There isn’t a right time for a baby’s first haircut. Boy Three has quite a lot of hair and some of it is rather long. It’s not well distributed, however, the long bits are around the front and the back is short and fluffy. Some of the strands get glued to his face with snot or food and, apparently, that’s not a happy state of affairs. But I know that the first chopping of soft baby hair somehow changes their little faces, turning them into toddlers. What should we do?
The Tooth Fairy lives. There has been a lot of wobbly tooth action in our house lately. Quite frankly the Tooth Fairy is a bit skint. But small boys’ mouths have no regard for the economic turmoil in the land of TF. Boy Two lost another minuscule incisor at Granny’s house on the last leg of the mammoth memorial weekend. The tooth was shoved into a Ziploc bag for safe keeping and we carried on home.
The Panther and I divided the work – feeding children, washing children, answering children’s questions, wiping children’s snot, phoning for takeaway, eating takeaway, unloading the car, unloading the bags, putting the washing machine on and finding some clothes for work. By the time we’d finished it was well past bedtime and, mea culpa, I forgot all about the wee chap’s tooth. Next morning in the shower, I tried to muster some zing for the week ahead, Boy Two put his head around the door. He was fighting tears. “The Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” he sobbed although not so distressed as to need a hug and get an inadvertent washing.
For a moment, I thought he was having me on, but his misery seemed real.
“Oh dear,” I improvised. “I’ll send an email, I think it’s on ToothFairy.com.”
That night, in the nick of time, I remembered and shoved the going rate – £2 in our house – in a bag with a note: “Sorry I was late, love TF xx”
Shower face was a bit happier. “Morning mummy, the Tooth Fairy came.”
“That’s good. What did you get?”
“There was a note.”
“Oh. What did it say?”
“None of your business.”
Growth spurts happen when you’re not looking. The Boys were going to join us in walking up Arnison Crag in memory of my brother. They’d agreed – although they didn’t really know what they were in for.
“How far is it?”
“Two Beacons on top of each other.”
The walk to the Beacon Pike above Penrith has been a measure of my life as long as I can remember.
Mollified they agreed without even a mutter.
In any case, it seemed like a good place to start and I knew there’d be plenty of other people bearing jelly babies to keep them going. The occasion called for proper boots – wellies or trainers just weren’t going to be good enough and, besides, they increased the chance of blisters and whingeing. So off to the outdoor shop in Glenridding. Once the Boys had established they could have A a spork and B a whistle, we settled down to the business of getting booted. Boy One’s feet wouldn’t go into the size threes I thought should fit him. The Helpful Lady measured him: “Look he’s a five.”
Oh dear, his school shoes – bought in September are three and a half. Ho hum, I suppose I should have noticed. However, I’m pleased to report that the newly shod feet made it to the top of the hill without a single complaint. Well done Boys.