Takes After His Mum

Felix, 5 years old: "Something really funny just happened, Mummy."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes, I had my sandwich in my lap and then I looked down and it wasn't there any more and I thought, oh no, someone's stolen my sandwich, and then I found it in my hand!"

"Haha, I do that kind of thing all the time."

"I done it again, Mummy!"

[Mummy laughs]

"I keep doing it again and again and again! What's wrong with me?"

"It's called absent-mindedness, honey. It's hereditary."


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A Hardly Cloud

Felix, looking out of the window this morning after having jumped on our bed at 6.30am:

"Oh, what a lovely day it is Mummy. There's a hardly cloud in the sky."

Felix, later on:

"It's very hot today Mummy."

"That's because it's summer."

"But Mummy, it rains in the summer."

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"I know what I want to do when I'm growed up."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes, I'm not going to have a job. When it's raining, I'll work on a computer, and when it's sunny I'll have a dog and take it out in the sunshine. I don't want a child, though."

"Why not?"

"Because it would jump on my bed in the mornings."


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I is a Word

I've been transcribing some stuff from an old note book, and I came across some old Felixisms wot I never got round to putting up here.

I think they're probably about six months old; from when he was about four and a half.

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Felix: "Would I... I just said a word! I is a word!"

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Ally: "Mummy is my girlfriend."

Felix: "Really? But I thought she was just... Mummy!"

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Felix, on headlice and why he hopes he won't get them: "Maybe the doctors have killed them all, or maybe they've caught them all and put them in a box where they can't get out."

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Felix: "Small planets haven't got any people or builders or anything. Just ants."


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Stage

Felix: "I was on a real stage today."

Me: "Really? What did you do?"

Felix: "I told a joke."

Me: "What joke?"

Felix: "Why did the chicken, when it crossed the cow?"

Me: "I don't know, why did the chicken, when it crossed the cow?"

Felix: "I don't know, they were laughing and I didn't getted to say."

[later]

[Mummy finds a letter in Felix's bag: "On Wednesday afternoon, we are having a talent show ... all parents welcome ..."]

But we got the low-down from another parent: It turns out he marched onto the stage, mic in hand like a pro, delivered his opening line and had the whole audience bent double, with him never getting to tell them the punchline.


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Lady-shoes

From a friend: "Felix and I were talking about his Scottish relatives and he said he likes going there and visiting them but you have to be in the car for sooooo looooooooooooooong, and I said I know, I'm going to Scotland on a train next Friday and you have to be on the train for sooooo looooooooong too, and he very sweetly asked me for the name of my friend in Scotland and said next time he's in Scotland he will ask his granny if she knows her because she probably does as they both live in Scotland."

And another, from same friend: "he was telling me about playing tennis with his dad. Are you good at tennis, I asked. Yes, I go like this, WHOOF, and like this, WHACK [with enthusiastic miming to indicate Federer-like tennis skill]. Is your dad good at tennis? No, because he's a big person so he can't always remember the rules."

And from me:

Him: "Is that a good DVD, Mummy?"

Me: "Pans Labyrinth? Well, it's for grown-ups, so a bit boring and scary for you. But yes, it's good."

Him: "I like scary things."

Me: "You wouldn't like this, honey. Grown-ups like different things to children."

Him: "But you liked the Silver Surfer..."


And finally:

Him, head on one side: "That really suits you Mummy. You should wear nice lady-shoes with it."

"I did wear nice lady-shoes with it."

"No Mummy, they were just sandals."


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Chaos

"Mummy, I can't go to Ella's house because it's full of chaos, and I can't go there until all the chaos has gone. Her mummy said so."

Damn, I should have asked him what he thought chaos was. I'll ask him tomorrow.


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Being Good is Hard Sometimes

[out of the blue]

"Mummy, I try to be good at school."

"That's very good, well done."

"It's quite difficult to be good at school though."

"Why?"

"Because you have to do what the teacher says and you're not allowed to do what you want."

"Yes, that's true."

"And you have to play for a little while but you're not allowed to play for a long while."

Welcome to the world, son.


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Giddy

"What's filled me full of energy, Mummy?"

"It was that drink you had in the pub. It's made you a bit giddy."

"I like being giddy, Mummy."


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Stuff

1. Felix and I have been listening to Walt Disney's Greatest Hits while we eat our tea each night, and he's forever leaping off his chair and pogoing around the room to The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers. I try and tell him off, but he knows that as long as he's dancing I'll let him leave the table every time.

2. The reason I think I look better without my glasses on is the soft focus thing. As soon as I put them back again, I can see every blemish. I look beautiful without my glasses.

3. There was a third thing, but I've forgotten what it was. Carry on!


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Whatever

"No Mummy, you're saying it wrong!" says Felix, who is four-nearly-five. "You say it like this."

He moves out into the centre of the room, slackens his knees and his jaw, does some kind of complicated gesture with his fingers. "What-e-vaaa."

I try and copy him. "Whatever," I say.

"No, Mummy! Like this."

I have been looking all my life for a tutor, to teach me how to be cool. It seems I have found one.


N.B. I have installed a new commenting system. I am calling my comments "biscuits" for now. If I think of something more entertaining / give up on trying to be clever and just call them comments, the link might change its name.

Nan is a Wall

Felix's teachers are always entreating us to spend time doing reading, writing and 'rithmetic with him, which we do - albeit a little haphazardly.

For instance, when in the Easter hols Felix said he wanted to write rude messages about people, rather than deflect his interest into something more, um, suitable, me and Ally both got all enthusiastic and excited. It turned into a big family game, in a sunny pub garden one afternoon with my parents.

Felix dictated the messages, which went like this:

"Nan is a wall and she stands on a tree"

"Dad is a poo head"

"Tony's hair goes to Mars" (for those that know my dad, this is particularly funny)

"Dad likes to roll in dirt"

"Knickers"

"Mum is a wee head"

I'm not entirely sure his teachers will thank us...

True Love

Felix (nearly 5 yrs old): "Now that I've washed my hair, will Holly think I'm handsome?"

Daddy: "I expect lots of girls will."

Felix: "Yes, lots of girls like me. One, two..." [counts on fingers] "Seven girls like me! But I like Holly best. Can we live together when we're big?"

Daddy: "If you both want to."

Felix: "But I might not know her any more."

Daddy: "Not necessarily. You might go to the same secondary school, and then you could know her until you're 18, and you could get married."

Felix: "Oh no, me and Holly don't want to get married."

Daddy: "Just like me and Mummy."

Felix: "Yes. Will we be able to visit you and Mummy, when we live together?"

Daddy: "Yes, and you can bring your children to see us, and we will be their grandparents."

[Felix looks very worried]

Felix: "But Daddy, me and Holly don't know how to make children yet."


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Aftermath

I wasn't looking forward to telling Felix. We arranged for the next door neighbours to have him after school so we had a bit of respite, but at 6.15pm the moment arrived.

I arranged myself carefully on the sofa, took deep breaths.

"We have some bad news. The baby has died."

"But I was really looking forward to getting the baby." He bursts into loud sobs. "I want my baby!"

I thought it would make me cry, but all my attention was focused on comforting him. I was calm, and tearless. We told him that we are sad too. I worried that he wouldn't believe us.

He was inconsolable.

He was inconsolable for five minutes, but then he was distracted by hugs, and tickles, and giggles, and hot chocolate, and Shrek II. He made me feel so much better.

Later, the doorbell rang. A friend, running errands, being useful. Felix answered the door, and before she had taken a couple of steps, he made the announcement.

"Er," he said authoritatively (like a confident person getting the attention of a waiter. "Er, excuse me...")

"Er, I think we have some bad news," he said loudly. "Our baby's dead!"

It made me laugh, bless his little cotton socks.

It made me laugh.


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Tears at Bedtime

I kneel by the bed in sports gear, my hair still sweaty from Keep Fit.

There is a lump under the duvet. A boy-shaped lump.

"Oh!" says I. "Where's Felix gone?"

I poke the lump. It wriggles a bit. There is a tiny snort at my left knee, which is where the Patented Breathing Pipe terminates.

"Maybe if I count to ten," says I, "something will jump out and surprise me."

I reach "two" before being interrupted by a muffled voice.

"You have to hit your head," says he.

"OK," says I, bracing one arm on the top bunk. "Three, four..."

At ten, the bed erupts and a small mouth shouts "Boo!"

I pull myself up and hit my head. "Oh!" I shout. "Ow!"

His dubious face is testament to my pathetic acting skills. Or so I think.

"Did you have a bath?" says he.

"No," says I. "Not yet."

He pinches his nose and pulls the quilt back over his head. As I sing the obligatory bedtime songs he goes through an elaborate routine, getting as far away as possible and finding a succession of ever-more-ridiculous means by which he can cover his nose.

I reach the end of my repertoire, and it's at this point that I am normally showered with kisses and throttled with the ferocity of his parting embrace. But he is shrinking away from me, refusing to let me touch him.

The Smelly Mummy charade has gone too far now, but neither of us can find a way to end it.

I retreat, reluctantly. "Good night," I say again.

No response.

"Silly boy," I say.

I sigh as I leave the room and enter the bathroom. I feel bereft.

He doesn't seem bothered. It was only a hug. He still loves me, of course he does.

I'm surprised at the strength of my grief, but I push it from my mind and sink into hot water, white bubbles, relaxation, the official End Of The Day.

There are two televisions still on downstairs, and Ally is playing music in his room, preparing for a gig tonight. So the barely-audible whimper... well it's just something on the telly. Or one of Ally's weird records.

But there it is again. I sit up in the bath and try to listen harder, but Ally is running downstairs like an elephant - and as soon as his steps have died away, he's gallumphing back up again. Someone shouts on a downstairs TV. I give in, sink back down in the bath.

But no, I can definitely hear a small boy crying.

"Felix? What's wrong?"

Nothing.

"Ally! Come here a minute."

A red head appears round the bathroom door.

"Can you go and see what's wrong with Felix? He wouldn't give me a bedtime hug and I called him a silly boy, and now he's crying."

Ally goes away, comes back again, shrugs. "He won't talk to me. He's curled up in one of his sulks."

My new eco-friendly toxin-free safe-for-pregnancy conditioner has to be left in for five minutes. I can't sit here all that time, straining my ears to hear my own son cry. It's not very relaxing.

I sigh, splosh out of the bath, wrap myself hastily, go back into his room.

"Felix, honey, are you all right?"

He stirs, shakes his head.

I reach out to him, and he turns to me.

"Are you sad because we didn't hug?"

He nods his head.

"I've just got out of the bath," says I. "I'm not smelly any more."

The missing hug is replaced.

"You're making me cry," says he.

"I'm making you wet," says I, dabbing at his damp ear with a corner of towelling bathrobe.

"Everything's all right now," says I. "And I love you lots and lots and lots."

Another hug.

"Night night."


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