Day 5. (Take Geordie accent as read, please)
After only 1 change of clothes today and a good few successful potty sorties, I think I can almost definitely say we're making progress here. There are still a few bridges to be crossed, not least the fact that my gorgeous son does not actually seem aware of it when he produces more than wee, assuring me solemnly that no, he has 'Not. Poohed.' when my nose is assuring me that he most certainly has as I open the windows and wave the rugs around in a fruitless attempt to freshen things up a little.
I'm also a little bemused by his habit of exxageratedly tiptoe-ing his way to the potty if he has had an accident. Perhaps he thinks that this will minimise contact between his legs and the wet trousers? Or, being of a tidy disposition perhaps he is simply trying not to spread the resultant mess around? (He has been known to busily fuss around his room putting trains on tracks or in boxes for hours, before destroying them with attacks from killer t-rexs or cuddly crocodiles - which should go without saying, really.) Anyway, as long as he stops the ballet-steps before he's 10 there should be no lasting damage.
In years to come I can see him and his older brother Captain Adorable cutting quite a dash with the young ladies of Kensington and Chelsea...
Speaking of Captain Adorable, it seems that Boy #1's brush with the hairdresser yesterday has speeded up the onset of adolescence somewhat. As I mentioned on my last post, I took both the Boys for their two-monthly appointment with DEATH, at least that's how Boy #2 regards it. He was as usual easily distracted by a Thomas Tank Engine book, a chocolate, the pretty fish swimming in the tank in front of him, and oh look! Something Shiny! but it was whilst I was in the middle of my impression of a particularly frenetic Red Coat trying to keep my younger son in his chair that the hairdresser cutting Boy #1's hair set to with an electric razor.
Yes. AN ELECTRIC RAZOR! She performed a Number 3 cut - on my 5 year old son.
I could have wept when I glanced up and saw - too late - what was happening. As it turned out, wouldn't you know, he can carry this look off, and now looks older but totally gorgeous. As the east european lady who had carried out the massacre on his hair finished up, she turned to me and said:
"Gorgeoussss! Gor-dge-oussss! If ghe waz 20 'ears olter, Ah would be afffter ghim, Ah tell you!"
I rather wish she hadn't said that. Like all 5 year-olds, given the right opportunity Boy #1 can be rather vain, and consequently spent much of yesterday evening's bath admiring his new look in the mirror. And after I picked him up from his first day back at school today (having had to wrestle him free from the embraces of various little girls), he was using - out of the blue - expressions like 'Whatever!' and 'Fugeddaboudit'. He even had the nerve to ask me, when I wandered into the sitting room to check on him and his brother when everything was suspiciously quiet, what I wanted, why I was bothering him, and informed me that I could go.
After a brief conversation where I made it clear he would not ever be having his hair cut again if this attitude continued, he apologised. I suspect though that the moment I had left the room he checked his look in the mirror.
I blame his father. Obviously.