He's Just a Bit Tired

J and I are at the checkout of our local supermarket where the cashier attempts to make J smile.

Cashier: Hello!.. Hello!...

A small amount of gurning later...

Cashier: He's not up for smiling today, is he?
Me: He's just a bit tired.

For reference, this is always a good stock-in-trade answer. She tries again, waving her hands. 

Cashier: Hello!... Hello!...

I attempt to help things along by coaxing his cheek. He maintains a steely gaze.

Me: Go on, give the lady a smile.
CW: Ah well. That'll be £18.24 please. 

I pay for the groceries. An old man squeezes past with his own bags.

Man: Hello little fella!

In full view of the cashier.J breaks out into the biggest grin I've seen in ages, complete with full arm and leg waving.

Man: Lovely.

Pause

Man: Do it again.

J obliges with another bout of smiling and waving.

Man: Do you know what? That has really made my day.

The man walks off smiling to himself.

Me: (moving away, not looking at the cashier) Has someone decided to wake himself up?

I find these little explanatory phrases fascinating. We're always using them to indirectly explain an action or justify a situation.

Daddy-led Weaning

Every meal time is, quite frankly, a splatterfest. It comes with the territory of baby-led weaning. You join us as W arrives home. I am on my hands and knees, wiping away a mixture of drool and toast from the highchair. Perhaps I should call it 'doast'.*

W: Did he eat much?
Me: Pretty good - three pieces of cheese on toast and at least two more have been sucked to within an inch of their lives.
W: And a few more on the floor.
Me: There were more...
W: But...
Me: I ate them.

W smiles

Me: (defensively) It was clean and... they were only there a short time - I followed the five-second rule.**
W: Heh!
Me: Well, some get thrown down before he's touched them.
W: Fair enough.
Me: And I don't eat them if they've been sucked.
W: You might do one day. Friends tell me it's a true sign of parenthood.
Me: Oh, how our standards change.
W: You'll be eating the sucked bits in no time.
Me: And then I suppose I'll only be ruling out the regurgitated bits.
W: Even then...
Me: No! No way.

You have to draw a line somewhere. 

Notes  
*Perhaps I shouldn't.
** For more on this 'rule' see the New York Times, Wikipedia and Mythbusters. Granny and Nanny should not read these links; here are some fluffy kittens instead.

Remote Tendencies

J's Auntie has come to visit. We're watching him roll and scramble across the carpet.

W: He just loves reaching for the remote controls.
Me: We keep them out of the way, but I let him hold them sometimes.
W: You do? That's probably why he likes them.
Auntie: It's because they're not toys - that's why he likes them. He sees Mummy and Daddy use them all the time.
W: When we get our new TV, we might give him the old control.
Auntie: He might not want it then...
Me: Ah yes, but we'll leave the old one with the others. That way it will maintain its allure.
Auntie: I think you'll have to pretend to use it too.
Me: What? Side by side with the new one?
Auntie: He's got to think it's still useful.
Me: Mmm, you've got a point there.
W: This could get complicated.

Onwards and Upwards

Another lift story, slightly shorter than the last one.

I'm already in the lift with J at the local department store. He is alert and looking around. A mother steps in with her little girl in a pushchair.

She looks at me and then looks down at J looking up at her. There is no preamble.

Lift Mother: He looks just like you doesn't he?

Pause

Me: Do you know that's the first thing anyone says?

The rest of the lift's rise continues in silence. The doors open. Exit me, quickly.  

It's not that I don't mind the comment, but when it's the only thing that gets said...

Elevation

J and me are waiting for a lift to take us from the platform at the local railway station. A mother approaches at speed with her little girl in her pushchair, stopping just short of us.

Speedy Mum: Wheeeee!

The little girl laughs

Me: I see you do that too.
Speedy Mum: It'a a time filler. Got to keep them amused somehow.
Me: True. 

The lift door opens 

Speedy Mum: Look Lottie, a lift. (to me) She loves lifts.
Me: He's quite partial to them too.
Speedy Mum: It's funny that, isn't it?
Me: For him it's often a double whammy. He likes the movement and, when there is one, looking in the mirror.
Speedy Mum: Great! How old is he?
Me: Seven months.
Speedy Mum: Wow!
Me: (to baby) And hello Lottie - how old are you?
Speedy Mum: Six months.
Me: Aw.

Pause as the lift doors open and we step out

Me: Just a thought, but if she likes lifts, you should try the ones at Tate Britain - they're really tall. Massive doors too. She's sure to like it.
Speedy Mum: Oh - that's a good place to go. She'll like that. Byeeee!

Lottie and her mother scoot away.

A Boy Thing?

In a project that my internal dialogue calls 'The Further Adventures of Daddy and J', I am using at least a day a week of my extended paternity leave to take J somewhere interesting. At seven months of age, he's not particularly aware of each place, but he seems to have fun and that's what counts. Our most recent trip: Tate Britain.

An older lady (OL) stops us to have a chat with J. I think it's because I put him forward facing. 

OL: Do you think it's a boy thing?
Me: Eh?
OL: What he's doing... with his feet.

I look down and witness the same view of J that I see most minutes of the day. Once again, he has pulled his socks off and is holding his feet. This is nothing new to me.

OL: My daughter, she never played with her feet, but my son wouldn't leave then alone.
Me: Her feet?

She looks puzzled (I couldn't resist taking such a golden opportunity to deliberately misunderstand)

OL: (missing my joke) No, his own feet. And now all these years later, his son does the same. I think it must be a boy thing.
Me: Oh, he's always pulling his socks off. That's what babies do, don't they? Mind you, he does pick things up with his feet.
OL: Really?
Me: He holds a toy up quite comfortably and then uses his hands to play with it.
OL: My goodness.

By her expression, this appears to be the most wondrous thing in the world. I could understand if she was still talking directly to J, but she isn't.

Me: I think his Grandad started him off doing that.
OL: Well there we are - knowledge passed on down the male line.
Me: (joking) You never know, perhaps there's a gene for it.
OL: Maybe...

We leave it at that. I think I may have inadvertently given credence to her theory.

His Casablanca

We were all out for a walk the other weekend...

W: (to J, giving a quick burst of speed to the pushchair) Brrrrrr-eep!

J smiles

W: Brrrrr-eep!

J giggles

Me: That seems to keep him happy.
W: I know. I tried it the other day and it worked.
Me: Amazing because he only tends to laugh at the same things once.
W: It's all in the sound - different every time. (to J) Brrrr-eep!

J giggles again

Me: You sound like R2-D2.
W: I guess so.
Me: (wistfully) I had a talking model when I was a kid - I really liked that. He used to beep and then play Princess Leia's message: 'Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope'.
W: Brrr-eep! (J giggles) That's my boy!

Pause

Me: Wow, I just had a thought.
W: What?
Me: Star Wars was 35 years ago, right? That's roughly equivalent to what Casablanca was to us when we were born. Released in 1942, I think.
W: That's quite a thought.
Me: Is Star Wars going to seem that old to him?
W: It might. It'll help that it's not black and white.
Me: And it might not seem as olde worlde.
W: True.
Me: Makes you think though eh?

Pause 

W: We are getting old.