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This afternoon my daughter wanted to play chase, but I was having a breather from What’s the Time Mr Wolf and French Cricket so said “It doesn’t matter†and started playing chase with herself. I couldn’t be more proud. Once she has worked out she needs to commentate too then I will podcast it. It’s a much better and more artistic idea than self-playing snooker. How do you know when you’ve caught yourself? Is it even possible to truly catch yourself? Literally and figuratively. She’s going to go far.
But she’s not the only one. My son has skills too. His ability to find the one chokable item in the room and get it in his mouth even as you are watching him is beyond impressive. It will make him a millionaire if he can just get through these first 18 months. Today I had eyes on him, though was tweeting something at the same time. I looked at him, he was fine, looked down and then looked up within 3 second and he now had a barrel from his sister’s Thomas The Tank Engine game, which is a cylinder of more or less the exact proportions of his throat, halfway into his mouth. I grabbed it and saved his life (and so now technically he has to be my slave for the rest of his existence - this was not my responsibility).
In the past babies had to worry about being taken by leopards and eagles. Now their greatest threat is carers checking their Twitter feed. The really scary thing is I wasn’t in any way immersed and had at least three quarters of an eye on him at all times and still he darted in, found this object (I think on the shelf of the TV cabinet, so whoever put it there is the real near murdered) and had it in his mouth before I could say Jack Dorsey (that is a very clever joke and I am pulling an extremely smug face right now).
Anyway, both kids through the day physically unharmed, though my daughter might be blessed with the same mental condition that has made me the man I am today…
In the morning I’d gone to the supermarket with Phoebe. She’s already nearly too big to fit in the little seat in the trolley. I remember how much I used to love being in that seat too and how upset I was on the day when my mum told me I was finally too big a boy to go in the trolley. I cried and cried, even though the last time I had been in the hot seat it had been clearly a hugely uncomfortable squeeze. I was 28 years old when all that happened.
For now Phoebe is small enough to be wheeled around and it’s as much fun being the pusher as the pushee. As we went up the aisle I’d ask Phoebe if she thought we needed a particular item “Deep Fat fryer?†“Noâ€, “Barbecue tongs?†No “Loads of chocolate?â€â€¦ No… I mean yes.
I asked Phoebe if she thought she could eat all the chocolate in the chocolate aisle and she said no. I had proven she is not mine. Until the whole chasing herself thing. It’s hard to know what is nature and what is nurture, right? This blog is basically The Tempest.
