Rolling Stones

This, my wonderful, amazing, constantly surprising son, is a picture of us. Of you, and me, doing one of the things that I always hoped we could do together, and something that I didn't think we'd be able to do until much, much later in your life.

There's a great deal of argument, among the intellectuals and academics, about the way that children form their personality, about how they become who they are, and I am always interested to watch how you're becoming you.

I don't like rollercoasters. They cause me significant distress, not because of the g-forces or changes in direction, but because I'm not in charge of those changes in direction and cannot adequately anticipate them. When I was young, (and, truth be told, much older than you are now), this dislike manifested primarily in screaming. Loudly and incessantly.

You, however, due to a combination of the aforementioned nature and nurture, appear to be completely, totally, absolutely and utterly fearless.

As is evidenced by this photograph. This is you, age four, on, although by world standards fairly tame, a full sized adult style roller coaster. Point of fact it's the oldest continuously operating roller coaster in the world, built in 1912, and just about everybody's been on it.

Our travelling companions suggested that I was deluded in thinking that you'd be able to cope with a full sized roller coaster. They told me to put you on the merry go round, they suggested it was madness to take you on board, but you, punkin, my sweet, amazing, fearless monkey, you were adamant that you wanted to go. And so we did.

And as soon as we got off,

You wanted to go again.

And it made me love you more.

If that was ever possible.

Love you,

Dancing about Architecture

There is an accepted school of thought, punkin, that "writing about music is like dancing about architecture". I think, without googling it, that Elvis Costello said it.

That his point, on saying it, was that the act itself is an art form, that any attempt to translate or somehow quantify it in another 'language' would necessarily lose something of the original, and that to attempt such would be inherently futile.

Some could say the same, punkin, about writing about parenting. That any individual's relationship with their spawn is, by its nature, one that exists on its own terms and doesn't necessarily correlate in any direct way to anyone else's experience. That we are, in attempting to document that relationship, losing something in the translation.

I acknowledge this loss, but I don't think that it means, even for a moment, that the exercise is futile. Anecdotes are anecdotes, and regardless of who finds them enlightening, or amusing, or touching, they are a part of the dialogue I have with you, even if they're only one way at the moment.

I was re-reading the (admittedly sparse) archives of this site the other day, trying to work out a framework within which to post about what's happening in our lives now, and I was struck by how much has changed within such a short time, and how much, to beleaguer another phrase, has stayed the same.

I'm still, punkin, confused about how to be a 'proper' dad. You're still growing and changing and presenting me with solutions using your irrefutable kid logic.

You went to a costume party for the first time last week, and your costume of choice was your Lightning McQueen Racing Car Driver outfit, and you were (are) so enamoured of this particular set of duds that, three days before said party, you were demanding to wear it as pyjamas.

No, I told you, you can't wear (this tight fitting one piece polyester costume that will make you very hot and therefore wake up in the middle of the night and disturb my sleep precious lovely sleep) your racing driver costume, because (PARENT LOGIC) it will get dirty and you won't be able to wear it to Thomas' party.

BUT DADDY, was your earnest reply, MUMMY CAN WASH IT.

Game, set, match. I was giggling too hard to say no.

love you.

Alright Already

Fwd:
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob

She's right, you know, it's about bloody time I posted again. It's been so long I can't hardly remember what the last thing I told you was, or where we were going, so I should perhaps start at the start. Well, not the start, because that would negate the entire concept of the rest of the blog, but perhaps close enough to the start that we can gain some perspective ...

So where are we?

Well, we have a house (finally), and if I ask you, you tell me our address (all jumbled together like it's a single word - which to you, I guess, it is). You're three and a half now, full of ideas about what you want and what you don't. You're particular in so many ways that fascinate me - there's still fragments of things I remember from when you were much younger, but you're building such a strong, delightful personality that it's still very much the case that every day is a new adventure.

We're beginning, you and I, to negotiate about stuff. You want to watch Wall - E (every day, and sometimes twice or thrice a day), and I want you to, yunno, eat and sleep and wear clothes. Ok, at least pants.

We went to the zoo yesterday. You love the animals there, and we went with your mate Finn. Word to the wise, though, don't go to the zoo on children's day. There's Far Too Many Children.

Love you.