Now I'm Four

Well now that we have the nonsense of school admissions out of the way we can carry on with the more fun aspects of parenthood.

Marty has now reached the grand old age of four and the only noteworthy fly in the parental ointment is the realisation that the well known adage “The Terrible Two’s” is a load of old bollocks! The first problem is that it rarely starts at two, which is no bad thing but can lead to a short lived false sense of security. The second problem is that it never, ever, ever, finishes at two. A far more apt phrase would be “The terrible Godknowswhen’s”. I grant you that it mightn’t trip off the tongue quite so well but at least we’d all know exactly where we stand.

In truth we’ve gotten away with most of the amateur dramatics and the sudden need to beat your way through the floor of ASDA using nothing more than your fists and a loud wail. I’m not sure why we’ve gotten away with it but I suspect it’s partly because Marty isn’t that keen on the thespian life and partly because we just ignore him every time he does try for an Oscar.

Wailing aside, the move from 3 to 4 is very much a transition; he talks better than he did, counts better, runs faster, argues in a way that can occasionally be described as rational, if you ignore the references to Thunderbirds and Peter Rabbit, and is just like a three year old who’s learnt a bit more. It’s evolution rather than revolution, which makes it pretty unique so far but I suspect is the way it will always be from here on in.

One change that I hadn’t seen coming, but probably should have, is the fact that he’s become a far fussier eater. There was a time when you could put pretty much anything in front of him and he’d eat it but now the look of the food matters. We do try to persuade him that it’s all about the taste but it’s been a forlorn battle. On the bright side this means that Leanne and I get to eat all the mussels, although he’ll make an exception for Moules Mariniere, which is frankly a disappointment as this is one of my favourites.

“It’s too spicy!” Is his usual complaint at meal times. I wouldn’t mind if this was because we were feeding him vindaloo every night but it applies to the nutmeg in lasagne, the Chorizo sausage in Paella, the pepper in cacciatore. The only exception to this rule is ASDA’s ‘meat feast’ pizza, when he’ll drink a glassful of milk with his meal just to ensure that he can cope with the heat and get as much pizza into himself before I beat him to it.

The good side of all this complaining is that he will try his best to explain the problem. All complains and arguments start with the opening line “Actually Daddy...”, which gives me time to settle down for the entertainment. There really are few things more guaranteed to raise a smile than a four year old explaining to you how life really is. Sometimes his reasoning is truly impressive but most of the time he’s lost me within the first few minutes, especially when the ‘tree falls down onto the house’, which is an event that features in most of his arguments and is something that he finds extremely funny... presumably because a tree has never fallen down onto his house.

Another joy of four year olds is listening to them narrate their own games. Marty has become a big fan recently of Thunderbirds, partly because of the new TV series but mainly because he has an old dad who still loves them. The up side of revisiting old TV series’ is that you get to ‘borrow’ the toys off all your older cousins, so Marty will now happily spend the afternoon ‘wooshing’ around the house with various Thunderbirds to hand, all the time explaining the unfolding drama to any who’ll listen: “What’s the sitruation Scott?...Oh No! The pit of peril!... This is a case for internatural rescue. 5...4...3...2...1” At which point he starts singing the theme tune, or at least that’s what I think he’s doing, it’s hard to tell on account of sounding little or nothing like the theme tune to Thunderbirds

My mum keeps telling me off for correcting Marty’s pronunciation. I can see her point in that it is a brief moment in time and it is cute... but I correct him anyway. Fortunately it seems to make not the blindest bit of difference, so my mum and I are both happy. I particularly love ‘Internatural rescue’ and his avoidance of the letter T at the start of words. ‘Prane” instead of “Train”, “Fry” instead of “Try”. That one particularly threw me at the time as we were watching Saturday Kitchen. James Martin was in mid cook when Marty suddenly announced that he was really frying. It took me ages to figure out that he was talking about putting his shoes on.

Another one that threw me completely at the time was “d’skies”. Aficionado’s of Thunderbirds will know of The Hood’s penchant for disguising himself. Alas, I’d forgotten all about this, so when I wore a hat one summer’s day I was utterly flummoxed when Marty asked if I was in d’ skies and spent a few minutes looking upwards before it finally dawned on me what he meant.

One of the hardest joys to explain to others is how you feel when your child uses a word or phrase for the first time. Ok, there are certain words that might not leave you suffused with joy but for the rest it really is wonderful. Just yesterday Leanne was explaining to Marty that he couldn’t have any fruit because it was almost dinner time. He sat back on the kitchen worktop, digested this information, and then sighed “Unbelievable!” 

See! How is that in any way funny? Yet Leanne and I both reacted as if we were watching ‘Live at the Apollo’!

As a result of this uncontrollable mirth Marty has come to the conclusion that he is a natural comedian, and in fairness he’s probably right. “Only joking!” is now one of his more popular phrases, along with its counterpart: “You joking?”

Another favourite of mine is “Give me a clue!”, which is particular funny in that he doesn’t distinguish between him revealing something to me and me revealing something to him.

Me: “Marty, what did you do at nursery today?”

Marty: “Er.... Give me a clue!”

A slightly less humorous development has been his attempts to grasp the concept of death. For us this topic arose when he was trying to figure out how his family are all related. He took great delight in discovering that his Nanny was my Mum but that inevitably lead on to where my dad was and where his mummy’s parents where.

It’s a difficult topic to explain to a four year old. I know many adults who can’t get their heads around the idea of death; its inevitability, its utter permanence and its complete indifference to your sorrow. So trying to explain it to a child is far from straight forward. I guess all parents will have to deal with these questions sooner or later and we all have to find our own answers. However, because it is such a mind blowing concept, the odds are that your child really won’t understand what you’re saying... but they will pick up on your emotions. So if you appear upset and scared of death, your child will be upset and scared by it as well, which isn’t a good thing. Another no-no is explaining it as ‘sleeping’. Not only does this confuse the hell out of your child but it also makes them scared of sleeping.

I’ve been reading “The Lion King” to Marty recently, which also deals with the concept of death in the guise of ‘The circle of life’. Marty seems quite happy with the idea that we’ll always be with him in his heart and will always be looking down on him in one sense or another but he also seems to think I’m going to be grass one day, which I guess is right in a biological sense but has resulted in Marty having a slightly morbid fascination with our lawn.

Questions abound when you live with a four year old and I must admit that I do enjoy trying to answer them. I probably don’t answer them correctly and I’m not sure Marty even follows what I’m saying but at least I give it a go. What has shocked me though is how youngsters can appear to be paying you absolutely no attention whatsoever and then, 3 weeks later, repeat what you said to them verbatim. A classic example of this was my reply to the question of Monsters and Dinosaurs.

We were walking through a wood when Marty suddenly got it into his head that the wood might be filled with Monsters and Dinosaurs. I pointed out to him that monsters didn’t really exist to which he replied that actually they do but they are really good and get energy from laughing and not making you frightened unless they are bad monsters, but they lost. An answer that only made sense to me when I remembered he’d been watching Monsters Inc.

On the question of Dinosaurs I replied that all the Dinosaurs died out a long, long time ago. So long ago that no humans had even been born and that we all looked more like hedgehogs than humans when dinosaurs lived. Ok, so it’s not the best answer but it didn’t really matter because Marty was throwing sticks for the dog and wasn’t even listening.

About a month later and we’re on a camping holiday. We’ve all just had a short walk and are returning to our tent when Leanne happened to mention Dinosaurs.

“Don’t worry mummy,” Marty replied, “All the dinosaurs are dead and we were hedgehogs!” I was shocked that he’d listened to me, Leanne was wondering what the bloody hell he was talking about.

There is of course a downside to this retentive ability; I’ve overheard a few exasperated “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” comments coming from his play room. To be honest I’m amazed that I’ve managed to forgo swearing around him for the past four years and, judging by the amount of times my wife has explained to me what we do if he does start swearing, she has little confidence that I’ll manage to keep it up.

Apparently, we ignore him. No shouting, no telling off and certainly no laughing. If they get a reaction they are more likely to do it again for the simple reason that all children crave attention. Ignore them and there is a fighting chance they’ll never bother saying it again. If he does try it again we apparently have a quiet word after the event about it being a bad thing. God knows if it’ll work but hopefully we won’t have to even try.

Another urge that has increased now he’s four is the competitive streak. When he was three he was pretty competitive, I assume all kids are, but these days he wants to turn everything into some sort of competition. The only real downside to this is that he will not tolerate losing. Oh no! Beat him and he’ll dissolve into tears of anguish and outrage.

I’ve managed to temper this a little bit by introducing the concept of the draw; if he wins, he wins. If I beat him by a country mile, it’s a draw.

To be honest it’s quite a handy thing all ‘round. Want to get him to bed? Seems reluctant to go? Just race him up the stairs, see who’s the first to get into their jim-jams, who can brush their teeth best and who can jump into his bed first. Simples!

Not content with reasonably fair competitions he’s taken to making up his own rules.

Marty: “Daddy, what colour is that car?”

Me: “Red”

Marty, now looking a little crestfallen: “No! You say it isn’t and I’ll say it is!”

Me: “Oh, now I think of it, it looks blue!”

Marty: “Ha Harr! You’re wrong! It’s red! SEE!”

This can seriously keep him amused for most of the day!

To be honest it’s amazing what goes on in children’s heads. Marty currently seems to think that the world’s ills can be cured with sellotape, it’s pretty much his answer to everything. A toy breaks, where’s the sellotape. The car breaks down, just grab the sellotape. Feeling a little poorly? Try Calpol and sellotape.

We were at the National Railway Museum in York a few weeks ago and one of the guides was attempting to explain that the Mallard train could no longer run because the boiler needed a very expensive repair. At this point Marty butted in and patiently - and loudly - explained to everyone that all that was needed was an ample supply of sellotape. You probably had to be looking at the face of the guide to get the full effect but it was very, very, funny.

All these joys involve the entire family but there is one fascination that is just for us boys. I am of course referring to the ancient art of urination. To women, having a wee is a mundane bodily function that can only be made interesting by inviting all your mates to join you in the Ladies. However, for the male of the species, it is a wondrous and ever evolving art form. One of Marty’s recent discoveries is that ‘I can wee on a tree, ‘cos I’m a boy and girls can’t wee on a tree ‘cos they’re girls!’ The downside of this is that Marty can’t go near a tree these days without wanting to pee on it.

“Daddy, I need a wee. I know! I’ll wee on this tree!”

“Marty, the toilets are just over there!”

“But the tree is just here!”

We usually end up dragging a protesting child into the loo but, if we’re not quick enough, we, and the rest of the National Trust visitors, are subjected to his impression of the Manneken Pis; bottom shining in the mid day sun as he contentedly communes with nature.

A slightly more bizarre development has been ‘Clash Wees’. As all parents know, privacy, like time and sleep, are things that vanish over the horizon the moment you opt to have a child. This was brought home to me when, whilst quietly going about my business, I heard a little voice right behind me say “Oooooh Daddy! That’s a clever wee!”

From this moment on Marty insisted on standing to do his business. Alas, the thrill of the standing wee was not enough for him and it is now virtually impossible to go to the loo without Marty accompanying me so that we can stand side by side and ‘clash-wees’.

As a result I’m left in a typical parental dilemma; part of me wants him to grow out of this asap, part of me wants him to never change J

The Wonderful Two's

The invisible man

There are a number of childhood misnomers and I'm glad to report that “The terrible two’s” is one of them. Yes, Marty has had his moments; he has been known to collapse gracefully to the floor in a fit of inconsolable tears, he has been known to scream. He can be a bit of a bossy little bugger when the feeling takes him and it has to be said that he can barely look at an envelope these days without wanting to push it.

I had rather hoped to follow all these idiosyncrasies as they occurred but I was struck down with  2 slipped discs last March and they rather took the fun out of sitting down to do anything other than immediately standing back up again. So now that I am approaching full fitness again I thought I’d do a summary of the last year, a year that was far from terrible.

Of course I’d heard of the terrible two’s - most parents of older children can’t wait to tell you all about them and do so with a rather worrying degree of relish. In my mind’s eye I’d built up a picture of a more diminutive version of the teen years; we'd awake one morning to discover our bundle of joy had turned into a mumbling rebel who hated us and insisted on wearing his Thomas-the-Tank-Engine hat back to front and his nappy half way down his arse. Fortunately this was not the case.

In truth this last year has been lovely. Ok, Marty is considerably more likely to break down in tears than he was a year ago but, on the other hand, in between the bawling he’s much more likely to have his parents in tears of laughter.

One of the most fascinating facts that I learnt about a child becoming two was that they finally attain an intellect that exceeds that of the family dog! In truth the word “fact” might be open to question here. Yes I read it and yes the author claimed knowledge on the subject but it’s also very, very, obvious that said author had never, ever, met our dog. I don’t wish to do her down but we have a female Boxer and I swear we have moss growing in the garden that could run intellectual rings around her. I suspect Marty became officially smarter than our dog when he learnt to fart.

That said, during the ‘two’s’ the intelligence of the child grows at an astonishing rate. Barely a day goes by without Marty exhibiting something new, whether it be a new word or a new physical skill. Alongside this, and probably the most impressive change, is that he has started to develop empathy and altruism.

I suspect this is one of the hardest things as a parent to grasp and I have my wife and Dr Chris Green’s book “Toddler Taming” to thank for what little insight I have gathered.

The mistake that is very easy to make is believing that your two year old is just a mini version of you, and the fact that it’s now possible to have a conversation with your child, albeit not a very coherent one, only adds to this erroneous belief. You hear parents berating their child for snatching something off another kid, or for refusing to share and they act as if the kid ought to be aware of the social transgression. In reality you might as well rebuke them for failing to understand quantum mechanics.

A two year old is only just getting to grips with a sense of self, let alone with how that self interacts with others and one of the joys of the two years is watching that change take place. Marty now recognises when people are happy or sad, he’ll share his dinner with me, although usually just after he’s taken a bite out of one end and slobbered all over the other, and whilst he’s still not entirely comfortable with the idea of sharing, he is at least willing to occasionally give it a go.

On the other side of the coin he still firmly believes that the world revolves around him. There’s nothing you can do as a parent to change this belief, it’s just a developmental stage and he or she will eventually work through it – this can often take 60-70 years. The other thing you have to get your head around as a parent is that this “the world revolves around me” attitude isn’t a flight of fancy or a sign of a selfish, spoilt child. It is a genuine belief; it is only during the two’s that a child starts to come to terms with the idea that they are not everything; that mummy and daddy are not actually apart of them, that they have finite boundaries and that they cannot control everything in the world around them. As adults we take our sense of self and identify so much for granted that it’s hard to imagine that we actually had to learn these things.

Marty also knows what he likes and what he doesn’t like. Sadly this is usually not what his mum and dad like and don’t like. To navigate this shoal of potential friction requires negotiation skills, the ability to know when to make a stand and when not to, and the ability to quickly distract.

The later is surprisingly easy as young kids are astonishingly gullible. Marty can be just about to go off on one and I’ll suddenly shout “Look! Train!” Instantly the bawling stops and he’s looking around eagerly for the train Just in case he picks up on the fact that we're 5 miles away from the nearest railway line I quickly follow up with, “Oh Marty, did you miss it?”

“Yes!” He announces with barely a hint of suspicion.

“Oh, what a shame, it was a steam train just like Spencer...” And off we go, the argument forgotten, the amateur dramatics over for another day.

The only down side to this use of the fictitious train is that we all now shout out “Train!!” the moment we see one, which wouldn’t be a problem except that it happens to me when Marty is nowhere in sight, which seems to worry my work colleagues.

Of course all this negotiation, distraction and deciding when to make an issue of something has to come from the parents, and most importantly both parents have to approach it in pretty much an identical fashion if it’s going to work. This was quite easy for us as Leanne decided what she was going to do and then told me what I was going to do. 

To be honest, she so patently knew what she was talking about that I didn't have a problem with playing the accompanying fiddle, and it must be said that it seems to have paid dividends in that Marty has quickly come to learn that bawling and tantrums get him nowhere and ignoring his parents counting “One... Two... Three” is never a good idea... although that still doesn't stop him occasionally giving it another try... just to be sure.

I guess the other thing to try to remember in all of this is not to take it personally. Marty is not acting-up because he wants to wind me up, he’s barely capable of even understanding that concept, he’s doing it to prove or disprove this growing idea that he might not be everything. Can you imagine how distressing that must be to a little kid? To have spent all your life so far with the utter conviction that there is only you in the world and that everything you see, hear, smell and touch are merely different facets of yourself. Then suddenly you start to suspect that this might all be wrong and that you might actually just be a tiny, fragile, powerless being set in a world that is almost totally outside of your control. No wonder they break down in tears all the time!

That said, I do still have to remind myself that Marty isn’t an adult , that he isn’t an evil, calculating mastermind, twisting me about his little finger just for the sheer fun of it but that he is in fact just being two.

So on the whole we seem to have managed to avoid most of the tantrums...but if I ever need reminding that an emotional explosion is just a heartbeat away all I need do is change his routine, just a little bit. I have learnt the hard way that two year olds love routine and, far more importantly, will fight tooth and nail if they even suspect that there’s the merest possibility that it might in any way be disrupted.

Bedtime is the most obvious routine and following the now established ‘rules’ of bedtime results in a happy, relaxed, process that see’s Marty fast asleep within minutes. However, change one single aspect of that bedtime routine and the house is going to sound like a cross between an explosion in a fireworks factory and the collapse of the Hoover Dam – his mother once added an extra verse into ‘Bar-Bar Black Sheep’ and you’d have thought the sky had fallen in.

I guess if you live a busy and frenetic life delivering this calm routine might be a bit of an issue, however we are now blissfully dull so it’s rarely a problem... and it does have its up sides – Marty must be greeted in the morning by his mum, if I try all hell breaks loose! Sadly, this means I have to have the lie in’s. Isn’t life terrible!

So that’s why the two’s are not so terrible, but what has made it so wonderful?

Well the fact that you can now actually have a conversation with him is a real joy. Ok, the conversation is a bit limited – mainly to trains, food, dinosaurs and dragons but that doesn’t limit the joy. It’s the pat little phrases and off the cuff remarks that really make you smile.

We were in ASDA when he had a ‘moment’. 

“Marty! Look at all the fruit!” I said in a feeble attempt to distract him. With tears running down his face he looked up at me and said, “I can’t see the fruit! I’m too busy crying!”

Currently his most popular phrase is “Daddy I need the toilet! Help please!” Then, if I’m still sat in my seat a tenth of a second later, he cries “Quick! Quick, daddy! Before the wee comes!”

Many of the conversations are just surreal. We were quietly eating lunch one day.

“I’m not a chip.” Marty casually announced.

“Are you not?” I replied, wondering if he’d somehow managed to break into the drinks cabinet.

“Nooo.” He stopped and stared off into the middle distance, obviously giving it some thought.... “I’m a fish-finger!”

I could go on all day about his language skills - and one day I probably will - but the other activity that really stands out is his love of hiding, or ‘oydin’ as he prefers to call it.

The moment I walk into the house he stops whatever he's doing, clasps his hands over his eyes and announces loudly, “Can’t find meeeee!”

Does he truly believes that the simple act of putting his hands over his eyes renders him invisible? I’ve no idea... but he certainly acts as if he does.

Since he’s obviously so good at hiding he usually feels the need to help out a bit. “Daddy! I’m oydin in the tent!... Can’t find meeee!”

Maybe it’s just me but I do find it all a genuine joy to come home to.

The three ages of childhood

What?

I have come to the conclusion that there are three ages of childhood and that Marty is firmly in the first epoch, the age of “What?”

For the last 6 months our breakfast routine has gone pretty much like this:

Comfortably sat in his highchair, Marty surveys the morning’s breakfast arrangements. He now picks up his spoon, waves it under my nose and asks, “what?”

“It’s a spoon.” 

He digests this for a few seconds then dips it into his porridge. “What?”

“Porridge” 

He looks at me as if he’s not sure I can be entirely trusted and then, as if to test me, points at his milk. “What?”

“It’s milk!”

Patently unconvinced that I know what I’m talking about – and who can blame him for that -  he now turns to his mother and repeats the entire exercise. This completed, he takes a few moments to ponder all this new and fascinating information. Then he sits back, pokes his porridge, sips his milk, examines his spoon... and it all starts again.

I’ve got to admit that in terms of wild excitement it’s right up there with drying paint but for some reason Marty himself finds it all totally fascinating.

It’s as if he’s thinking “But I’ve asked 15 times now and they STILL say it’s a spoon! A Spoon! Who would have thought? Wow!”

This routine continues for pretty much the entire day with breaks only for pooing and sleeping and the occasional wild stabbing at the sky and the cry of “Bane! Bane!” – which, in case you were wondering, is an aluminium cylinder with wings that is frequently found traversing the skies of the East Midlands.

I mentioned to a mate that I found all this “What, what, what?” a tad tedious and he pointed out that this stage will soon develop into the second golden age of childhood, the infamous age of “Why?”

By all accounts the age of “Why?” can last for years and years and leave a parent yearning for the halcyon days of “What?” or even for those far distant days of yore when it was just mummy, daddy and a bottle of wine.

I must admit that I'm actually looking forward to Marty asking “why?” all the time and I’m determined to at least attempt accurate and reasoned replies. Ok, in reality these good intentions will probably not even make it through the first weekend and I’ll no doubt be buying earplugs en masse before the month is out, but for at least a short time Marty will gain some erratic, and no doubt erroneous, wisdom.

I have been told that after four or five years the age of “why” gives way to a period of relative peace, until the teens arrive and the final age of childhood begins; the age of ‘Whatever!”

Strictly speaking this epoch is not just about ‘whatever’. The word ‘Urr!’ ,for example, is a popular means of expression, as is the age old cry of “I hate youuuuu!”

I can see why it all happens like this though. The age of ‘what?’ helps the child develop his language skills, the age of ‘why?’ helps develop their mind and the age of ‘whatever’ helps fray the bonds of parental love to such an extent that your child packing his bags and leaving the family home for good is now less of a nightmare and more a cause for wild celebration.

Words

In conference

By all accounts words didn’t come easy to F.R. David. Sadly, this didn’t stop him writing one of the most annoying pop songs of the ‘80’s, a song which pops into my head every time someone mentions ‘words’... which at the moment is surprisingly often as words are currently dominating Marty’s life!

The rate at which his vocabulary is growing is frankly astonishing. Every day he seems to add at least three or four more words to his repertoire. I’ll grant you that they’re not the largest of words - ‘repertoire’ doesn’t feature for a starters - but these days virtually everything you say around him comes back seconds later at a higher pitch.

Of course his enunciation still leaves something to be desired and it does take a degree of imagination to translate his words - which is often helped by the fact that he’s stabbing a finger at whatever he’s talking about. The biggest barrier to translation is that he still struggles with certain letters of the alphabet, mainly the letter ‘P’. So we have ‘Tigger’, his little pink mate ‘Tiglet’ and their bear buddy who, according to Marty, is called ‘Mmmn’. Meanwhile, the word ‘Bear’ can be either a soft fruit or an animal that defecates in dense foliage – allegedly – and the sky above Lincolnshire is full of ‘banes’.

The oddest of all though is his word for Snowman, which is something along the lines of ‘Bow-bar”. Go figure!

As you might have gathered I’m rather proud of all this so it was with some dread that we all went to a kiddies birthday party attended by, amongst others, his nemesis. This is a lovely little girl who is about 5 months younger than Marty and is light years ahead of him; when he could barely sit up she was crawling, when Marty had learnt to crawl, she was walking, when Marty was walking, she was doing hand stands in the corner of the room....

So I entered the party fully expecting Marty to be running around the room, stabbing at the wallpaper and screaming ‘Tiglet’ whilst this young lady sat down at her high chair, turned to her mother and said “Mother dearest, could you possibly pass me some cutlery, I have an urge to dissect this pomegranate.”

But not a bit of it! If anything Marty has a better vocab! I was well impressed.

There is a downside to all this though, words after all have power. Marty should by now be fast asleep but as I write I can hear a tiny, mournful voice echoing from his room, “Tigger? w'are you? Daggy? w'are you?” The temptation to race into his room and cuddle him is almost overwhelming, but I suspect the clever little bugger knows that J

Baby Talk

Lost for Words

I have come to the conclusion that the age at which a child is deemed to be able to ‘talk’ has little to do with the intellect of the child and an enormous amount to do with the imagination of the parents. You hear it all the time:

Mother: “Oh listen to the dear, he just said ‘Terrapin’. He’s very advanced you know!”

No he isn’t, he just said ‘Terrr Hin’. He's got wind! Get a grip woman!

In the sense that he rarely shuts up from the moment he wakes up to the very second he drops off to sleep, Marty can be said to ‘talk’. But is he talking English? Well if he is I fear he must be Scottish because what comes out of his mouth makes little or no sense to me at all.

His favourite word for many months was “G”, and to be honest it’s still a popular choice. I was rather hoping that this would be the start of a systematic approach to language and that he’d slowly acquire more and more letters of the alphabet until one day I’d arise to be greeted by my lovely child asking “If papa would care for a cup of tea and a digestive?”. Sadly, this was not to be. Instead Marty has opted to articulate a series of seemingly random words and phrases and the trick as a parent is to try to figure out quite what it all means – if it means anything at all.

“Aggy Ann” is a popular phrase and one that took us a while to solve. It turned out that the young lad was merely displaying all the diplomatic tact of his father, in that he waited until Mother’s Day before he started shouting it out as loud as he could, a look of profound concentration on his face as he did so. This of course was fine, right up to the point we realised that he was trying to call his mother “Aunty Leanne”, a phrase he’d picked up from his 2 and 3 year old friends who compete to see how loudly they can scream this the moment Leanne enters their home. Needless to say his mother was less than impressed, not that this has dissuaded him one iota.

“Ikea” is another favourite but we haven’t a clue what it means. I grant you that he might be talking about the famous store of that name but I think the odds of a 1 year old child taking a keen interest in flat-pack furniture is pretty slim.

To be honest I think GCHQ would have a hard time deciphering most of Marty’s remarks. Often the only clue you get is when he tries to sing the lyrics to songs – you might not recognise the words but you do recognise the tune. This favourite song sadly belongs to that vile, purple dinosaur “Barney” - a loathsome creature with a horribly catchy tune. 

It’s Leanne’s fault that Marty latched onto the song “I love you, you love me...” as she spent most of the journey from Kent to Lincolnshire singing it too him. Of course Marty has played around with the lyrics a bit: “I ya.... G, Eee ya.... G, ayy, eee, aya, aya... G.” 

Elton John eat your heart out!

But what about ‘Mummy’ and ’Daddy’? Of course these are the ones you really listen out for and he does use them quite regularly - which is hardly surprising since we’ve been repeating them too him, ad nauseam, for months now. Sadly he doesn’t seem to associate anyone or anything with the words yet – He’ll often shout out ‘Daddy’ when I come home from work but just as I turn to him, delighted in having been recognised, he’ll turn to the fridge and greet that as ‘Daddy’.

Oddly enough, whilst his enunciation might be minimal, his understanding of what you say to him is pretty impressive. When he was just 6 months old you could ask him “Where’s Tigger” and he’d immediately start looking around for his toy, pick it up and wave it at you in triumph. I found this as worrying as I found it astonishing and have tried my level best to moderate my language around him ever since... with limited success.

I’ll just die if his first real, clear, unequivocal word is “Bugger!”