Friday 4 May 2012

THE JOY (AHEM) OF SOFT PLAY

I thought I’d keep the blog trend going on the King this week, as I find the job of parenting fascinating and utterly chock full of amusement (not to mention a whole host of other emotions and adjectives that I shall leave for another time. Why scare you on a Friday).

There is an old adage that exclaims that 'parenting keeps you young'…or helps you revisit your youth…or is purely FOR the youth. I can never keep it straight and frankly, they all apply as far as I’m concerned. Needless to say, there are times when one is in the throes of parenting and finds oneself thrown back to one’s youth, whilst simultaneously feels old as hell. Yes, the juxtapositions of life never end.

On this very subject, the other day I found myself at soft play – as they call it in these parts (or perhaps everywhere; who knows?). Basically, think of an indoor giant jungle gym that is padded, and rife with slides, balls, crevices, netting and just about any apparatus that a little hyper monkey can climb on, slide down or squeeze through. Or as I like to call this place, ‘the petri dish of germs that thankfully tires out my child.’

The problem with these places is a) they’re open to the public, and as most of you know, my feelings about the fray are fickle at best. So the OCD part of me enters it cautiously and has to tell herself to stop thinking about the things that are living on every conceivable surface of this place that could kill us both. But being as the goal of this whole exercise is to tire out the King, I’m somehow able to put above over my neuroses. (See, I’m evolving).

The second problem is that the King is almost able to do everything by himself, but not quite. Which means that Mommy – that’s me – has to get on in there and assist him with whatever strikes his fancy. Now, this is in principle, I don’t have a problem with. In fact, I love seeing his little face light up when he takes in the three stories of padded splendor that is soft play. The difficulty is that this place is built for little people (and I’m short, but not that short), really little people that bend – and don’t crack – squish and can slide through itty bitty areas without feeling like they need hip replacement surgery...and then there’s me. Despite thinking I’m quite fit and flexible, there is nothing more sobering than trying to squeeze through two rubber roller things with about a six-inch gap in between so that you can keep up with your child who is twenty feet ahead of you. In fact, I’m gathering I look downright hysterical as I squeeze my head and body through this minute space landing face first on the mat on the other side. The King always bursts out laughing when he watches me do this so I take that as a yes.

Then there is the sheer pace at which the King likes to go through this rubber maze. Up, down, through, under, over…the child is insatiable and doesn’t realize that his mother drags behind him, huffing and puffing like some tired bag of bones chanting the mantra, 'I am young damn it, I am young!' And the worst part is, I’m usually never dressed in the right way (I never plan to go to soft play as I have to just spring it on myself in order to get me in the building) so my skirt is pushed up to my neck, or my shirt almost garrotes me, or my hair gets caught in the rope swing. It’s not a pretty sight, I assure you.

But as I've mentioned, soft play is the best sleep aid out there and that is tantamount…and the King sleeps pretty well afterwards as well.

Happy Friday.

Wednesday 2 May 2012

MEN AND THEIR BALLS

Men are obsessed with balls. That got your attention didn’t it [and I’m sure you’re wondering where I’m going with this. Get your mind out of the gutter]. The other night my partner...sorry, my husband and I (still not used to that) were watching a football match – apparently it was an important one, and hence, the only time he puts a match on. Anyway, it dawned on us that these grown men were simply running around the pitch chasing a small white ball, and how funny it was that they were doing just that (when you stripped it down to the sheer fundamentals). Here they were chasing a ball around a pitch, kicking it, bouncing it on their heads, and smacking it into the net, and more importantly, people were paying to watch them do this (we're such simple creatures aren't we?).

On a more global scale, let’s face it, sports are not only a huge focal point for society at large, but most of these sports are dominated by men and balls (I emphasize dominated – and not being exclusive to - as there are many successful women athletes out there playing with balls too). Think about it: basketball – grown men try to put a ball in a net; baseball – men smack a ball with a stick and run in circles. Golf – men smack a small white ball with a club; cricket – who the hell knows what goes on in this sport, but there is a ball and bat, so let’s leave it there. Boules…grown men rolling balls in a sand pit while they spit and talk French village politics. It’s riveting stuff, from what I've heard.

The list of ball-centered sports is long and includes a variety of ways to catch a ball, smack a ball, roll a ball, bowl a ball, and put a ball into and over a variety of things. It does cause one to wonder – or at least me to wonder - why we became such a ball-centric universe? (Then again, Earth is a ball of sorts. Hmmmm). I suppose doing all these things with a ball is far easier than trying to roll a square object down a bowling lane, or kick a rectangle through a goalpost; although saying that, how much harder would that be? Olympics take note; I’ve found a few new sporting events to consider.

My other theory is a bit more steeped in genetics. Let me put it this way, the King found his ‘balls’ at the age of six months, and the kid’s smile has never waned – apparently, who needs bath toys when little boys have their own balls to inspect. In fact, from there on out he was obsessed with balls – it may have been his first word that or more. All I know is if he sees a ball (I’m talking about soccer balls now), his face lights up and he wants to run after it, kick it, hold it and throw it at something.

You see, men and balls….it’s a profound, inherent bond that cannot be broken.

Monday 30 April 2012

TRUUUUUUUCK

There comes a moment in every parent's life when their toddler's development begins to occur at a rapid fire pace. It’s quite unbelievable really, not to mention sobering, when you witness how many skills per day they pick up, especially considering how many new (ahem, few) skills we pick up as adults – um, one or two a year at best. In fact, the last skill I probably acquired was learning how to put on my make-up properly and I’ve been on this planet for decades.

When it comes to toddlers, obviously, the skills are coming fast and furiously. It gets to the point where you put them in bed at night, and when they wake up, they rattle off three new words at the top of their lungs, and can suddenly climb up to the top of the jungle gym without any assistance and you missed the steps when you described how to (or not to do) this. In fact, the second the King wakes, he looks at me and says a variety of things in his uber babble like he's just discovered his tongue.

At the moment, the King’s favorite new word is truck and the number two in Polish (he likes to count using the same number over and over, it’s pretty darn cute). He of course cannot pronounce the –TR- in truck properly so of course it sounds like f*ck. [This is not my doing, even though it is one of my favorite words of all time]. And as he absolutely adores trucks, he shouts this new word at the top of his lungs all over the house, in the stairwell – which has a great echo and truly delights the neighbors – and of course in the street every time a truck passes. There are a lot of trucks in our hood, so you can imagine the delighted looks we get, especially from other parents. Of course, determined not to be known as the trash-mouth mother that drops F bombs around her kid, every time the King screams f*ck, I have to chime in with what a lovely truck it is, oh how we love trucks, TRucks are so marvelous, and I end up sounding like a nauseating child’s TV presenter as we walk around the neighborhood.

The other surprising benefit of rapid toddler development is that suddenly these little creatures that were once so hazardous to their own health (who are we kidding, they still are) now can actually help you accomplish things - with the right guidance of course. This isn’t always a smooth process, but I’m willing to put in the time to get the results I’m after. The King not only likes to work the dust buster – and is darn efficient I might add - but he is obsessed with putting away groceries and organizing my shoes. God I love this child. Not to mention, he’ll carry our shopping bags for us, and put the trash in the bin – not to mention every other object he can get his hands on; we’re still working on this one. I’m currently trying to hone his skills to empty the dishwasher, find his father’s keys, and scrub the toilet. But these tasks may be a few months out.

The other thing you start to notice is that your child now understands every single word out of your mouth - utterly terrifying. For instance, when we even say the word nap or sleep, he looks at us bug-eyed and takes off running for the hills. Or he hysterically thinks that if he lies on the sofa and buries his head under a pillow we are not able to see him and carry him to his cot. [Why oh why does it take us so many years to develop a profound love of sleep? Ah the cruel irony of life].

Anyway, we’re off now to troll construction sites and hurl out f******ck every time we see a digger, dump truck, roller or delivery truck. Never a dull day around here, that’s for certain.

Happy Monday.

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