'En garde'

December 23rd

So Tom is beside himself with excitement as befits any five year old. There are hourly checks on how long it is to Christmas day and sleep is not easily reached no matter how calm the bedtime routine. Given the persistent snow (another couple of inches last night) over Edinburgh turning it into a picture postcard and the presence of grandparents and you might reasonably gather than the seasonal spirit has entered our home.

You shouldn't take the silence to mean nothing is going on of course - quite the opposite. Life is hectic and the boy grows in every way except outwards although I think he intends to work on that over the holidays. Tom's skinniness has been exaggerated by the recent move from Advanced Bionics' bodyworn processors to BTEs. We always felt that the bodyworn really worked for Tom at a young age; only the coil to worry about for Tom and he quickly learnt to manage that. Now, at five, not being able to dress himself is becoming a minor bind (he would happily spend the day in his pyjamas)...

December 27th - after a brief hiatus for a period we call 'Christmas'...

And that's why I don't post so much - get in early to work in the hope of getting this done, the phone rings and bang, its gone.

So...where was I? The BTEs are working out well - Tom can put them on himself and...and this is special...he doesn't need to check on his parents when his early rising grandparents are around to amuse him. And take part in duels. There are lots of duels in our house this year. Christmas 2009 is the season of the Musketeer around these parts.

It has been building up for a few months; Tom and I have been striding around the city with plastic swords in our belts stopping in front of shops and museums for quick 'one for all...' moments but there have been down days when other games and activities could be levered in.

Not so now - not since the costume arrived.

For the week or two prior to Christmas, an improvised musketeer costume sufficed; a wide brimmed summer hat of mine pinned up on one side accompanied by a belt and (highly inferior) Zorro sword. The first item opened on Christmas morning, however, has cast that to history.

We manage to smuggle his pyjamas out from underneath the costume occasionally and replace with clothes but basically, that's Tom now. Or D'Artagnan, as he prefers to be addressed. It has taken over his every thought.

I give you an example - Tom has just sprinted in 'give me your sword - it's much better. Grandpa is the king - I'm going to execute him!'

So his vocabulary is expanding in interesting ways and the boy can spot a Fleur de Lys at 100 paces. Not very Steiner I grant you and we face a few days of intensive deprogramming ahead of his return to school but if you're going to choose an alternative life for yourself, musketeering isn't a bad career for a young man.

So sorry Uncle Dave - the bike sits in the kitchen largely untouched and cousin Jamie (we think?), Tom has barely acknowledged the wonderful knight's costume you sent. Snubbed is a strong word but... its time will come - maybe. Many beautiful gifts wait to be discovered but for now, a £3.99 plastic sword and a flouncy nylon shirt-and-tabard creation hold sway.

Happy happy holidays.

Regards, 'Porthos'.

Another couple of dragons slain

It's not as if there has been an absence of important events either... its just been shoddy blogging I'm afraid.

So, a brief precis of the spring/summer...

While on a ski tow back in April we received a phone call telling us that we'd just got the home of our dreams. That was pretty momentous and not without tension - the Scottish system of closing dates and sealed bids is enough to send anyone to the edge. I could tell you about the flat... but it is so splendid in every way that you'd start to dislike us and we wouldn't want that now would we?

Suffice it to say that I AM NEVER MOVING AGAIN. This is it. For good.

So the spring was taken up with preparation for that and Tom experienced many of the insecurities associated with such events. He seemed to take the move up from Nottingham last year in his stride but this spring Tom suffered a great deal with separation anxiety. School drop off became a trial for all of us but, with great help from his Steiner kindy teacher, he has made his way through it and is now quite the stoic.

The other key developments have been about Tom's physical achievements. Absence of cochlear implants in the pool - alongside the whole separation thing - have made for slow progress with swimming but Nicky has persevered. In weekly lessons, one-on-one with Edinburgh City special needs staff, Tom has developed in confidence to the extent that, by the summer break, he had just started doggy paddling.

As far as I can make out, though, Tom didn't really get it. What was the appeal of getting in a big cold bath for 30 minutes with a stranger you had difficulty communicating with? He never heard all the other children laughing and splashing around; incentives were few and far between. Luckily his desire for a blue slushy remained great enough to get him through to summer.

Then came the family vacation to France and the killer combination of hot weather and friends-with-pools. All Tom needed was a long sunny afternoon with Amelia and a pool full of inflatable toys. The transition from nervous paddler to fish-boy was complete - and greatly enhanced by daily access to another friend's pool for the rest of the holiday.

Good times.

And today another bogeyman was slain. Following the meningitis I developed a fairly lengthy mental list of shit that I feared was lying in wait for Tom. Some of the items on this list were hugely irrational - I had a recurring nightmare that he would never increase in height that hung around for a few months (I suspect a psychologist would have fun with this one; something about being locked in the worst of moments). Others, though, weren't so far fetched and based more firmly in medical possibility.

Tom's balance was pretty messed up after the illness and, while he has made enormous progress, he still can't hop and has a fairly spread gait and flat feet as he compensates for his core instability. I think he has a sense of this and is generally reluctant to test himself in the way most five year old boys might. We nudge away at this as gently as we can and today, given that we are enjoying an atypically sunny Scottish weekend, we raised the possibility of him trying his bicycle without stabilisers in the park across the road. I made all the appropriate assurances about running with him, holding the back of his seat and he deigned to give it a go.

Anyway, you can probably guess the rest. After a couple of runs like this I whispered to Tom -

'I wasn't really holding you - I was just touching the saddle'

'Really? let's do it again'

and as we trundled back to Nicky I let go.

And off he went.

Obviously, now I'm terrified about the canal on the other side of the park...

The dietary habits of mermaids

So I got an unexpected opportunity to spend a midweek afternoon with Tom and we decided to go do stuff. Linlithgow Palace - birthplace of Mary, Queen of Scots and medieval castley type ruin - is within 30 minutes drive and I thought it might appeal to Tom's imagination. His play frequently features baddies, chases, ogres and the odd monster so having a good mental image of a castle - with towers and spiral staircases and all - to serve as a backdrop might go down well.

And we loved it - a hearty tour guide's thumbs up for Linlithgow Palace from us. We climbed tall towers and stood in every fireplace we could find. We explored wine cellars, kitchens and galleried halls. Tom didn't stop talking; asking questions and declaring his complicated theories. It took well over an hour for Tom to decide that 'Daddy, if we go in every room we'll be here for years...'

And so we went back to the courtyard for a close, last look at the ostentatious fountain before leaving. Resplendent with stone carved statues and gargoyles, the fountain needed lots of studying. Tom checked out each in turn before coming across a mermaid. He stared at it for a few seconds before deciding 'They live in the sea. They're really nice and people like them and feed them little pieces of banana.'

I defy you to follow that...

Christmas highlights

So a belated Happy New Year to one and all from one of the internationally renowned New Year party cities... where we stayed home and watched a hilariously poor movie before retiring at a sensible hour.

Highlights from the seasonal period...

When fibs are Good

The morning after the tree went up, Tom woke up shortly after 5am, convinced it was Christmas. Bad enough as this was, we had had a particularly late night that had left us all 'tired and emotional'. Nik resolved to combat a similar occurrence following on Christmas Day. So we got tardy with the advent candle and Tom cheerfully retired on Christmas Eve thinking there were two more sleeps 'til Christmas.

He woke up at 8am on Christmas morning to refreshed and recently caffeinated parents. A win-win example of 'when its ok to bend the truth' surely?

We're all Scottish now

My office is deep in tourist Edinburgh on the Royal Mile. Popping out to the shops for useful things, such as milk or 'something for dinner' is nigh on impossible. Tartan towels, tam-o-shanters and kilts however...

Nik and Tom met me from work on Christmas Eve with the intention of picking up a last minute present or two. Having hit on a good idea that could, remarkably, be obtained from one of the plethora of tourist outlets, we wandered in. Immediately Tom announced 'I would like a kilt!'. Tom is not an unusual 4 year old in that he has a lot of needs and desires which he likes to share with us and, as you might hope, we don't readily succumb. Being an only grandchild on one side of the family coupled with a life-threatening illness makes you the subject of quite enough generosity without parents joining in.

I responded with a rather fuzzy 'I don't think this shop has any your size and, besides, Christmas is coming (no mention of 'tomorrow' note - I was fully with the program by this stage)'. I must learn to be more explicit.

The enterprising shopkeeper overheard, of course, and quickly proved Daddy to be talking nonsense by revealing the range of cut-price children's kilts. Anyway... I challenge you to resist temptation when you know how cute and ripe with comedy potential the result is going to be.

Tom wore his kilt all Christmas day, removing it only to don his much-requested 'supersuit' for about 5 minutes. I think he found it quite liberating.

And yes, there are some stitches to take out so that it hangs properly. We have mothers so we have been told of our gross error.

And finally...

We have a clear case of parent favoritism going on at the moment. Undeserved of course. Tom finds me irresistible and I am his very best friend - to the exclusion of mummy in quite harsh terms. Mummy who does most of the fretting, looking after and day-to-day mundane stuff. It all counts for nothing when party daddy is available.

The cruelest line thus far - 'I love all of daddy, I only love mummy's face.'

You can't trust anyone

Today is the last day of Tom's first Steiner term... he's had a great few months and has become much more outgoing, sociable and independent. He will draw without being press ganged and having crayons sellotaped to his hands too - now there's some step!

Very Steiner moments

Tom's first nativity was on Tuesday morning - a 15 minute burst of circle time with singing and led movement. Tom was a shepherd along with a couple of his wee friends (how Scottish are we becoming). I watched his lips mouth a good few lines of the songs and he was right up with the 'shepherds sleeping', 'shepherds dancing round in circles' and 'shepherds wave their hats in the air like crazy Afghans' moments. 'Precious' doesn't begin to describe it. There were a couple of manful stares at the ceiling to abate the tears, that's for sure.

Not so Steiner

The TV has not quite left Tom's life - greatly reduced and restricted but still popular. His imaginary play is a complex mix of movie plots, friends, Ruddington and Edinburgh and travel in between. To illustrate the pervading nature of TV's influence and how we must be marked at school as 'not quite there with the program yet' -

We were having a chat last night and I told Tom that yes, after he had his tea, we would play with his new city.
'Trust me..' I said
'You can't trust anyone' he replied, as quick as a flash.

After a little investigating we discovered that this is one of Kaa's lines from the Jungle Book - amazing us that he'd taken so much in and reminding us that we really must put a cap on that...

7 sleeps - the tension is building.

Interesting times

So I get to school to drop off Tom. I have with me a note that Nik and I have written the night before, asking for a chat with Dawn, Tom’s teacher, to talk through something Tom has told us about him being upset the day before.

I’m met with a bright inquiry from Dawn –

‘So I hear you’ve got a new cat at home!’

Bemused silence. Nik’s fur allergy ensures such things are highly unlikely. Tom’s description of our new cat had been particularly vivid – to the extent that the tears he’d reported to us had actually been due to his upset at our new kitten being ‘too little to be left at home alone’.

The kitten in question – a slightly ragged towelling toy dating back to Tom’s birth – had become very popular for a day or two (acquiring the name ‘Israel’ along the way) and had clearly morphed into something much more meaningful when I wasn’t looking…

I take it such things are par for the course? Are we edging into imaginary friend territory here?

We’re all OK, by the way. Been a little quiet, I know, but we haven’t dropped off the earth yet… which is because of our stickiness since you ask. This was a recent ‘why?’ question from Tom. He seems to have grasped the earth is round somewhere along the line and shows a somewhat obsessive interest in maps and globes, and our place on them. Out of the blue a few weeks ago he asked why we didn’t fall off the earth.

Now I don’t want to be told this is perfectly normal – I want to remain stunningly impressed by the deduction that there might be an issue with the whole round earth/staying on it thing.

Around the same time as this question was posed the nights started drawing in to before Tom’s bedtime and he developed a dislike of being outside after dark. As we gently explored the reasons for this fear, we got the answer that he was frightened of rockets falling on him. How has he put that thought together?

Interesting times at our place.

A little story I should've shared

So my parents, Gypsy Pete and Diamond Lil, came to Edinburgh for their inaugural visit this past weekend. Tom was keen to show them his Edinburgh - the city of open-top bus tours, Arthur's Seat and his favourite museum - and we all had a great, and exhausting, time.

One evening, over dinner, Nik and I shared an anecdote about Tom and I was (lightly) reprimanded about the story's absence from the blog. Parents are allowed to do that (so long as its 'lightly' of course).

So here is the story.

One Sunday morning Tom and I were preparing to head out to the park.

'Now Tom, I want you to eat your breakfast before we go.'
'But I'm not hungry.'
'I'm not taking a bag with me so there won't be any snacks at the park.'
'I'm not hungry'
'I don't want you saying you're hungry as soon as we get there.'
'I won't...'
'Now are you sure...' - round and round a few times...

So we get to the park...and within five minutes
'Daddy...I'm hungry'
'But I asked you to eat your breakfast... I said that I wouldn't have a snack for you...'
'Daddy can we talk about the childcatcher?'
'But I told you that you had to have your breakfast'
'What do you want to say about the childcatcher?'

Needless to say I had also brought the snacks.

On the eve of school and other stories

It's finally upon us - the first day of Kindy (as kindergarten is called at Tom's new school) is tomorrow.

Working out Tom's schooling up here in Edinburgh was a major deal for us - a big leap into the unknown. It took us away from Tania with all her incredible personal support and marvellous liaision work with the school in Ruddington and it took us away from a group of teachers and professionals who took the time to work Tom out and to ease his transition into the mad world of pre-school.

Finding the Steiner school has made what threatened to be an anxious period somewhat more straightforward.

Describing Steiner to family and friends has been a humorous experience. There have been a couple of 'in the know' friends who have responded with unbridled enthusiasm and cries of 'if only we could...'. A small number think we might be joining a cult and there are those who've needed potted summaries from the ground up.

And it hasn't been so easy to explain beyond a phrase I've found myself using time and again - 'I wish I'd gone there' and I'm so pleased that Tom has that opportunity.

It is the type of school that upholds and lives by those ideals you ponder on and yearn for when you despair of the commercialisation and materialism that so readily engulfs childhood. It is the type of school that will permeate into our lives in ways that prehaps other schools wouldn't and in ways that can only benefit us all.

I think I'm more excited than Tom...

Anyway... the last of Tom's birthday treats arrived at the tail end of last week. I took Friday off and we went to see 'The Gruffalo' - a play based on the hugely influential (in our house at least) book of the same name. Tom was stunned into silence again - barely moved for the full 50 minutes. Live theatre is so much easier than movies or TV for him language-wise, it is hardly surprising that it has the hold on him it does.

A second treat followed on Saturday... Safari Park time and, most importantly, an opportunity for Trevor to meet the family.

Trevor the giraffe is so important that we have a spare. He's in the back of a cupboard somewhere with gleaming white fur and well distributed stuffing. He no longer looks anything like the original and we have developed a whole 'health spa for giraffes' cover story should we need to carry out the exchange.

Anyway - Tom showed a great deal of enthusiasm for the animals... at least until he saw the dodgems and other fairground attractions. The first chink in this new-found enthusiasm for all things natural came in the rhino enclosure where, having seen his fill of these beasts and the graceful antelope that also lived there, he glanced out of the back window and shouted excitedly

'Look!! A Mercedes!!!'

Yes - more interested in the car following us. He's a proper boy isn't he?

Greetings from Edinburgh

So we finally got moved four weeks ago and, after a catalogue of delays and general buggering about on the part of numerous conveyancing and real estate ‘professionals’ (and I use that term pretty loosely), last Friday we actually sold the place back in Nottinghamshire. It only took a year.

Amid the stresses, strains, thrills and spills of moving have been any number of moments when I’ve thought ‘I really must blog that’. But those boxes won’t unpack themselves and, with a new city to be explored, we’ve all been focussing elsewhere.

So… a few potted highlights:

Meet the gang

Tom talks about ‘the old house’ and Ruddington (the village where we lived) a lot. Summer might seem like a convenient time for moving to a parent but, for a four year old who has just fallen in love with this whole nursery/school thing, it just accentuates the ‘differentness’ of this new place and the lack of playmates.

Tom’s approach has been to elevate previously ignored soft toys to the status of friends. The gang includes Trevor the much adored (and frequently filthy) giraffe; Steve, a teddy bear with an irritating jingle; a gangly frog called Eyeball; Mister Cat and a few other recent additions including a koala with unfortunate chalk marks.

We have just about manage to restrict the party to one or two for outings but, when Tom is negotiating the flat in his pushalong car, the whole mob gets crammed in the back.

Personalities have been developed – Trevor is the devil-may-care somersault expert and toy most likely to slide down a muddy bank while the koala has rapidly developed a level of authority-defying cheekiness – and we’re certainly not discouraging this endearing foible. Indeed, it gets every day started with a smile.

Tom’s bedroom is at the opposite end of the flat to the bathroom and our room and, every morning, Tom drives all his cuddly friends to the toilet where he, courteously, holds each of them up to pee before he finally takes his turn. We lie in bed next door, giggling as he provides the appropriate sound effect.

Festival!

So we arrived in Edinburgh just in time for the festival and, while I squeezed a few evenings of grown-up entertainment in while Nik and Tom were in Geneva, the highlight thus far has to be Tom’s fourth birthday treat - The Bubble Guy - http://www.bubbleguy.com/bubbleman/ .

Bubbles filled with smoke, bubbles inside bubbles, kids kissing bubbles, people inside bubbles – what’s not to love about that. Watching Tom’s face and seeing him completely enraptured for nearly an hour was the perfect gift for us – and I hope it was some compensation for him given that his party consisted of playing pass the parcel with three grown ups and sharing his cake with a line of stuffed toys in party hats.

So I’m writing this during one of my all too frequent stays in a dull London hotel – away from my beautiful wife and son in our splendid new city. Talking about them brings me closer to them in some small way and helps pass the evening – I really should do it more often.

I phoned home about 6pm, hoping to talk to Tom before he goes to bed. Occasionally he’s keen to talk and answers questions happily, telling me about his day and his many needs. Today, for the first time, he answered the phone and shrieked happily to Nik - ‘It’s daddy!!’

It’s a measure of how successful Tom is with his implants that it took me some minutes to realise what an achievement this is.

Memories...

What’s your earliest memory? I was a forces child and can frame early memories in terms of the houses we lived in at different times. I have a block of abstract, unconnected recollections dating from the house we lived in between the ages of two and six - I presume most of them come from the tail end of that period but maybe my parents will enlighten me (I know you read this so here is your big invitation to reveal yourself and comment!).

So, as my inexorably slow train journey home dwindles on (a door problem at Market Harborough – lots of increasingly tense commuters unable to get off) here are my memories from that early period:

• Learning to ride without stabilisers – taken to the top of a hill and just let go
• Falling in a dry river bed, dissolving in snot and tears and being helped home by a ‘big boy’
• Purple walls in the lounge
• My mother picking me up from nursery in a red plastic rain hat
• Telling people I didn’t eat eggs because they made me throw up (I don’t remember the puking but I do remember telling people all about it)
• A homemade cheesecake with a base so thick that it needed industrial tools to cut it
• Sitting on the (black leather?) sofa with my dad trying to teach me to breath without opening my mouth

Some, or all, of these stories may well have been embellished with retelling over the years although I’ve tried to pick the ‘genuine’ ones (Lil, Pete it’s over to you). You know how it is though, family legends build up over time and I can no longer be sure which is which.

It has got me round to pondering on what Tom will remember of this period. In a few weeks he’ll be four (cripes, where did that come from); slap bang in the middle of the period I’ve been recalling and around the age at which ‘earliest memories’ are stored away for later recall and, well, his short life has been pretty eventful. Does that make it more likely to stick in his head?

In a few short days we will, finally, be in Edinburgh (yes, it has taken a frustratingly long time) so what will Tom recall about our house and life here in Ruddington? The garden? His room? Joe-the-boy-next-door? Hopefully that friendship will endure and we will see them all again. Tanya, his wonderful Teacher of the Deaf who we are already missing enormously? Mrs. Henson and the teachers at his first school?

Tom already surprises us with random recollections from months gone by so who knows what will stick and what will drift away into the ether. Undoubtedly it will be things we least expect, matters car-related and, equally certainly, we will reinforce the events that stick out for us – the things that make it a happy place in our collective past rather than the dark periods that we try to forget. One of those happened last weekend and will be drilled into Tom in the same way as my dubious victory in a Blue Peter competition (some time in the '72-'78 period for those who know their Blue Peter) has gathered an undeserved magnitude in my story.

Last Saturday, minor local celebrity that he is, Tom opened a fete. He cut the ribbon and everything. How cool is that? Opening fetes before you’re four? Now there’s one to tell the grandchildren.

A timely reminder on a Friday evening

The three of us sat down for dinner a couple of hours ago (we still have a table and just enough crockery to perform this daring feat - nigh on everything else is already in Edinburgh). Nik and I were putting a few work issues to rest when Tom piped up.

'Hey - what are you two talking about?'

'We're talking about work sweetie'

'Well stop talking about that!'

'OK - so what do you want to talk about?'

A big smile broke across Tom's face
'I want to talk about cars! - Let's talk about the noise a big engine makes!'

Yay. It's the weekend. Down tools everyone.

Father's Day

Father's day morning - I got up a few minutes ahead of Tom and was checking email when he emerged from his room.

A split second of confusion - he's not used to either of us beating him to be first up - before he said 'I will go back and get the card in just a second'... (he and Nik had stowed my Father's Day card under his pillow because, obviously, it would be much cuter for him to fetch it out himself and had nothing to do with avoiding being disturbed herself!).

I turned and said 'Go and have a wee-wee'

'I will' came the reply and off he went.

Tom is really comfortable without his 'ears' on first thing in the morning. I think he enjoys the cuddles without the paraphenalia (he uses the Advanced Bionics bodyworn with a single harness holding both processors) and his lipreading is pretty impressive when the context is limited and the routine so well established.

A cute moment to savour.

A comedy master class

This evening - at the dinner table. Tom, not overly impressed with the meal presented to him, is playing around and resisting all attempts to persuade him to eat.

Nik is doing faux-grumpy... which may actually be edging into genuine frustration with his stalling tactics.

'Tom... you're making mummy cross now. Are you going to eat your dinner?'

'At school Joe eats outside... in the drain'

... mustn't look up... mustn't make eye contact...

'If you don't eat some more potato, there will be no pudding Tom...'

'Harrison... wears girl's shoes'

Must... resist.... must not laugh...

We eventually leave him to it and retire to the kitchen. I threaten to eat the jelly and Tom stuffs his mouth full of everything left on the plate and appears in the kitchen to recover his dessert - without his trousers.

He returns to the table, smiling. Plotting.

We wash up. I can hear the telltale beeping of disconnected implants.

Tom has strapped himself into his booster cushion. Naked.

'I've taken my clothes off!'

I give up and we guffaw the evening away.

What is going on in that little head?

So we've been on a short holiday and Tom got to explore many aspects of French culture. Largely speaking, this involved gnawing on baguettes, pretending to drive 'holiday cars' (one of his grandfathers has so many cars that he leaves a few just for holidays) and befriending the local wildlife.

A day or so before we came home, we were wandering around a suitably picturesque Provencal village when Tom and Nik happened upon a cat who wasn't put off by his shrieking excitement and deigned to allow an approach. After a short bout of stroking, the cat nonchalantly departed but not before being declared a 'friend-a-ly cat'. By any measure it was a brief encounter. It provided a suitable opportunity for a little light language development and lessons about caution around animals but Tom was soon onto other exciting projects (including taking photographs - his choice of subject is quite eclectic - 'this dirt!', 'this road!', 'this car!!!') and the stroking fun was seemingly forgotten.

It hadn't gone far. The subject of the friend-a-ly cat was returned to in the car journey back to where we were staying. Yes, he was a very nice cat I agreed. I, too, liked him a lot. Then Tom's finely tuned sense of propriety and decorum kicked in.

We should invite the cat over for dinner.

Surely that would be a long walk, I argued. He doesn't know where we're staying.

This argument was roundly dismissed - his mummy and daddy could bring him in their car. Yes, he would like that a lot. We shall have the friend-a-ly cat for dinner.

I opted to play along. In retrospect this may have been my critical error but it was all in the name of fun language development and, well, we parents don't always know how it will pan out.

So when should we have called a halt? Before we laid a plate of rice at the table for the cat (Tom misheard me suggest 'mice' - or he just couldn't sanction such a ridiculous meal suggestion)? When I tried to use one of his soft toys as a 'pretend' friend-a-ly cat?

We had to start tea without the cat, oddly enough, although his tardiness did not go unnoticed. At some point I said to Tom 'we're only pretending aren't we?'. The tears welled up immediately and I could see Nik and her dad stifling those half-laughs/half-pouts of sympathy as Tom persisted with an increasingly tearful 'he is coming!'

'But sweetheart, cats can't talk... he can't tell his mummy and daddy where we live...'

'He can!' (thank you Pixar and Dreamworks for your witty and realistic personification)...

I tried in a similar, logical vein for a few minutes more. Tom bravely resisted reality. Then Nik came in.

'Ah, the cat has just phoned. He's sorry, but he really can't come. His mummy and daddy won't let him'.

And the crying stopped. Tom turned to me -

'He phoned me on his liccul phone', miming the cat reaching for a mobile on his belt.

The conversations with cats continue -

All I want for Christmas is... Cheese.

'What do you want for Christmas Tom?'

'a garageandamini'

The desire is firmly engrained - he shows no sign of wavering and besides, the letter's in the post already.

Tom also has an advent calendar. It's pretty fancy as it was fashioned by his Granny, blessed as she is with a surfeit of embroidery skills. It has 24 rings to which are attached presents for every day of advent. It was in action last year too (and the year before come to that) and Tom certainly remembered its function when it made its appearance at the start of the month.

The routine was quickly established - down in the morning and straight into the present of the day. after a couple of early negotiation attempts, Tom has grudgingly accepted the formula:

'I want to open another one!'

'No it's one present every day'

'No its two every day!!!'

Nooo - just one...'

etc.

He's a pretty good kid and hasn't given in to the temptation. This maybe because, two weeks in, he's learned that quantity doesn't equate to quality and, quite frankly, waiting until the morning for 3 jellybabies or a small toy is no great hardship.

On a number of evenings he has shown great interest in the present at the bottom of the calendar - the one that awaits on Christmas Eve. Tonight, apropos apparently nothing, Tom informed me it was Christmas Eve. Strong assertions of this type are pretty common at the moment and he wasn't to be dissuaded.

'It will be soon... not tonight though...'

'It is!! It is Christmas Eve!'

He then went over to the bottom gift and gave it a little squeeze, his curiosity rising to the surface again.

'It's quite hard... It's cheese!!', clearly quite excited at the prospect.

'Can I taste it!!'

Have we managed to lower his expectations that much? Maybe he'll actually be disappointed when he unwraps the wooden box of animal dominoes...

I'll let you know.

Language for all occasions

After dinner last night Tom started experimenting with coil removal. At first he was taking just one off.

'Can you still here me Tom?'

'I can hear you a little bit...'

Once he's got our interest they both come off and, after some pretty impressive lip reading and they coils are restored to his head I ask

'Why did you take them both off?'

'Cos I'm crackers!'

His mummy has been teaching him some useful language.

I was a Dr Seuss self-starter

Last night I read ‘Green Eggs and Ham’ to Tom for the first time. I don’t know who enjoyed it more… well I do actually. I don’t come from a Dr. Seuss kind of family and never experienced the Cat in the Hat, the Grinch or Sam-I-Am until my own adulthood when I fell in love with the well-crafted rhyming nonsense. I have a few of the books kicking about the place and have been a bit slow in introducing them to Tom. Last night we rectified that.

My, did I (green) ham it up. While I write this I have a growing sense that last night may not be the first time I have read this story out loud. Vague recollections of ranting about foxes and boxes to myself are surfacing as a timely reminder that three years of working from home is quite enough and a gradual reintegration into society is somewhat overdue.

Tom was enthralled. The presence of cars, trains and boats in the story can only have helped but there’s no doubt that the slightly manic enthusiasm shown by daddy sucked the audience in. Heck, Nik even wandered in to see what all this loudness was all about.

‘You do NOT like what anywhere?’

As parents we stack up our series of personal hopes and expectations for our offspring – often partially concealed behind the genial catch-all of ‘wanting him to be happy’. Nik always said she wanted a boy who was ‘just a little bit naughty’. I plan to share that one with the little guy at some point – probably just after he’s been despatched to the naughty step.

Slight tangent – but on topic – a ‘mummy and Tom’ day last week led to Tom learning the very useful and oft-repeated ‘I’m driving you crackers, I’m driving you crackers’. Piece together the events that led to that little gem if you will.

At risk of showing myself up as the geeky half of the relationship, I always placed ‘Sharing my love of books’ near the top of my list. Nik counselled me about ‘overdoing it’, reminding me of her own near-allergic response to museums, galleries and classical music and I tempered the urge to buy a set of Penguin Classics for Tom’s first Christmas.

So we mix up the daily routine with the wonder that is Pixar, charging around the garden, and cars. We let play wander wherever the whim takes us and fill our days with castles and towers and tunnels and garages. We take to pretend stages and sing the same line of songs over and over. Days vary and take imaginative leaps this way and that but they all end the same way. Me or Nik with Tom and a book. After the story is read and the songs are sung, the book is tucked down by the mattress and the lights go out.

In the morning we sometimes find the book crumpled and thumbed somewhere in bed – Hairy Maclary often has this fate. One night, checking on Tom, we found him asleep on his back with the book folded open across his chest in a pose curiously reminiscent of his grandfathers.
This morning was best though. This morning I opened Tom’s bedroom door to find him poring over ‘Green Eggs and Ham’ by torchlight. Even though light spilled in from the hallway he wasn’t about to interrupt his reading by paying his dad any attention.

I think we have a Dr Seuss fan.

Running Commentary

Things aren't anywhere near as gloomy as that last post really... I shouldn't have left it so long, sitting there atop this blog. What will people think they've wandered into?

For the vast majority of the time, Tom's story is one of normal development - astounding stuff considering the 'wee setback'. He thinks everything is so great that you can't help but find yourself agreeing and then, of course, there's the running commentary...

It was around this time last year, maybe a little earlier, that Tom's Granny made a typically apposite comment about her charming loquacious grandson. On returning from a car trip with Tom, she said it was 'just like driving with my mother'. I'm not sure she meant it entirely kindly but, lets be honest, it ain't so different.

'Oh look, a van'
'And there's another one'
'Its a roundabout. The traffic lights are gone now'
'Look there's a digger'
'That's where Chris's party was'
'That was a lovely shoe cake'
'The traffic lights are red. That means we have to stop.'
'That's a Corsa. Just like Granny's but Granny's Corsa is blue'.
'Oh look, another van'
'There's one two three vans'

This habit shows no sign of abating and has grown into obsessive monologues and the dexterous steering of conversation round to subjects of interest. There are also blunt changes of subject when the topic wanders away from key matters.

Not a day goes by without the following topics being covered:
'A short precis of the houses and cars I can see from the dining table' - length varies according to how interesting dinner is.
'Where Ruddington stops and Clifton begins'
'Going to Grandpa's house and Grandpa's cars' - this is a lengthy one because of the number of cars at Grandpa's and the journey's endless possibilities involving aeroplanes, cars and, possibly, boats.
'Chocolate money' - a nutritious foodstuff that has caught Tom's imagination and would almost certainly, according to him, make a perfect breakfast.

We're getting our money's worth out of these implants.

So that mostly covers what's been going on chez Tom over the past couple of weeks. There were a few days following the physio's visit when Tom morphed into a fragile convalescent but reality crept back into view. By lucky coincidence, a week or so after the visit, I met the parents of Mike and that put many things into perspective.

This is Mike - since this was written he has graduated with first class honours in Design and Technology for Industry and has now started his first job. Mike was the first child in the UK implanted - 1990 if my calculations are correct. This was a time before the NHS recognised they might be useful and certainly didn't pay for them. Simply put, Mike and his family have hero status as far as we're concerned.

When you're in the CI club you just need to share and devour each other's experience. We've gleaned so much from other families and, I guess, passed quite a bit on ourselves but nothing compared to what the Batts have to share. All the imponderables about Tom's future that float to the surface in the dead of night - this family have lived through them, dealt with them and moved on. No two children are the same... I know all that... but the many questions about the experience of 'being the kid with the implant'; the business of living and growing with this thing were what I wanted to ask.

And the Batts indulged me. They painted the picture of (an approximately) the normal, 'whole' childhood, adolescence and young adult life that we now know is coming. Riding a bike, driving a car, drunken teenagers and girlfriends; its all there as it should be. I came away grateful and reassured. I relayed the conversation as well as I could to Nik who, as is her way on occasion, found bits to worry about. Luckily she now has a blog of her own to share some of these things with all of you. She's at http://dropoutmum.blogspot.com/ - and she's great so go read!

So we're back in a better place again. Thought I'd better let you know.

When Mum's away...

Tom and I are having a boys weekend. Nik has gone to visit a friend in Sweden leaving me and the little guy to do what boys do when left without the influence of the wiser and tidier gender.

So what have we done? Well, have lunch in a pub (or 'cafe' as Tom refers to any location where food can be purchased), watch the rugby and finally slump in front of a favourite DVD while stuffing our faces with sweets.

Is that so wrong?

As far as his mother's absence is concerned Tom thinks it has one purpose and I've had to remind Nik on the phone to avert potential disaster. He is expecting a yellow present and he expects me to receive a red one. Where did he get this idea? Who knows but there might be tears before bedtime tomorrow.

A Tracey Day

'Not a Karen Day?' Tom inquired over breakfast.

'No it isn't' I confirmed. Karen days are fine (Karen being Tom's adored childminder) he just likes to know what's coming so that he can adjust his list of demands accordingly.

'Its a Tracey day!!' - Tom suddenly remembered what we'd been talking about yesterday evening. It has been a while since we've visited the implant team but Tom hasn't forgotten the drill.

'I say to Tracey 'Can I play with your cars please?' and Tracey says to Tom 'Of course you can'' Tom rehearsed this opening speech a few times before we got there and I scripted a few extra bits such as 'It might be nice to say hello first' while hoping that Tracey didn't fluff her lines.

I needn't have worried. Tom adores audiology sessions - these people with their fancy room, computers, loudspeakers and all those wonderful games. The simple truth is that it is evident to the audiologists (only one of whom is called Tracey. Susan sits in the booth doing her bit without getting any of the glory) within a minute of us walking in that everything is just fine. Despite it being close to six months I would guess since we were last there, Tom is immediately at ease and rabbiting about every aspect of the day thus far that has caught his attention.

The session involved a variety of tests on both ears and Tom concentrated for pretty much the full two hours although he was unable to stifle a yawn towards the end and we began to suspect he was sabotaging the exercise a little. The results were, however, fabulous. Tom is hearing down to the 30db level and is differentiating between similar sounds heard through a loudspeaker - 'horse/house', 'cup/duck' and the like.

I've said it before but its worth reiterating - these implants are an utter marvel.

Our route home took us past the hospital where Tom was admitted with meningitis and where we all spent those long tortuous days and weeks, not knowing where any of it would end or what we could hope for. I don't plunge into any kind of regressed depression when I pass there these days which is a good job considering how frequently we are nearby or visiting. I do think back though.

'That's Mr Twigg's hospital!' shouts Tom and I chuckle with a degree of relief. I'm sure Mr Twigg will be surprised to hear that it's his hospital but it'll serve for us. Mr Twigg is Tom's orthoptist - he has lots of funny toys he puts on the end of pencils that light up. We visit his clinic frequently for delightfully non-invasive, utterly routine tests and if that's all that comes to Tom's mind when he sees that hospital then its more than alright with me.

There doesn't seem to be any recollections of events such as these. I hope it stays that way and that when he reads what I've written here it will seem like a slightly scary thing that happened to someone else a long time ago. He is starting to become aware that he has 'special ears' and we are building his understanding as carefully as we can but the sad stuff that got him to that point is for us to carry and protect him from.

Apologies for the slightly reflective tone at the close - in the midst of the brightness that Tom's astonishing progress continues to be there will always be these reminders.