, you hurt my feelings.”

I have no idea where he found these words. I know it cannot have come from me because no one in our family has that kind of emotional maturity. Did they teach him this at school? Is he channelling Oprah? Has he secretly been going to therapy? Already?

Astonished, relieved and repentant, I came down the stairs, sat in front of him and apologised for my behaviour.

They say with age comes wisdom.

Perhaps next birthday I’ll get it the right way round.

fat is the question

How am I supposed to know these things?

That is the question I keep asking myself when I am expected to come up with well-rounded balanced non-judgemental honest but not scary answers about life, people and God, without having time to run to a parenting book or the internet for the received wisdom.

For example this morning’s questions have included “What is the sound barrier? “Is God a boy or a girl?” and “Where do squirrels sleep?” (Answers in my comments box please)

Fat is not an issue I ever anticipated discussing with my three-year-old son, assuming that boys were all about what they can see and do rather than what they are.

In fact one of the reasons I was banking on Snooks being a boy (though weirdly I used to dream he was a girl in utero) was that I felt ill-equipped to deal with the fiercely messy issue of girls and body image. Little did I know that it starts at three and a bit.

I accidentally set the ball rolling a few nights ago when the Engineer and I were enjoying a gloat at some video footage of ourselves on a family holiday in Scotland in 2010 when we were collectively seven stone heavier than we are now.

“Oh my word look how I fat I am,” I said, hardly recognising myself as the lumbering matron holding tiny Snooks’ hand on the station platform. I could see my awkward discomfort as I walked, knowing I was being filmed. I remember trying to stand straight.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not a fat-Nazi who put on a few pounds and having shed it, lives on a diet of mashed wheat and cabbage water. I have always been, and still am - and I love this fantastic euphemism – well covered.

But the Engineer and I, stunned by the emotional assault of early parenthood, ate our way through the first two years of Snook’s life, without stopping for breath.

Consequently we were a bit fat a couple of years ago. It’s no biggie. I don’t see any reason to beat about the bush. It’s not a crime or a signal of mental or moral collapse. Just hard work to lose.

So although I would rather not have launched the subject of body comparisons with Snookie just yet, I have always tried to be honest and realistic with him. And the truth is, if you eat too much, you get fat.

This has not, I should stress, ever been a problem for Snooks. In fact, as you may have gathered, eating for him is one almighty chore, endured only to keep the oldies happy. If food could be pumped in like fuel at a pit stop without interrupting the race, he would be happy. (Don’t worry, we have worked that analogy to death. Thank goodness we don’t have more children or the whole race-track/dining room thing would be a lot more complicated.) So I don’t want to give him any reason to reject food more than he already does. I was surprised at how quickly he picked up on the f-word and wanted to use it and discuss it, everywhere.

It first took me by surprise when he came into our bedroom as I was getting dressed a few days later.

“You look a bit fat mum,” he said, matter of factly.

I could not help the shock my face betrayed followed by an embarrassed laugh. What can you say?

“… when you’re in Scotland, I mean,” he continued, clearly reading my reaction, or perhaps just clarifying.

He had learned what the f-word did to people.

We sat down on the bed and talked.

"First of all", I said, "children are never fat." Right, I know this speaks a bit against the desperate drive to educate children about healthy food choices in the face of the giant obesity time bomb in this country. You see. I told you. How am I supposed to know what to say? But I just don’t think children, as in primary school age children, should be watching their weight.

Then I said that saying someone is fat might hurt their feelings, even if it is true. This was to an attempt to head off all the mortification I could see ahead if Snooks thought it was ok to go around pointing out fat people. At the moment he has a thing for dragging me across the street to point out people who “look like Daddy”, which is anyone, male or female, with grey hair.

"However", I added, "it is ok to tell me that I look fat, if you think I do." (There’s your balance, right there.) Some people might be upset by being called fat, but me, hey, I am cool with it. Look here’s my big tummy. Isn’t it nice and squishy?

Just don’t anyone else try it.