1) If you ask him to go find his shoes, he finds them (usually under the couch), brings them to you, and says “shu, shu” while placing them on top of his feet.

2) When he gets the toy rabbit from his toy farm, he makes it hop.

3) He pushes little cars all round the room going “brrrm brrrm”.

4) When he sees a mug, he says “Tea!” and smacks his lips to signify deliciousness.

5) He picks up all the Cheerios dropped on the floor during breakfast and puts them on his high chair tray.

6) When he sees a cat or a dog, he points at it and shouts “Kitty! Kitty!” Today, walking down the street, he did this to a dog being walked by an elderly gentleman. The gentleman promptly pointed at Fecklet and shouted “Baby! Baby!”

On another topic, I’m going to send out a newsletter in the next few days. If you’re not on my newsletter list and would like to be, please send me an email using the contact button on the right.

Well, what a day.

The Fecklet, in addition to teething, has developed spots all over his torso. The doctor ruled out chicken pox, and anything more serious, and pronounced it “a virus”. He’s been alternatively happy and active, and miserable and wailing, all day. Thank goodness for two medicines: St. Calpol, and the children’s television/heroin that is In the Night Garden.

The Fecklet is obsessed with Makka Pakka (pictured left, for those of you with no children between the ages of 0-5). In fact he said “Ma” to mean Makka Pakka far before he said “Ma” to mean Mummy. I’m not offended by this, because Makka Pakka is, in fact, the epitome of cool. He is some sort of OCD-ridden genius who sleeps with a rock and my kid can talk about him as much as he likes.

Anyway, also thank goodness I made meatballs last night so all I’ve had to do today is boil up some pasta. I’m off to tuck into those now.

I’ll admit that most of the time I’m quite proud of myself. You know, what with having a toddler at home with me except for twelve hours a week, and having a husband who goes away for weeks at a time, and having no relatives in the country, and still producing a 85- to 90,000-word book every six months, and doing all the editing and publicity and teaching that goes with that. I know other people who write more with more children, but I know people who write a lot less with no children, so I figure I’m doing okay.

Then there are days like today. When Fecklet woke up at 4 am and didn’t go down for a nap until 9, and then only for 45 minutes. When he fussed and cried and cried and fussed for no discernible reason and needed to be held and carried. When he refused to sit in the trolley in the supermarket and insisted on running around the aisles trying to knock things down. When the slightest difficulty plunged him into tears, and I wrote exactly two paragraphs which I will have to delete.

I think it’s teething. But it doesn’t really matter what it is: it’s shown me the truth, which is that I only write by the grace granted me by my child, and that if my son hadn’t been born cheerful, laid back and healthy, my career would be toast.

…for a Fecklet update.

His new favourite activity is to pin me to the floor and blow raspberries on my neck.

Making cupcakes for the Fecklet’s birthday.

It’s hard to believe that one year ago, this was happening.

I had a read through the posts for last year and it’s both very easy and very difficult to remember exactly what it was like. Late pregnancy (and mine was very late) and early babyhood are such weird times and you honestly don’t believe anything will ever seem normal again.

But it does.

…And though I went to bed at 9.30 so I’d be ready for it, my husband kept me awake snoring.

Agh!

…do children think that 5 am is a suitable time to wake up for the day?

We’d been out a bit too late, and I’d given Lizi’s baby a bit too much attention, and therefore we were having a grumpy evening. Even In the Night Garden, the intravenous morphine of TV shows, didn’t really hold the Fecklet’s attention. He was tired, he was cranky, he didn’t feel like drinking milk or playing and he didn’t even fancy walking to the bathroom. He sat himself down on the bathroom floor, complained while I undressed him, and prepared himself for a good long whinge while I drew his bath.

And then…he spotted the pair of socks he’d left in the bathroom earlier, and forgotten about.

Joy. Bliss. One sock in each hand, to wave around and shout at. Even better, he was naked so he got to feel the slight breeze the socks made as they whooshed through the air. And then he discovered that when he brought socks into the bath, they got all lovely and wet and he could suck water out of them. He sucked one, and then the other, and then the first one again. Sock-flavoured bath water…nectar of the gods.

The happiness was so long-lasting that he didn’t even protest when I put on his pyjamas, and he went straight off to sleep, no doubt dreaming of socks.

In my opinion, this is proof that babies have some sort of hormones that make them feel as if they are on major drugs.

Gave Fecklet a haircut yesterday because his hair was getting in his eyes. It was a terrifying experience. The scissors were so sharp, his eyes were so near, his skin was so tender, his hair was so fine.

Now he has a fringe that looks suspiciously like a helmet.

I’ve been in the UK for about fifteen years now, and I’d thought I’d finished discovering those mildly amusing differences in language between American English and British English. In the first few years I learned about sidewalks and pavements, trunks and boots, suspenders and braces, and of course the endlessly-hilarious pants and trousers.

Then I started being a professional writer and I learned about the differences between fit and fitted, snuck and sneaked, and the more subtle fix and make.

I thought I was comfortably bi-lingual in English.

Now I am a mother and I am learning a whole new world of differences. There’s diapers and nappies, of course, and also strollers and pushchairs, pacifiers and dummies (though I don’t use those, Fecklet sucks his thumb), crib and cot, to burp and to wind.

But there’s more than that. Did you know that the tune to “Baa baa black sheep” is slightly different in each country? Did you know that the Americans do “The Hokey Pokey” and the English do the “Hokey Cokey,” and the English leave out the reflexive pronoun in “turn yourself around”? Did you know that even “Eensy Weensy Spider” has different words and a whole new line at the end?

I am endlessly disoriented.

So I tell Anna that the Fecklet’s going to be a ghost for Hallowe’en, and she says, “You should teach him to say ‘Boo!’”

Good idea. I start right away.

“Say ‘Boo’!”

He grins. “Da!”

“No, ‘Boo’!”

“Da!”

“No sweetie, say ‘Boo’!”

“DA!”

“Boo!”

“DA!” (with total conviction that we are having a meaningful conversation)

“Boo!”

“DA!!!” (wanders off to find a sock)

Well, I am off to Oxford tonight to give my seminar on writing sex scenes. I’ve got chocolate and strawberries (strawberries in October?!!?) and am looking forward to a fun evening.

Fecklet is obsessed with socks. He loves to pull off his own socks and has started trying to do the same to other children. Mostly, he loves to hold socks, chew on them, and take them on a crawling and cruising tour around the room.

This morning I gave him half a dozen socks and he was in a frenzy of sock-induced happiness. He lifted the socks, threw the socks, put the socks down, moved the socks around, chewed on the socks, bunched the socks into a big pile, looked intently at the socks…bliss.