Posts Tagged ‘Mummy and Daddy’

Stream of Robin-ness

Robin

Robin writes. He writes on paper or on a phone. He writes stories, but most often he writes about football or our family. He writes without hesitation; without fear of making a mistake or a misspelling. His letters are clear with exaggerated loops. He writes that “Mummy wants lots of hugs and cises” and “Daddy is rearly cool”.

Gabe

My recollection of a series of football stories, name and author forgotten, that so engrossed me as a child that I read them over and over again prompted me to research. Michael Hardcastle’s Mark Fox books seemed the only candidate. I ordered First Goal and my research was rewarded. I offered it to Gabe who was non-commital. I began reading it to Robin, but I could see he was finding it difficult to follow.

When Gabe next complained of having nothing to read I suggested he try the book, acknowledging he would find it old-fashioned. He finished it in one night, before I could read any of it with him, as I had hoped to do. He has asked for the others in the series, which are on order.

Eliza

Eliza stood up in the bath and struck a pose, “like those ladies in the pictures”. “Which pictures?” I enquired, wondering what this may reveal. “You know, the ones in churches.”

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Dad, Dad, Dad

    Gabe

Gabe has decided to change what he calls L and I. Out goes ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ and in comes ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’. It’s a very conscious change and so one that he has some battles over with his subconscious. For a couple of weeks, the parental address has tended to go along the lines of “Daddy, oh, Dad, Dad.” He now seems to have mastered the change, but he seems to be missing the extra syllable so compensates with repetition of ‘Dad’ or ‘Mum’.

    Robin

Robin’s volume is not in my control. Weekend mornings, despite urgent whispered requests for quiet, he shouts and laughs loudly. He hollers at us sat together around the dining table. Close proximity to us, when in the house, seems to lift not temper his volume. Out of the house, things are different. Walking to school, his head a couple of feet below mine, and tilted towards the ground, traffic rumbling to our right, I’ll hear a mumble I guess is directed at me. “Pardon, Robin, what’s that?” I ask two maybe three times, but too often end up nodding or grunting to indicate I agree with something I haven’t heard.

    Eliza

Conversations with each of the children can be perplexing as they progress erratically through what appear to me to be non sequiturs. Now they are a little older, questioned carefully, if I’m being patient, I can sometimes recreate the link. “A boy wore an infant school shirt to school and had to change it,” Eliza told me as I was preparing to say goodnight. I asked her to say it again, which confirmed I had heard correctly. Gently, I asked why she was telling me this. “Because you told me you had to change your suit before going to work,” she explained. And yes, there was a connection, but one I wasn’t attentive enough to perceive unassisted.