The One With Paddington Bear

The boy is obsessed with Paddington. We went to the cinema to see the film and then on holiday recently he spent his pocket money on a toy Paddington bear. He’s even developed a taste for marmalade sandwiches.

As a kid I adored Paddington too. I loved the books and the cartoon series on TV. When I bought my first car, a clapped out old Mini, I called it Paddy because it was the same blue as Paddington’s duffle coat.

So as an Easter present we got the boy the Paddington movie on DVD. We had all enjoyed the film, and we figured that with the boy’s hyperactivity issues it would be a less dangerous gift than loads of chocolate Easter eggs.

Little did we know…

Last Sunday afternoon I was in the tip that doubles as my office, when the boy kept running in with mischief written all over his face and declaring,

“I’m not doing something.’

This. without fail, always means he is doing something and that ‘something’ is always something he shouldn’t be doing.

I went to look in the lounge but I couldn’t see any thing untoward going on. The boy kept laughing, looking sheepish and running in at regular intervals to reassure me that he wasn’t doing anything.

I went to have another look but he stopped me,

“Go back to the computer,’ he giggled

I was getting nervous now.

It’s at this point in the story I think I should tell you that hubby was up a ladder clearing out the guttering at the side of the house, so when I heard running water I assumed that it was coming from him.

But it wasn’t.

The sound was too close.

The boy was still holding me back and laughing.

I pushed past him, through the kitchen, to the downstairs loo. There I found a small, red, crab finger puppet, wrapped in a baby wipe and jammed into the plug hole to stop the water from both taps, which were on full, from escaping.

I had reached it just in time to stop the water from overflowing the small cloakroom sink, which was currently full to the brim.

Needless to say we had words and the seriousness of what nearly happened was explained him. I think it went in, but you can never be sure with the boy.

Then I asked him why he’d done it?

He looked up at me, with his big, brown, soulful eyes and said in all innocence,

‘I wanted to be like Paddington and flood the house.’

If you’ve not seen the film you’d better watch the trailer and then you’ll see what he means.

Paddington Film Trailer

Next Easter I’m buying him chocolate. It might cause mood swings, but at least it’s cheaper than replacing everything in the house.

I could swing for that bloody bear.

The One with Ta

I've never been a fan of Ta. Before I had the boy I could never understand why parents encouraged the use of it over just going straight to the proper thank you. 


Naive fool that I was!


Of course now I see that thank you is far too many syllables for a one year old to manage and you're teaching manners rather than the correct words. Thank you will come in time and lets face it, even as adults, how many of us still say Ta to each other when you've been passed the salt, butter or depending on how rough your day has been, white wine or valium! 


It's just it used to grate on my nerves!


But sap that I am, now the boy says it all the time I love it! It's so cute! I must be losing my edge with this motherhood lark!


I've been trying to encourage passing things back to Mummy when you've finished with them, rather than just throwing them with zeal half way across the floor. This could be bowls, plastic plates, cutlery, bits of banana or a handful of Cheerios! So far it's working quite well and the random throwing seems to have abated, for a while at least. So with each finished or disregarded item the boy accompanies the action with a Ta.


However the aforementioned Cheerios are another matter. You don't get a Ta with Cheerios. With that particular breakfast cereal you get "the dance of the Cheerios"! This is where the boy shakes the bowl with such vigour they fly over the floor, onto Oscar's head as he scurries past, across the dining room table and even on one occasion down my bra. Now I realise my bra's are a pretty big target area, but that kind of accuracy is impressive. I'm hoping with the boys projected adult height and the size of his hands, that if he can slam dunk a Cheerio down my top the NBA will be a piece of cake!


The trouble is he seems to think that saying Ta will exonerate him for any fall out for a wrong doing. So it's ok to chuck your breakfast across the dining room as long as you hand Mummy back the empty bowl and say , Ta!


And my trouble is I laugh. Or at least have to stifle a laugh and turn away because it's just so damn funny. However tired, or fraught I am about all the mess, I have to appreciate the natural comic timing of my son. It's genius. Pure comedy gold. 


The best one came one teatime when I gave him crumpets with Marmite. He picked up the crumpet, eyed it suspiciously, had a taste then proceeded to lick off all the Marmite. Once it was clean he handed it back to me with a smile and a look that conveyed, "I've finished with this now Mummy, what's next?" accompanied with the obligatory, Ta! 


So after all these years of hating Ta I now find it has comedic properties and it brightens my day.


But maybe that's because if the boy doesn't grow up to be a rich basketball player he may just turn out to be another Eric Morecambe!