The Boy is, quite literally, a head banger. Once upon a time he’d go to bed, have a bit of a moan, then be asleep in a matter of minutes. These days while the lights in his room go off by 715pm, those in his head are on and flashing for up to two hours more; 9pm regularly finds him still thrashing about, banging his head off the pillow, the mattress, the headboard – whatever is closest. It didn’t use to bother me at all; indeed, in my day I was known to require a certain amount of head-banging before I could fall asleep, so I just assumed it was hereditary. But the Boy is taking it to new levels, with last night’s performance culminating in full body-slamming, moaning and groaning, sporadic snippets of conversation, and house-shaking bed-kicking.
I know this, because after half an hour of his theatrics last night, I snuck up to his room, crawled on all fours to the end of his cot, and surreptitiously watched while he thrashed and banged and hummed. It was really quite something. He didn’t seem to be annoyed or anxious, just a bit bored; a few minutes banging with his legs, then he’d roll over, go up on all fours, and furiously wallop his head off the mattress. Then flip back over again, arms over his head, and thud-thud-thud on the headboard.
At one point he seemed to be slowing down at which point I made a critical mistake and started to back out. The thumping stopped, and the only sound in his room was his shallow breath, and me struggling to stop myself from laughing. Hours passed – well minutes, definitely - and when no movement resumed, I started to wonder if he’d just suddenly fallen asleep, and made to escape. This was thwarted by the sight of his little blonde head peering over the end of the cot, a huge big grin on his face, eyes wide with excitement. “Mummy! Hiding!! Silly Mummy!!” he shrieked with glee, when I uncurled and looked at him. Aw, bless. Silly Mummy indeed - we were back to square one in the getting-to-sleep-early stakes. And he now probably thinks that I’m the nutter, which is somewhat ironic, all things considered.
I consulted Dr Google, who bleakly told me that I’m possibly looking at a brain tumour, deep psychological problems, or various neurological disorders. Or, more probably, a condition known as Rhythmic Movement Disorder. Afflictees are generally under 4, and manifest symptoms such as head-banging, rocking, and thrashing about as they’re falling asleep. Solutions are limited to patience (they generally grow out of it) or, in severe cases, drugs. While I’m all in favour of sedation to block out the noise from the Boy’s room, I prefer it to be self administered; thus it looks like we’re in for another couple of years of head-banging, and the Girl’s is just going to have to put up with having the fan on in her room (pointing down, to minimise bed-clothes / hair disturbances).
Speaking of disturbances, it transpires that our decision to date to keep the kids’ church attendance down to a minimum (of, to date, nil – you don’t get much more minimal than that) has been a wise one. We were invited to a lovely christening yesterday morning, which we were told would be awash with babies and toddlers, so disruption would be abundant. Well, disruption certainly was abundant, but alas mainly from the Boy. He raced up and down the aisle like an antichrist (appropriately enough), before leading the toddler-charge in discovering the joys of the nativity manger – worryingly free-standing and perfectly sized to entice even the calmest of 2 year olds. I meanwhile was feeling religious guilt down the back of the church (you can take the girl out of Catholic Ireland...) as I fed, and – gulp – changed the Girl. (Who poos in the House of God? Twice??)
All the while, at centre stage the newly christened baby was giggling, cooing and laughing, every inch the perfect baby, and kids all around us sat by their parents, or knelt deferentially by the animal figures, petting and stroking. The Man and I looked on enviously, as the Girl wriggled uncontrollably and chewed the order of service, and the Boy tried to drag the Virgin Mary out of the stable (through the window) and up the alter. It’s little wonder really that we rarely leave the house.
Beset as I am by round-the-clock toddler antics, it’s hardly surprising that I’m counting the days to the end of drink-free January – 24 down, 8 to go - and turning for comfort to crunchy sweet things in the interim. These are easy peasy (more so if you have a “food machine”, as the Boy calls it), taste of childhood, and impossible (for mummies and offspring) to stop eating. Taken directly from this weekend’s Guardian, with nothing added, and nothing taken away*.
Jam Thumbprint Biscuits
You Need (for about 12):
- A shade under a block of butter (225g) (I know. Just don’t think about it.)
- 225g Castor Sugar
- Zest of a Lemon (or an Orange – which was my only deviation)
- 3 drops of vanilla extract
- 2 egg yolks
- 2 tbsp milk
- 280g plain flour, sifted with a pinch of salt
- About 3 tbsp of any type of jam
Preheat oven to 180/4/350
Beat the butter and sugar until fluffy in the food machine, then add the citrus zest and vanilla.
Add the egg yolks and milk, and beat again.
Remove from the food machine, and stir in half the flour, mixing well, then the other half.
Roll the dough into a ball, cover in clingfilm, and stick in the fridge while hang your 6-month-old in her bouncy thingy, peel-steam-puree-freeze a bag of sweet potatoes, start making soup for a toddler’s lunch, stop said toddler from turning his sister’s bouncy-thingy into a bungee-jump-thingy, remove traumatised baby from bouncy thingy, clear up, and try to eat a slice of toast before your toddler sees you. (30 mins)
Roll the chilled dough into balls the size of a golf ball, and put on greased / lined baking tray an inch apart.
Invite your toddler to help you making a well in each ball with your thumb (be warned – this gets a bit messy) and fill this with jam (about half a teaspoon). (This gets even messier).
Stick in the oven for about 15 mins, until they’re golden and looking crisp.
Ideally, wait until fully cool before burning your tongue on tasting them
*Except, possibly, my appetite for lunch.
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