THE DARLINGS HAD NANA...

THE DARLINGS HAD NANA...

God was clearly having yet another laugh at our expense.  He had seen fit to send us two conveniently sedentary offspring : first was a hideously ill child who didn't walk until he was two, and then had to be carried pretty much everywhere for a couple of years.  Next was the entirely individual No2, who devised a very complicated form of bum shuffling and stuck to it until she was about 18 months.  Why not - she could see where she was going, and carry stuff in both hands, and life was good.  Thus we were lulled into a false sense of security from which it never dawned on either of us that No3 would be any different. He never, ever stayed still.  And everything he did, he did 100%.  He ate more than any baby I had ever known; moved faster; slept deeper; laughed louder. 

At less than a year old, we took to exercising him in an attempt to wear him out.  The family trampoline, thus far strictly out of bounds to him, became the scene of much activity as he raced round and round on it, almost lapping himself in his excitement.  To begin with the rest of us would stand at strategic points on the circle, ready to leap and catch him if he looked about to topple onto the grass, but it very soon became obvious that he was blessed either with glue on his enormous feet or great balance: he never fell off, and only fell over when he meant to.  Helpless with laughter he'd deliberately swallow dive into the middle and lie there panting, with his hair stuck straight out all over his head crackling insanely with the static.

Walks became a battle of attrition.  I would set out with him, Ziggy and the pushchair, and originally my plan was to follow them until they got tired and then strap them in and route march home to get stuff done before No3 woke.  That worked beautifully for about a week until their fitness levels surpassed mine, and it took longer and longer - and further and further - to wear them out.  I bought one of those long plastic ball throwing thingies and used it on them both to great effect, until the oil seed rape grew too high and I couldn't find them.  Understandably No3 by this stage was entirely convinced that he was a dog, and on more than one occasion I found him in the cage with Ziggy assiduously reaching the bits of breakfast I had failed to wipe off his face.  'Some exposure to germs' the Chief Medical Officer of All Merrie England was busy spouting at this time 'can be positively good for babies and small children'.  Well, that was alright then.  Finally, a tick in the ‘good parenting’ box.

The little green plastic tractor given to No1 by a Godmother when we all lived in Shepherd's Bush and we were being ironic, was pressed back into action.  The blur of small red wellies became a commonplace as No3 propelled himself round and round the island in the kitchen, the yard, the drive and all points between - at breakneck speed, of course.  Ziggy chased for a while and then a desire to remain uninjured and a bit of nouse prevailed and she realised she could keep an eye on him from on the back porch without being run over.  She preferred the ubiquitous Little Tikes red and yellow car: they sat in that together and No3 -  perhaps in deference to his passenger - went much more slowly, much to everyone's relief.

The mountain goat syndrome became wearisome pretty quickly.  The novelty of watching this child scale enormous (relative to his own) heights wore off and the practicalities of keeping him out of trees became an issue.  His older siblings had developed some sense of caution before they were fully mobile: this one had the self preservation instincts of a lemming.  Ziggy became his bodyguard and common sense tutor and ran herself ragged keeping him in check: truly, this dog was this boy's Best Friend.