Too Big For The Swings

I've been working a lot in the last few weeks, so today felt like my first normal day at home with G for quite a while. There are obviously lots of things I'd been waiting for the opportunity to do, but I couldn't really bring any of them to mind this morning, so I settled for taking G into Uppermill to visit the playground.

It's still a bit far for G to walk, so I decided to take the car. "Playground!" she said excitedly as I pulled into the car park nearby. This turned into anguished cries of "plaaaay-grooound!" as I turned around and left the car park, because there weren't any spaces. After going round the block, I returned and found someone just leaving. The happy "playground!" returned. Such are the emotional highs and lows of being a toddler.

As I pushed her on the swings she's used since she was a baby, I noticed that G's feet now just scrape the floor as she goes back and forth. She's now 2'11'' which doesn't seem particularly tall, but clearly it's too tall for the baby swings. Time to upgrade to the ones used by the big boys and girls.

Red Jersey

Mrs J is Welsh, and G has an extremely Welsh-sounding name, largely due to a Welsh branch of my family on my grandfather's side. So when the rugby's on, there's only ever going to be one nation for G to support. With Scotland suffering another Six Nations season without winning any matches whatsoever, it would probably count as cruel and unusual punishment to force her to cheer for her dad's team anyway.

So G was in her red shirt as Wales beat France to win the Grand Slam yesterday. Not that she had much idea of what was going on, although she did manage to spot that some of the people running around on the TV were wearing the same colour as she was.

This could also prove useful when introducing G to rugby league. Given that she was born in Salford, G should have a natural inclination to prefer the northern code. And with Salford playing in red, she could even get away with wearing the same jersey to support both teams. Might save us a few quid in replica kits too. Told you I was Scottish.

Trainspotting

G has been in nursery a lot lately, because I've been working most days. For the time being Friday is the only day of the week I've got at home with her, which makes quite a change from most of the last two-and-a-half years. In fact, it's become such an uncommon event, I was at a bit of a loss this afternoon as to what to do with her.

She seemed keen to go outside for a walk, so we ended up going to a nearby footbridge over the Leeds to Manchester railway, to wait for a train or two. G recognised the train tracks instantly, but seemed confused by the lack of any actual trains. I tried to entertain her by informing her that the building we could see in the distance was the old Saddleworth Station, closed in 1968 as part of the Beeching cuts, but perhaps unsurprisingly that didn't hold her attention.

Thankfully, it was about then that a train finally came into view. "Hello train!" G shouted, as it rattled towards us. Then "bye bye train!" as it disappeared in the other direction. She seemed perplexed that it didn't make a "choo choo" noise though. Perhaps I should update my sound effects next time we've got her train set out.

Eye Drops

G has had conjunctivitis before, and this week she got a bit of it again. I spotted on Thursday that she had a red eye, and I got more suspicious on Friday morning when she slept for a full hour-and-a-half past her typical 7:15am wake-up (this has only been the usual time since she moved into a proper bed, I can no longer get away with leaving her in her cot until she dozes off for another hour, but that's another story).

Eventually she toddled in to my room, hiding behind her hair and with her arms out for a hug. Her right eye was full of the familiar yellowy gunk, so I called the local surgery. The nurse was happy enough to put a prescription behind the counter for us so I didn't even need to see a doctor when we got along there later in the morning. That was the good news. That bad news was that it was for the dreaded eye drops.

I remember hating having eye drops when I was little, and I can confirm that G likes the whole experience even less. Applying said drops to a writhing toddler is really a two-man job, but I've now developed a technique which is just about successful most of the time.

It involves putting G on her back across my knees, pinning her arms down with my left arm, while my right hand hovers vaguely over her eyes with the bottle. The drops don't have to go right into the eye. Seeing as she's got them tightly shut anyway, the inside of the bridge of the nose is ok, because they then trickle in when she eventually opens them. Well, more or less.

One day I'll film it so I can release an instructional video on YouTube. I wouldn't put us both through it every time but, you know, the drops really do work.

Pancake Day

Mrs J was away in London, so it was just the two of us for Pancake Day this year. After she was so well-behaved during the lock-in drama of the previous night, I decided to treat G to a bit of sugar on hers. I put the last of the mincemeat left over from Christmas in mine, which I admit was very mum-like behaviour. Clearly after all this time at home I've gone completely native.

Locked Out/Locked In

I suppose it was bound to happen eventually. Yesterday I went outside with the rubbish, heard the door close behind me, and realised I didn't have my keys in my pocket. This would be irritating enough, but while I was on the outside, G was firmly on the inside and stuck in the house on her own.

I pottered around the outside of the house and wondered what to do. I could hear G rattling about. But with all the curtains drawn, I didn't have much idea what she was doing, although it was a fair bet she's still too young for any Home Alone-style booby traps. I tried knocking on the glass door, and eventually she came toddling over. After some cajoling, I managed to convince her to bring her little chair towards the door. The conversation then went something like this:

Me: "Could you stand on your chair please?"

G: "No!"

Me: "If you stand on your chair and open the door, daddy would be very happy."

G: "No!"

I tried another tack.

Me: "Have you got a hungry tummy?"

G: "Yes!"

Me: "Would you like some cake?"

G: "Yes!"

Me: "If you stand on your chair and open the door, daddy will get you some cake."

G: "No!"

Clearly, this was hopeless. Finding one of G's hairclips in my pocket, I had a go at picking the lock. After all, the door was just on the Yale rather than the main lock (which was unlocked), and I'd seen it work in films. This seemed like a brilliant idea as I managed to make the lock move a little, but I got too greedy and a bit of the clip snapped off, instantly rendering it a terrible idea. When Mrs J got home from work her key wouldn't fit, so we were now both stuck outside.

Mrs J's arrival at least managed to distract G from yet another game of building a house with her big Lego blocks. Using all her powers of persuasion, Mrs J even managed to convince G to stand on her chair. Unfortunately, she wasn't quite tall enough to reach the handle. But she was very clever to at least make the effort.

G had now been inside on her own for more than an hour, and Mrs J decided to ring the fire brigade to see if this counted as an emergency. Apparently it did. And so a little later a fire engine turned up, and some helpful firemen with a large box of tools were soon pondering the best way of breaking into our house.

Obviously I won't tell you how they managed it, in case you come round next week and steal my TV. But the presence of the fire brigade was particularly good for two reasons. G got to see a real fire engine, and it meant we didn't have to get an emergency locksmith or glazier at vast expense. The main fireman took G's name though ("they will ask me back at the station"), presumably to prove that we weren't just a couple of timewasters. So I wouldn't try the fire brigade next time you lock yourself out. Unless you've genuinely got a two-year-old inside, obviously.

A Walk And A Cake

Now that I'm working more, I don't get as many days at home with G as I used to. In fact, she spent the first three days of this week at nursery, and yesterday in the creche at the university where I've been teaching, so it made a bit of a change this morning not to have to rush around getting her ready to go out.

We celebrated later on by going for a walk along the local canal. G has got a lot better at this recently. Last summer, she'd usually turn around every few steps and ask to be carried. But now she's able to toddle along on her own at a reasonable speed without getting too tired. As the picture above shows, she can get away surprisingly quickly if you turn your back for a moment. She seems to know not to go too close to anything dangerous though.

We walked a bit further to the local garden centre, which claims to have the widest selection of cakes in the north west. I have no idea whether this is true or not, but, given that she is Salford-born and partial to raisins, I decided to treat G to an Eccles cake.

She ate it all. Or at least, she ate what didn't end up on the floor, her top, or all around her face. Having come out without G's bag, I had to ask a nearby table of mums-with-babies for some wipes. Salfordian or not, I might get her something less flaky next time.

Valentine's Card

G was clutching this when I picked her up from nursery yesterday. She'd done it herself, although I suspect she may have had a bit of help with the writing.

Her nursery key worker said: "She's made this for you." Without thinking, I said to G, "Oh well, we're going to have to give this to mummy later aren't we?" The key worker looked at me blankly. It was only later that I realised little girls are supposed to give Valentine's cards to their dads.

I suppose I could have given it to Mrs J anyway, and just pretended it was from me. Probably much better than I could have managed.

Snow Gruffalo

G loves The Gruffalo. For the uninitiated, it's an illustrated story by Julia Donaldson, which seems to fill the space in the consciousness of the nation's children previously occupied by The Very Hungry Caterpillar. It's G's bedtime story most nights.

Since she got it for Christmas, The Gruffalo has been joined in our household by the sequel, The Gruffalo's Child. The animated version which was shown on Christmas Day has been replayed often since in our household, and both the cartoon and the book are now accompanied by a running commentary from G now that she has learned what's coming next.

At one point in The Gruffalo's Child, you can see a snowman Gruffalo made by the mouse (stick with me on this). G delights in pointing and shouting "Snow Gwowoh!" whenever she spots it. So we took advantage of Saturday's snowfall to make her one of her own in the front yard. I don't think she really knew quite what to make of it, especially as it was taller than her. Proper snow fun might have to wait until next winter.

Road Signs For Dolls

As befits the daughter of a stay-at-home dad, G has a wide range of boyish sorts of toys. It's not that I've deliberately set out to keep her away from dolls, it's just that an afternoon playing with her train set offers a better prospect of enjoyment for both of us. Which is of course the important thing.

This manifested itself once when, during a call by a health visitor, G completely failed to recognise a doll, and stared at it blankly intstead of brushing its hair as she was supposed to.

I got a sign the other day that G might be getting around this doll denial. When playing trains, she decided that all the signs were sleepy. So she laid them out on the floor and patted them, as shown in the picture.

She then decided that the signs had to kiss each other, so I was treated to the sight of Danger getting cosily intimate with Road Narrows Ahead. Poor G, I should probably give in and let her get a Barbie or something. But maybe not quite yet.