Easter Egg Hunting

It was a busy Sunday of Easter egg fun for G. We started off in our back garden, where G got down to the serious work of finding little chocolate eggs that Mrs J had hidden about the place.
Not that G was in the mood for sharing them out afterwards:
We then went for an afternoon at Dunham Massey Hall near Altrincham. It's a big National Trust pile, and there was a trail laid out in the gardens for little ones to follow. Not that G was initially too sure:
But she soon perked up, and particularly enjoyed sitting in this tree:
On the way around, we encountered some chickens:
And eventually G was rewarded for completing the trail with a(nother) chocolate egg. Which she is going to enjoy rather more than this photo, when we dig it out at some future social occasion:

Little Footballer

To go along with her ballet classes on Saturday mornings, we've signed G up to go to football lessons too. She has to go from one more or less straight to the other, which means changing from a pink outfit into a blue one. Her football kit arrived on Thursday, and she was very excited to put it on and run around the house in it. The excitement only dimmed when I took her into the back garden for a kickabout, and she looked at me over a curled lip and muttered "it's too windy daddy" before trudging back inside.

I was sleeping off a night shift on Saturday morning so Mrs J took her along to both ballet and football. She reported back that G had a great time at the footy, but that "her ball control is a bit of an issue". Having suffered through Scotland losing at home to Wales on Friday evening, I can say that this technical flaw may not necessarily hinder my Scotland-qualified daughter's prospects of an international call-up.

Her football skills need some work, but she did return clutching an Easter egg, which she won for doing the best colouring in her group. Up to now, colouring hasn't usually been considered part of an athlete's training programme. But given that the Easter egg is clearly far too big for G to manage on her own, I'd be happy enough for her to bring one back every week.

Scooting To The Hairdresser

I took G for a haircut last week. Or, more accurately, G took herself, scooting along like this as I ambled along in front. We were only going a few streets from where we live, but it still took ages. So long in fact, I gave up after a while and had to pick both her and the scooter up, and walk to make sure we got there in time.

We would have got there sooner if G hadn't spent ten minutes refusing to put her helmet on before we got out of the house. Every time I went to fasten the clip of her strap tightly under her chin, she burst into tears and stomped off. On about the fifth time, I managed to distract her enough with something else to finally get her helmet on, and she realised it hadn't been anything worth getting upset about in the first place. Fifth time is better than five-hundredth time, but still, I don't intend to let her make a habit of it.

Washing Up

G has got over her recent bout of chickenpox, but not before we spent last week stuck in the house with her. Some working from home from Mrs J and me got us through G's regular nursery days of Monday to Wednesday, and I was back at home as normal with her on Thursday and Friday, although I was reluctant to take her anywhere until the last of her spots had definitely scabbed over.

Which meant we had to do a lot of home-based activities, including plenty of baking. But as this picture demonstrates, it's not just the stirring and licking the bowl that G can take part in these days. She's developed an urge to help me do the washing up afterwards too.

This means that either I'm becoming increasingly obsolete in our household, or perhaps she's already thinking about her first teenage Saturday job in a restaurant. G might have to grow a bit first though, I'm not sure standing on chairs is generally considered acceptable in most kitchens.


G's remarkable run of having avoided all of the main childhood illnesses finally ended this week. Nursery called on Wednesday afternoon to say she'd come down with chickenpox. Nearly three-and-a-half years with nothing worse than a couple of mild bouts of conjunctivitis means we've all been pretty fortunate, and I didn't mind too much staying in on Thursday and Friday to take care of her.

Taking Calpol ("pink medicine") is something G does quite willingly, but then it is sweet enough to make me consider a sly spoonful whenever I get it out. But rubbing the inevitable calamine lotion over G's spotty body was a bit more like hard work. Trying to attack a particularly large scabby one in her left ear, I had to virtually pin her down over my knee to keep her from wriggling, while also trying to get her lengthening hair out of the way.

I got the cream on, but it didn't last very long. Twenty minutes later, as we were sat next to each other on the sofa watching TV, G said: "Daddy, look!" and I turned to see her holding out her finger, the scab from her ear on the end of it. Almost enough to put you off Twiglets for life.