Turbo pottering

I put little man in a creche for the first time today, at the leisure centre so I could go for a swim. Now my knee hurts and I've decided exercise is bad for the health. The little guy was unfazed by being left with strangers for three-quarters of an hour; when I returned he was engrossed in some crayoning. The creche staff weren't actually all complete strangers to me. The first person I met on walking through the door was a woman who was my best friend for a while during primary school. This is what happens when you live in one place for the first eighteen years of your life and then return after fourteen years or so away.

There was still plenty of opportunity for little man to demonstrate his dislike of playing with other children when we went to the park. It was lovely and sunny and the park was busy. And he starting crying every time another child went near him on the little climbing frame-bridges-steering wheels-steps-slides thing. He gets very proprietorial of those steering wheels. So we went off to look at the ducks on the pond instead and he managed to cadge a piece of bread off a kind passerby to feed to the varied waterfowl, which included some swans that looked like they wanted to snatch the bread straight out of his little fist.

After visiting the chooks and feeding them the lettuce and cabbage I didn't get round to eating from my veg box, little man insisted on carrying one of the two eggs we collected back to the car himself. I had to keep reminding him to concentrate on carrying it gently and not stopping to point at aeroplanes or starting to run to see the tractor mowing the playing fields. It made it home in one piece. Now if only he actually liked eggs in other guises than eggy bread...

Next up was a stroll into town to buy a bunch of daffodils for my front window. It's part of my campaign to make the area seem friendlier. So many people have blinds or curtains that are permanently closed. Well, I don't care who sees what I own. It's just stuff and I don't have that much of it anyway. But on the way, just after little man had decided he'd walked far enough and it was time for a ride in the Yamo, we were approached by two smart, besuited young men on bicycles, who asked me, in American accents, whether I had time to talk to them about the family. I should have referred them to the STBE husband since I'm not the one who gave up on my family.

Back at home, after the compulsory stop-off at our local playground where little man usually has the steering wheel to himself, it was time to do some painting so mummy can turn the daubings into something artistic looking for grandad's 65th birthday card. Unfortunately, our major mess making was disturbed by grandad himself who came to measure up for a gate to go at the top of the steps in the back yard. The ones little man decided it would be a good idea to try to drive his little car down the other day.

Such a busy day! I haven't described every incident of whinging, whining and tantruming, of which there are a lot from a little guy who still doesn't talk much. I now feel very much like a glass of wine, even though I had planned on abstaining until grandad's party tomorrow and all I have in the house is a couple of those miniature bottles, which I buy for cooking with.

Unexpected reactions to toast

The scenario: Little man is sitting at his breakfast bar (there's only room for one stool) with a cup of milk and bowl of cereal. Mummy is making toast. As she starts buttering it, little man says 'toh, toh'. Mummy says: 'You'd like some toast?' Little man nods. Mummy puts a couple of triangles of toast on a plate for little man and puts them in front of him. Little man wails. Clearly, mummy has done something wrong. She takes the toast away. Little man says 'toh, toh', reaching out his hand towards my plate. I offer him my plate and let him choose a piece of toast. He takes one and eats it.

Then there were the lunch choices:
'Would you like some soup?' (Red lentil, diet fare but tasty. Rejected by the boy, however, the day before.)
'No.'
'Would you like some cheese on toast?'
'No.'
'Would you like some beans?'
'No.'
In the end I gave him some oatcakes, cheese and tomatoes, which he picked at. I don't know how much oatcake ended up in his cup of water because he did it after I'd finished my lunch and was tidying the kitchen.

This evening he picked all the crispy bits off some potato wedges and ate only those bits. He kept biting bits off the mini sweetcorn and chewing them up. Then spitting them out.

I am struggling with the toddler psychology. The wrong-plate-colour tantrums. The getting-set-in-his-ways desire for oatcakes every day.