Being three

Being three means you really want to ask 'why?' all the time even when the question itself makes no sense in relation to the conversation that has gone before. It means that every time you feel a bit fed up or don't get your own way you declare that you don't feel very well and that your tummy hurts. Being three means asking mummy why she doesn't have a willy every time she sits down to wee. It means pretending to open each of the four bottles of beer on the kitchen worktop and handing them to mummy one by one with a 'there you go'. Then demanding that mummy opens them and hands them to you. Then repeating the whole thing a dozen times. Being three means suddenly deciding there's a monster under your bed and that is why you have to stay in mummy's bed even though it's only 5.45am. It means developing an irrational dislike of certain items of clothing, such as your new Gucio shoes or your rainsuit. It means that you ask loudly in public places why someone is fat, or spotty, or wrinkly. It means having entire conversations with yourself out loud without self-consciousness, usually arguing about something. It means that you go to nursery and learn about children being called naughty all the time even though no one has ever previously called you a naughty boy. It means wanting to know what everything is made of and what's inside things, like pebbles and twigs. Being three means that on the days you go to a cafe and mummy doesn't order you something special because she thinks you'll share hers, you turn out to be ravenously hungry, but on the days that she orders you something separate you don't touch it. It means that you've starting acting 'shy' in front of strangers because so many of them have said 'Aww, have you gone shy?' to you that you are finally convinced this is the right way to act. Being three means making a fuss every single morning over the brushing of teeth, washing of faces (and branchial sinuses that need washing so they don't get infected) and getting dressed. Being three means becoming aware of your own littleness, so that you declare that when you are bigger/older you will be able to... drive the car, drink beer, go to school, go to the shop on your own, reach high things, use mummy's camping knife etc.

Sun, sea, sand

We've been on our hols, camping in Devon, the boy recovering from chicken pox. He enjoyed digging holes on the beach, lining up rocks and examining seaweed. But he didn't like the big waves, especially when mummy disappeared into them with nought but her cossie on. I expected him to wake with the dawn at 4am, but he actually slept til near seven every night, which I was so glad of. I've only camped with him for two nights at a time before, whereas this was six nights albeit with a friend to help out with the toddler-chasing activities. I'm feeling all refreshed in mind and spirit from the fresh air and sunsets, the rolling green hills and sea views. My body could still do with a month of early nights though.