At school he does phonics, which means learning letter sounds and letter combinations, along with funny little actions like blowing out a candle for p. He has a few phonics books that we inherited, and they make excruciatingly boring reads. When he picks them at bedtime my entire being yawns. It’s a bit better now that he reads them to me, rather than demanding that I read them to him. I can switch off and plan my next knitting project. Yes, you heard it hear first: sometimes mothers are not remotely interested in what their adorable offspring are up to.

In the Oxfam bookshop, I found an old Peter and Jane Ladybird book, you may remember the sort of thing if you’re as old as me. It contains such thrilling plotlines as Here is Peter. Here is Jane. Here is the dog. Peter likes Jane. Jane likes Peter. Peter and Jane like the dog. etc. But it’s still better than the phonics books [oil. boil. coil. soil.]

I brought it home and read it to him once, and then he had a go. He started by reading in a staccato monotone, halting completely when he reached a new word. I encouraged him to sound out the word using those boring old phonics, and he has gradually realised that even if he hasn’t tried to read the word before, he can often work it out. I can see now that he is recognising whole words, although he often guesses the ending from recognising the beginning, and gets it wrong until I prompt him to say all the sounds. Then he gets it right. Of course by now he has read the book so many times that he knows it off by heart, and reads it to himself with intonations and real fluency.

Starting to read has also affected the way he says some words, because he is more aware of word endings. Until now, he has often swallowed the endings of words, or simply got them wrong [using hers instead of her]. Now he has begun to enunciate more clearly, which is a big help in comprehending him.

And because the Ladybird readers are so much less dull than the phonics books, I am quite happy to sit and listen to him read. But we may have to move him on to Nabokov soon, just to keep me interested.

Me: Erm… Italy. Where pizzas come from.

Bernard: That man on the stairs is also from Italy.

Me [after eventually realising what on earth he's on about]: Yes, your Pinocchio puppet is from Italy.

Bernard: That’s my bestest country.

I could not square deliberately making my child ill, so no party. We waited, and waited, but the pox did not appear for nearly four more years.

Yesterday I got home from teaching an antenatal breastfeeding class and noticed that the boy was Acting Tired. Shortly afterwards I spotted, if you’ll forgive me, a small scattering of little pink blister-like spots on his face and neck, a few more on his tummy and a big one on his back. At bedtime, on a dose of calpol for the high temperature and general malaise, he was asleep in minutes: always a big clue that he’s Not Right. And this morning he is poxed all over.

Our half term plans to visit Granny up north are cancelled, since Granny has already suffered shingles once and is full time carer to my invalid stepfather. Those whose attitudes to pox parties differ to my own will be welcome to come and entertain us. Lucky it’s a bank holiday week and of course I don’t work Thursdays and Fridays, so we only have two days of emergency childcare to sort out. Now I must away and do some research to figure how long we’re likely to have to isolate him for.

I say more talking, but I mean more reading and writing – it just doesn’t sound as good. A little while ago we unearthed a packet of Letterland flashcards, inherited in a bag full of toys from someone somewhere [i.e. not something I would buy]. These proved reliably entertaining for quite some time, with the added bonus that the boy learned all his letters, upper and lower case. I don’t know if he does much with letters in preschool, but in the last few weeks he has suddenly exploded into reading and writing.

I secretly chuckle when we’re at Alice’s house and Bernard is trouncing Stan on the Speak&Spell.

I have taken him to the GP, who objected to my use of the term tic. They are not tics, because they’re not sudden movements. Nonetheless, I persisted, I am concerned about these involuntary movements, whatever speed they happen at. The GP admitted it was outside his remit and made a pediatric appointment for me, which is what I wanted. I hardly expected a prescription.

I spoke to his childminder and his teacher, both of whom say they have noticed rapid blinking. They school implemented a red book in which we all record our observations. In six weeks’ time, when we get to see the paediatrician, this is going to be useful; especially if the tics don’t show themselves during the appointment.

Of course I am worried. But I cannot spend the next six weeks operating at the height of anxiety about this, when perhaps it really is just something he will grow out of. How will that help? We will see the paediatrician, and something will be done about it.

All three of us seem more confident in our roles these days. That’s not to say it’s easy; we still have pretty major Sleep Issues, and Bernard is certainly stuck in a phase of NO. He knows what he wants. He is pretty damn persistent in getting it. I am so proud that he takes after me. I have noticed that (apart from the whole sleep thing), when we get into a difficult phase, we all change. We are quite adaptable, and we work hard to find the best way through these rough patches. This is probably another way of saying we cave in to his every whim, just as adoring parents should.

But it’s not all rough patches and NO. It’s being woken up at 6am by a rendition of “one, two, threefourfive, once I caught a fishalive.” It’s recognising the kisses that granny drew on his birthday card. It’s telling the man in the Indian restaurant that he prefers curry to chips, and neglecting to eat the chips when he was served them anyway. It’s asking what he’s going to do today, and then trying to rearrange the order of events for no reason. It’s choosing “kontrow” underpants in M&S. It’s alerting me to the fact that a nearby baby is crying, and wants some mama-milk to “feel him better.” It’s warm little animal cuddles when my big boy remembers that he’s a baby too.

Bernard has his own ideas: if asked when his birthday is, he will tell you it’s when he goes to Legoland to drive the car. So Pete took him on Thursday afternoon. I’ve just checked, and he says he’s still two, but he’ll be three next week. When he goes to Legoland to go on the car. You’ve already been on the car, I tell him. Your birthday is on Tuesday, and they you will be three. When I go on the car, he adds. And then, When I have my party.

Uh… party? Ah. We thought this was probably the last year that we could get away without having a Birthday Party. Not all the parents in our group agree, so we are going to Third Birthday Parties on Friday AND Saturday. And the other little boy who goes to the same childminder is three today, so they are having a party on Wednesday. Three years: three parties, and I don’t have to do any of them.

But this does not resolve the question of when to give him his presents. In fact he has already received three books from his Uncle Nick, about a month ago. There are three more items in the garage, one of which is a second-hand bike that a friend has loaned me for a year, so I’m not sure if that one really is a birthday present. Although if it’s not, then Pete and I haven’t got him anything yet.

Personally, I like a birthday that runs and runs; but then I’ve got a good grasp of the concept of birthdays, so it doesn’t matter if the celebration and/or presents are diluted a bit by being spread out over a week or more. But we don’t seem to have much choice, or any decisive powers, so here’s how the birthday will be celebrated:

Thursday: Legoland (check)
Saturday: going out for lunch and clothes shopping. Can we give him new pants for his birthday? Bernard says he wants a suit.
Sunday: presents in the morning, cake for afternoon tea, music all day.
Tuesday: Actual Birthday. Probably a bit of a low-key day.
Wednesday: Childminder party.
Friday: Toby’s birthday party.
Saturday: Visit from Grampy and Josh’s birthday party.

Finishing my Breastfeeding Counselling course I am now a qualified BFC. It rocks! and leads to…

Teaching antenatal classes Which I really love doing, and have signed up for far too many. From mid-August until the end of the year, I have a minimum of one per week. I have resolved not to over-commit myself in 2010.

Doing other NCT stuff Currently I’m the Vice Chair of the local branch, and the Newsletter Ed, and seem to have various other ad hoc roles, all of which I am going to drop at the AGM in November (see above for why). Except the newsletter, because I really enjoy doing that.

Trying to be a Domestic Goddess Not that I’ve gone so far as to clean the fridge or the bath lately, but I’ve made several pies, with varying degrees of success. I am highly suspicious of Nigella Lawson’s recipes, although her blueberry muffins worked a treat.

Knitting I can’t believe I haven’t spent more of my life knitting. It is so relaxing, and if you do enough of it, you become reasonably competent. I am not afraid to knit in the round anymore, which means awesome hat patterns are now accessible to me. I knit while watching telly, which doesn’t make me feel any less of a couch potato.

Chilling with the boy Fridays are our day together, and we have a pretty standard routine of pottering about in the morning, going to Waitrose for lunch, up to the Childrens Centre for the breastfeeding support group, and a long walk home. Soon I will make tea for us, as Pete is out with the Dads tonight. Bernard has not been at his most angelic today, but still has blinding flashes of cute.

My want to PAY for sumfing, mama. ["my" = I]

What are you going to pay for?

My want to BUY sumfing.

Have you got any money?

My found some money at my home. ["found" = got]

Really? How much money have you got at home?

My found one PIECE of money. My pay for sopping.

Mama. MAMA!

I drag my weary aching bones out of bed and go to check it out. His eyes are closed. He is tossing and turning, but he never stays still so this is no big deal. Unusually, he is not awake. I lie down beside him. Mama’s here. I’ve got you.

Read the book again mama!

What book, sweetheart?

ZIS book! Read it again mama!

Okay, I’ll read it again in the morning.

He presses himself into me, calms himself, and eventually he settles. When I can no longer feel tension in his little body, I ease out of his cramped quarters and back to my own cool bed. I wonder which book I am committed to reading him in the morning. I hope it’s not The Runaway Train.

There is a pause. And then he answers firmly: My ARE alright.

To be fair, he was very, very tired. He has reached a phase where he doesn’t nap before lunch anymore, and he doesn’t nap after lunch either. But if you happen to be out with the pushchair late afternoon, he’d quite like a nap then, which is No Way, because he would be awake until 9pm if we allowed that. So if he hasn’t slept by 2pm then it’s a no-nap day.

No nap means he will be out like a light at 7pm, but his behaviour will have deteriorated in the final two hours and he’s obviously feeling pretty rotten. It seems unfair to shout at him for misbehaving, when it comes from utter tiredness caused by selfish parents who want him to go to sleep promptly. But I still shout. And then I feel sorry for the little fellow because he’s sitting on the sofa looking miserable and saying that he wants to go to sleep instead of eating his tea, which features both of his favourite foods (olives and mushrooms).

At his childminder’s, he naps regularly, in a cot, after his lunch. Apparently they put him in, he goes to sleep. No-one has to sit next to him holding his hand for an hour. But he only has two more days there before he moves on, as they don’t do school pick-ups or holiday cover. So it’s out with the mini-nursery and back to a family setting, and I will grit my teeth and get used to yet another person thinking she knows my son better than I do. Well, that’s what the last one said. But that’s another story.

Anyway, chances are the change of childminder may mean no more lunchtime napping. I wonder if that will eventually mean sleeping all the way through the night, and past 5.30am. Probably not.

Oh NO! A gettibolonay is on the floor!