You Can Tell They're Growing Up When ... You Worry About Different Stuff

When the Dubmeister was born he brought untold joy and excitement. We marvelled at his chubby little fingers, his gorgeous gurgling noises, his perfect skin and that indescribeable smell with which all babies are blessed.

It was one of the best days of our lives.

(c) Roger Hargreaves

But, when a baby enters your life he also introduces a whole new level of worry. You worry about everything - from the temperature of his bedroom to the number of times he feeds via the evil inferiority complex creating myths propagated by millionaires made rich by writing books about how to raise the perfect baby. 

We even worried that our cat would devote himself to finding an opportunity to go to sleep on baby Dubmeister's face. Of course he didn't as that would involve being in the same room as the tiny screaming banshee that we had introduced into the house which was obviously out of the question!

At the same time well meaning friends and family reassured us that the phase would soon pass and that as the Dubmeister grew so would the worries pass and life would become a worry free Disneyland where the sun always shone and Dubmeister developed at a textbook rate.

They were wrong!

When a baby grows up you cease to worry about the temperature of his bedroom and the number of times he feeds and you soon realise that the books written by childcare experts are designed to create a sense of panic in the minds of couples going through the most intensely stressful sleep deprived period of their lives. However, that does not mean the worry stops. It just means that the focus of worry changes.

What we worry about now

• So now, rather than worrying about the temperature of his bedroom we worry about what he gets up to in there instead!
• Instead of worrying about how often he feeds we worry about how often he sits down to do his homework. Is he doing enough? Could he do more? Shouldn't he be doing better?
• Rather than fretting over an evil cat who is determined to kill him by fur suffocation we worry about the evils of alcohol and drugs and pick up leaflets from Doctor surgeries and school reception areas which raise the stress levels even further.

I remember as a kid noticing that, if you caught a glimpse of my mum and her friends when they didn't know anybody was looking at them, you could see a far-away, concerned expression on their faces.

Now I am a parent I know why they looked like that. They were parents, they were worried. The two states of mind go together. No matter what the age of your kids might be. Be they four months, fourteen or forty you worry about them.

Speak soon
JH

You Can Tell They're Growing Up When ... You Can't Do Their Homework

Happy Days!

As a diligent parent I have always been more than happy to help my kids with their homework. Listening to my loved ones' reading has always been a joy, reading back their latest piece of fiction is never a chore and sitting alongside them as they puzzle through a page of sums is one of life's pleasures.

Until now!

The Dubmeister has now hit 13 3/4 and the Dubmeister is very good at Maths.

He is so good at Maths that he is in the top set for the subject and regularly outperforms his top set classmates in tests. The Maths that he does is far beyond number lines and times tables.

He is into Quadratic Equations, Sohcahtoa and Pi.

He has reached that stage when Mathematics becomes a language that only the very fortunate understand.

I did not realise this fact yesterday when I offered to test him for an upcoming test. I confidently expected to be able to ask him some tricky and yet fairly straightforward sums, perhaps a little bit of simple algebra, before sitting him down to a lesson on how to discover the answer to that perennial question: "What does x equal?"

It didn't work out as expected.

Working out the angles of polygons and parallel lines was simple enough. But then came Factorising, Multiplying Out Brackets and (horrifically) Using N to work out Quadratic Sequences.

Trying desperately to maintain my dignity I decided to ask him to teach me just how to use N to work out a Quadratic Sequence - nodding sagely every time he paused for breath. However, within 30 seconds I realised that I had lost focus and had no idea where N fitted into a Quadratic Sequence. Or even, what on earth a Quadratic Sequence is.

My horror enfolded further when I realised that he had stopped talking and was asking me just how I would use N to work out a Quadratic Sequence.

Being a proud man I tried to bluster out an incoherent answer that could possibly sound like I had been listening and understanding everything my son and heir had been patiently explaining.

But he wasn't fooled.

"So Dad," he said, sighing patiently at his dopey father, "if we take that all into account, what does 3 take away 2 equal?"

"3?"

It is when you find your son explaining his homework to you a second time only this time more slowly and with pauses for questions to ensure that you are still listening - that you realise that life has changed for ever.

No longer can I claim the wisdom of the elders over him  in all things. I may well have 29 years on him, however, when it comes to Quadratic Sequences I cannot hold a candle to his youthful understanding. It has passed into the misty, forgotten corners of my teenage school experience - like many things mathematical.

Speak soon
JH

PS There are more musings on "You can tell they're growing up when ..." here.

You Can Tell They're Growing Up When ... You Teach Them To Shave!

Featuring A Review Of Milk By Michael Klim

I can still remember the day The Dubmeister was born - nearly 163 months ago. I can remember sitting next to my lovely wife, doing my best to recall the lessons we had been taught about breathing in NCT classes and hoping against hope that he would be ok. Then I remember holding him in my arms for the first time and gazing at him and thanking God for this perfect bundle. I remember changing him for the very first time - cotton wool poised in a strategic position, just in case - and marvelling at just how perfect his skin was. I remember thinking that there would not be another time when his skin would be blemish free and free of cuts and bruises.

That seems a long way away now.

The Dubmeister now has a history and the Dubmeister now has hair in new places - under his armpits, on his chest and now on his face!

You really can tell they're growing up when you teach them to shave.

So far, we only really need to shave his upper lip. So far, he only really needs to shave on the first Monday of the month. Still, it seems a big step - he is shaving. We have broken through yet another barrier.

I have taught him to lather the foam in his hands and rub it into the target area. To contort his face as if he is a Spitting Image puppet and to lure out those stubborn hairs that hide in the shadows cast by his nostrils.

I am proud (and surprised) to say that he hasn't cut himself yet - he must have a great teacher!

We have been learning to shave with a luxurious new product called Moisturising Shave Milk by Michael Klim from his Milk range. It is available to buy from Boots for £11.95 and boasts of containing the oils of Peppermint Gum, Coconut and Menthol Geranium! It gives you a rich shave and because it moisturises as you shave it avoids the problem of burning red post shave skin I can still feel as I recall my earliest shaves. You do feel like you are using a premium product.

The Dubmeister also made use of a packet of Scrub and Cleanse Wipes from the same range to tackle his increasingly teenage skin. They come in packs of 25 and Dubmeister used them morning and night for 2 weeks. One side of the wipe contains Exfoliating Wipe Beads - it feels like you are wiping your face with a beach whilst the other has a smoother surface to clean away daily residue.

Both Dubmeister and I loved this product - and his skin did too - it looks clearer now than it did a fortnight ago. A packet of 25 Scrub and Cleanse wipes is currently on for £9.95 at Boots. One word of  warning though - don't leave the packet open or the wipes will dry out very quickly!

Speak soon
JH

PS You can read more tales of kids growing up quickly here.

Firsts and Lasts

My lovely wife's favourite weekend read is the Guardian Saturday edition. She particularly enjoys the Family section. They recently featured an excellent article by Jonathan Sale called "The final moments".

The strapline read:

We are all aware of family firsts - baby's first steps, first tooth, first time riding a bike. But what about the lasts?

It is a really thought provoking article. My youngest (the lovely E) has just finished her final year at infants school - our connection with the school which she and her 2 siblings attended has finally been severed. So we are very aware of "lasts" at the moment - last school plays, last summer fairs etc.

However, the article talks particularly poignantly about the "lasts" that slip by unnoticed.

I was especially touched by this:

You are always aware of a "first" when it happens. There are embarrassing baby-books with blank spaces parents can fill in, labelled "My First Tooth" or perhaps "My First Projectile Vomit". You know when a child produces its first painting, or splodge. You keep the artwork in case Tate Modern wants it for a major retrospective in later years.

A "last", however, can come and go without registering on the radar. I have never come across a "Book of Lasts" with sections to be filled in on final footy knock-about or ultimate nappy. There is no record of the last time I yelled: "For the last time, will you turn that television off!" Nor is there any record of the last time, perhaps years before, when anybody did obey that particular command.

On the evening when I read the last bedtime story to the youngest child, I was not aware that this was anything more than another instalment of a Swallows and Amazons novel.

"I think I'd like to read to myself from now on," she said politely when I appeared after bathtime the following day, Arthur Ransome in hand. And that was it. She had closed another door and, indeed, book. If I'd realised in advance how significant the previous evening was going to be, I'd have hired a brass band and got Michael Morpurgo in to do the reading, with a film crew to record it for the family archives

Reading to my kids has always been really important to me. When the Dubmeister was a baby I used to read at least 3 books every night to him - and each one at least twice. Rod Campbell was our favourite author. "Dear Zoo" is a classic of post modern Britain (arguably).

I still read every night to the girls - but the Dubmeister is an avid book consuming reader and he's 13 - so I don't read to him much, if at all, any more. Have I had my last "reading to Dubmeister" session? - has that phase passed into history? If so, then that is a great sadness.

But I guess that's what being a Dad and a parent is all about - it's not just the firsts, it's the last times too and it's making both firsts and lasts count.

Speak soon.
JH

You can tell they're growing up ...When Dad isn't always right!

Taken from Centre Parcs website

Being the Dad of a small person can be very good for one's ego. I spoke last week about my promotion to DIY demigod in little Dubmeister's eyes. He loved to mimic me and work alongside his guru as he sought to learn from the master. You can revisit that post here.

The second reason why the fatherhood of the very young does wonders for one's ego is that in our preschooler's eyes we are never wrong.

You can tell they're growing up when ... helping means helping.

Dad and little Dubmeister painting Baby M's room - 2002

When the Dubmeister was little there was nothing he liked more than helping his Dad construct or paint stuff. At the first sight of a set of tools he would roll his sleeves up, run up the stairs and return clutching his bright yellow JCB stickered tool box complete with saw, hammer and spanner.

He would then dive into the task, insist on doing whatever I was doing, make funny little noises and engage in builder type small talk.

They were special times. I particularly loved the deep respect he had for my DIY skills.