A Splendid Time

We went Trick or Treating for the first time tonight- or, as politically correct George preferred to call it, 'Happy Halloweening'. Much of the week has been spent in preparation for this event. Two pumpkins have been hollowed out (one went mouldy and had to be thrown away), a spider with pipe-cleaner legs made, flashing shoe decorations purchased, and a costume selected.

Today, we baked and iced Halloween biscuits; witch, pumpkin, bat and ghost. All resplendent with silver balls (yes, the innuendo WAS intentional).

Off we went at 5.30 as George thought it was the middle of the night because it was dark. A prearranged call started us off and then we got carried along in an excitable current of miniature devils, witches, skeletons and werewolves. George was dressed in last year's pumpkin costume (last year he didn't really 'get' Halloween, so it wasn't worn in anger) and carried a scary lantern. He had originally intended to wear a dracula cape as well, but decided against it at the last minute.

George got progressively more excited throughout the evening, as it dawned on him that lots of children were out after dark, in fancy dress, knocking on strangers' doors for sweets. Children were waving light sabres and flashing wands. Children were roaring, screeching, running about and shouting and best of all, children were doing all this and not getting told off .

Additionally, George was the smallest, and the only one dressed as a pumpkin, and therefore was getting the cute vote. We were knocking on doors and people were saying 'Aah...don't you look lovely', rather than screaming in terror. He is his mother's son, and took all the compliments in his stride, batted his eyelashes and forgot to be offended that no-one was scared of him. But he wouldn't take the sweets! He just loved the atmosphere, the costumes, and the village glittering like a giant Ghost Train, the houses all bedecked with flickering pumpkins, ghosts, glowing eyes, and paperchains.

I managed to catch hold of him long enough to get him indoors, and then we customarily lit our pumpkin in the front window to indicate willingness for Halloween Callers. George shrieked with joy at every knock, and opened the door with cries of 'Trick or Treat!!' which rather confused things, as he was the one INSIDE the house.

The biscuits went down a storm. Darth Vader had to hand his light sabre to his mum so he could choose a bat shaped one, and a Werewolf had such long, rubbery claws that he had to be assisted in picking his biscuit up. All the vile green, orange and black icing was consumed by the undead hoards in such quantities that there were no biscuits for the final visiting coven, who had to be offered lollipops.

As the children left, George shouted his best wishes after them, and got more specific as time wore on; first, 'Happy Halloweeeen!'- amusing enough on its own when you can't say L- then, to a crew of varied alien/zombie/corpse children, 'Happy Halloween you trick or treat stonefaced skeleton heads'. And finally, as The Dark Lord and his mum disappeared up our driveway, 'Happy Halloween, Darth Vader! And- Skull and Crossbones!!'

He fell asleep, in the time honoured tradition, as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Lunar Expedition

Today I remembered a conversation George and I had when he was still two. We have great chats going along in the car, and on this occasion we were heading home in a cloudy twilight. George told me the following tale:
G: The moon is came down once, through the clouds.
M: Did it?
G: Yes, it went on the roof of the car and came to George's house.
M: What did the moon do at George's house?
G: Had pizza and coke. It was wearing boots and buttons.

Night Life and Light Music

I was awoken yesterday by the question, 'Mummy, what is the dark made of?'. My reply was swift and unequivocal: 'No light'.
A pause. I struggled to relinquish the arms of Morpheus. Then, 'Well, what is the moon made of?'
Easy: 'Cheese'.
'Oh Mummy, don't be silly. It's just a big heap of dust. With a face.'

About an hour after going to bed last night, George woke up, claiming starvation. Knowing that a boy's appetite MUST be appeased or there will be no chance of sleep, I offered a much coveted Custard Cream. This was seized with delight, and swiftly summarised- 'A midnight feast'.
As the biscuit went down, George made polite conversation:
G: When I was two, what did I eat?
M: Um, the same as you eat now.
G: (sharply) Plums?
M: Yes, plums, apples, grapes, sandwiches, sausages...
G: What did I eat when I was a baby?
M: Milk when you were tiny, and mashed up food when you got a bit bigger.
G: (Urgently) Mashed up plums?
M: Er- yes, and other food...
G: (Laying back, replete) I still like plums now.

Glad the plum issue got resolved.

George enjoys listening to an ancient Danny Kaye cassette tape of mine from the seventies. It includes such jovial Hans Christian Anderson greats as 'The Ugly Duckling' and 'The Emporer's New Clothes'. I was relaxing on the sofa when George brought his tape recorder to me with this playing, and said in the sweetest, most caring way, in a semi whisper, 'I'll just put some soothing music on, to calm you down.'

And finally, appropos of nothing, when getting ready for bed:
"Did you know the Hindenbergen went on fire?"

Elasto-blast

We have traumas with plasters. George has a bit of a love-hate thing going with plasters -or 'pwaaaarsters' as he calls them. Being of a melodramatic bent, the most innocuous or, indeed, invisible injuries can invoke repeated and constant requests for a pwarster. Once the pwarster is in position the real drama begins. BAFTA-winning limps. Oscar-worthy stumbles. Taking to one's bed. Cries of 'I HATE pwarsters! The pwarster hurts! I can't wear my shoes!' Generally, removal of the pwarster restores full and immediate mobility. Ten minutes well spent, I think.

A consonant reminder

I remembered today that George used to be unable to pronounce S and instead replaced it with D (or missed out the S altogether) . His vocabulary far outstripped his pronounciation ability a year ago, and still does today, although the gap is closing. I present to the court some exhibits 'S':

On coming home from nursery with a reward for good behaviour: "I'll dit on the dofa wiv my duperdar dicker"

On reptilian attacks: "Mummy, here comes a swippery nake to get you"

On getting saturated in the rain: "I'm noaking wet"

And the piece de resistance-
On his Dragon hobby horse: "It hasn't got a tail, just a big dick".

Good Food, and No Hard Felines

George had an apple turnover for the first time today. It was pronounced 'glorious', and a chant of 'glorious turnover, glorious turnover' was raised to the tune of CBeebies Storymakers.

Then a green jelly was shown on tv: 'Jellies look like water, but are actually delicate and very bubbly', said George.

Much as George adores Stella Fluffkin in the daylight, he cannot abide the idea of her company at night, and is eager to ensure she remains downstairs while he sleeps. At bedtime tonight he decided that what was required was a sign forbidding kittens to enter his room. It was to be a red circle with a line through, around a picture of a 'kitten standing up with her mouth open like this (demonstration) about to attack. I will draw letters underneath saying NO KITTENS IN HERE CERTAINLY and put dinosaurs roaring all around.' The sign will be positioned about six inches above floor level; kitten height 'so she notices it'.

Fingers crossed that those crayon dinosaurs keep that ferocious kitten well away.

I am being watched closely

...by the cat. Who occasionally extends a gentle paw on to my tapdancing fingers to remind me that it is, in fact, almost tea time.

George's birthday approaches. I have been instructed that he will only be receiving cars for his birthday, because Father Christmas is the one who brings trains. Apparently Santa knows about Thomas (the Overpriced) Tank Engine, but not about Hot Wheels.

'Burfdays' so close to Christmas are soooooo inconvenient. Whoever scheduled George's arrival on this earth should be taken to task.

Chit Chat

Me: Do you think Ish is a boy fish or a girl fish?
George: (Thoughtful pause) You never can tell with fishes.
Me: I suppose so...
George: (brightly) Or with bees.

At bedtime we play the 'I love you more than...' game, in which we compete to find the biggest object that we each love the other more than. We'd gone through the usual: House, Dinosaur, The Whole Sky etc, etc. It was now George's turn- "I love you more than, more than... a fish loving a cow". Much laughter.

He's also got the words 'inflatable' and 'waterproof' muddled up, to great comic effect. He replaces waterproof with inflatable, ie,
"The roof of our house is inflatable"
"Its a good job my trainers are inflatable"
Try it, its good fun.

DNA can't be denied

Is it a sign of extreme intelligence and excellent rearing that my nearly-four-year-old is already telling jokes? I like to think so... Not just the knock-knock or fart jokes beloved of all pre-schoolers (and indeed, his Uncle Matt), but proper witty banter. Two examples:

We were in the car, attempting to name as many different types of shark as we could. We went through the standards; Great White, Hammerhead, Whale Shark etc. George then volunteered the little known 'Mackerel Shark' and 'Tuna Shark' and we laughed. The conversation went on and George claimed he had recently seen Ish whistling in his tank. Unable to resist, I uttered the immortal question, 'was he whistling a tuna?!!' and again, there was laughter. Mine- hopeful, George's- patronising and shortlived.
'Mummy,' he said, 'we're not talking about sharks!'.

And at the tea table, we were discussing tools needed for the forthcoming demolition of the garden shed. BFS and George decided they each needed a hammer, a saw, and, possibly, they might use their bare hands.George ventured he thought he might use his head. I said, George, you're not a hammerhead shark!'. Immediate response from George? 'No, or a swordfish!'

Good, eh? Or is it just me being a doting mama?

And finally.

He accidentally set off the bullfight sound effect inside a cuddly bull shaped keyring. Gazing at it in 'is this a dagger I see before me' horror, he gasped dramatically,
'What is this haunted beast?!!!!?'