Dave The Dad 34 - Out and About
It’s interesting how the dynamic can change between taking out one child and taking two.Frankly I’ve learned to just about cope with one but two, I’ve noticed, can threaten to throw me into a maelstrom of panic, even when they’re doing something relatively harmless. A simple trip down the road can work on the same level as the idea of Nuclear War in the 80’s. Then, we were so brainwashed into thinking that we would be evaporated by the Ruskies that the merest hint of an international incident would send half the population of British 13-year olds scuttling under tables.
So I can be strolling along quite nicely, Harry in his buggy, Tom on my hand and still react outrageously to the merest whiff of danger such as, say, a small dog appearing on the other side of the road. I haven’t been helped in this by our recent purchase of the story of Mr. Strong who seems to routinely walk out in front of buses, crushing them instantly.
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‘Obviously,’ I say to Tom, ‘if anyone else were to do that they would get hurt.’
‘Not Batman,’ he answers.
‘No,’ I agree, ‘Not Batman, but anyone else, like you, or Harry, or me, or…’
‘Spiderman wouldn’t get hurt too.’
At which point I decide to drop the subject and just steer clear of buses.
The end result is that I’m often distracted from Harry and the Whole Wide World Show. For Harry a trip in the buggy is not so much a necessary plod to the shops/garage/park but a whirling, swirling, curdling kaleidoscope of information laid on especially for him. He lies there staring into space, bug-eyed, his mouth a constant O. In actual fact I’m starting to think that Harry purses his mouth a la Kenneth Williams for effect, one added to by the random sweet noises and goofy smiles. Certainly the amazed disbelief he shows as we walk along reminds me of that etched onto the faces of the audience back in the 70’s when yet another Carry On film was released.
Tom ignores this and with the absolute focus of the three year old sees every chance on the street to create a world of wonder for himself. He loves being out and about and running ‘as fast as the wind’ is rapidly becoming his Super Strength. About a month ago I made the simple error of introducing starting blocks to his little races. We stop, crouch, fingers aligned on the pavement, and then Bang! we’re off. Great fun of course unless you happen to have a buggy in tow and then it all becomes a touch more complicated. Add to this the times when Tom falls, belly-flopping like a breakdancer, and you have a whole bundle of stress just looking for an ulcer.
You’d think it would be less stressful in the car. And, truthfully, it can be. Perhaps it’s just me but my sons both seem to react to car journeys as others react to head massage. It’s nice that it does relax them so much although it will pose a few problems when they get to 17. On the bright side at least they won’t hurt themselves as they’ll probably end up crashing their respective cars before they’ve gotten out of first gear. But then there are those moments -oh, those golden moments- when one or more are unhappy. You know the journeys, the ones that are three miles long and that seem to last approximately 13 hours. With Tom I tend to cheat and fling Jelly Babies at him but Harry is a harder nut to crack. Tom does his best to keep me informed. ‘Harry’s crying,’ he squeaks merrily as I fume in the front, cursing under my breath. A slightly more detailed analysis from Tom generally consists of ‘Harry’s not happy,’ an understatement ranking along the same lines as some of Clinton’s best Monica Lewinsky lines. Tom’s reaction is usually to waggle some large plastic animal in Harry’s face which sometimes works (as a sort of shock tactic) and sometimes fails. Spectacularly. Still, it shows willing. Bless him.
This willingness generally extends past the car journey and well into the other side as Tom is always most keen to help push the buggy whilst we are careering around town. Now the centre of Brighton isn’t great for a nice relaxing stroll in much the same way that Fallujah isn’t, and although I’m loath to decline any help from Tom it can prove tricky. It’s hard to describe how we must look to others we pass, but if you were to imagine how comfortable you would be if you suddenly saw Barbara Cartland driving an articulated lorry towards your front garden then you’d get close. It’s at times like this that I resort to shouting ‘Race you!’ Seconds later and he’s off, weaving past OAPs and threatening to embed himself in some of the larger members of society. Sometimes you long for just a small dog.
© Dave the Dad aka Dave Fouracre
October 2008 |
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