Dave the Dad 17 - Running Up That Hill
It’s been a busy few weeks.For one of those, Tom was running a temperature of approximately 287c and couldn’t always tell which way was up. Three times we visited the doctor and three times she was extremely sympathetic. And honest. ‘Really, I don’t have a clue,’ she said, about as useful as a chocolate Helena*, ‘but then I’ve only been a doctor for two years.’ I have to admit at first we were pleasantly surprised by her candour and felt a growing respect for her. Later it struck us that an awful lot of people can die in two years. Now as a teacher I don’t think I was terribly good at teaching English for the first two years of my career but then students don’t generally collapse when you wrongly identify a haiku.
In any case we worked out ourselves what the matter was when he cooled down enough to be picked up just using oven gloves. He was pretending to be sick as a diversionary tactic so that we wouldn’t notice him sneaking up to the Natural History Museum. Stealing, by God! Jane first noticed his loot when he was crying one long, long afternoon. At first when we saw the bumper crop stored in his mouth we assumed they were the Elgin Marbles but soon realised that he had nabbed some dinosaur teeth. Brontosaurus we figured, by their size. No wonder he had a temperature! You try carrying around an extra 14 pounds of dinosaur; you’d heat up too.
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We guessed that what with a lack of appetite, energy and general happiness his development might take a bit of a backseat. But all the same since his recovery he is now finally walking. It’s true that it’s been a while but we’ve not panicked. Some other kids his age are joining Harrier clubs all over the country but Tom doesn’t really come from your classic get-up-and-at-em stock. It took me 22 years to get a job. No, really. Of course my lovely, hard working wife was wiping sick dogs’ noses at 12 but then he looks like her so it’s only fair he acts like me. A nice combination I think.
Still, now he’s got past the confidence block there’s no stopping him. True, if he can, he still prefers help and so has a tendency to tag your trousers when you go past like a hawthorn bush. But a hawthorn bush that then tries to overtake you by sliding between your knees and uses you as slingshot to propel itself into some heavy wooden object across the room. He seems to love the idea of walking without being too fussed about the mechanics of the whole caboodle. A little like driving a Smart car I would imagine. It gets you where you’re going but you’re not going to arrive in glory. In fact at first Tom usually arrived in a pile as he would get a bit ahead of himself, his last three steps windmilling madly as he abandoned caution to reach his destination. All it took was one tiny hand that refused to let slip that cat toy, or a flapping trouser leg and he’d be reliving that classic Neil Kinnock beach move all over again.
I’d say he’s getting better all the time though. Hawthorn bushes be damned; he’s moved into tumbleweed territory. He occasionally tangles up in your jeans, trips you up as you head for the stairs, or bumps into you when out prospecting for gold in them thar Sussex Downs, but generally he just breezes past during a lull in the conversation. He’s usually running the length of the room as though running was going out of fashion, or possibly coming in to fashion as he rarely seems to quite make up his mind about which direction is best.
Obviously Tom has been mobile for months but once he got on his pins playing with him started to smack of cabaret. Several times we’ve been tempted to put his actions to music. This is a tricky decision by itself. Some of his lighter moments could be soundtracked to Laurel and Hardy vaudeville but overall when I look at Tom I hear Mussorgsky. The clue is in the cadence. As he spirals around the room his voice rises, it dips and soars, falls back and bellows, peeps and honks and then there is nothing. A big, ominous nothing. Till the storm breaks. Brunch On The Bare Mountain possibly.
It’s about this time that we give in and hand him the pine-cone that he’s been repeatedly pointing at for five minutes. We all know the routine by now: you put your left arm in, your left arm out, in and out, in and out, ad nauseum until either mum or dad cave. Tom knows enough to mix and match. If a well timed shriek has been used recently he opts for placing his hand by his chin and points from his mouth. This always raises a smile from us because it makes him look cheeky and cheerful but whenever he does it I always get ‘Rock on Tommy’ rolling around my head.
If this sounds loud and busy and erratic and dangerous and frantic and tiring that’s because it is. But it’s not all. On Wednesday evening I was in the rocking chair in his room as he sat at my feet, earnestly reading and re-reading Tigger’s Breakfast from cover to cover. He was calm, fascinated, would smile to himself and every now and then looked up just long enough to check I was watching. The fact that the book was upside down and back to front didn’t deter him and he was hooked for nearly ten minutes. I stand by Mussorgsky but sometimes, just sometimes, it’s pure Mozart.
December 16 2006
* For those of you bemused by the rather obscure reference to Helena.....Helena is apparently Dave's 17 year old niece who was promised a mention in his column!
Dave Fouracre aka "Dave the Dad" is a regular feature writer here at thebabywebsite.com.
Read more about his hilarious experiences as a Dad. |
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