I'm really not very good at this being a father thing.  

I decided that a long time ago.  I bumble along as best I can.  I conform to so few Mummy Norms though.  I seem to say and do the wrong thing with monotonous regularity.

On a balmy evening last week our son's primary school held their Summer Fayre.

A more quintessentially English Summer occasion you couldn't wish for.  

Competitions to see how far a wellington boot could be thrown.  

Whether the name of a teddy bear could be correctly guessed.  

Which of the assembled little boys could purchase the largest amount of rubbish from the second hand toy stall, most of the items on offer having been surreptitiously donated by their parents anyway.

It's hard being three.  It's exciting too.  But generally tricky.

So much new to learn.  So much new to experience.  Most of it resulting in one or other of your parents telling you experiencing that new sensation in quite that way is wrong.

Learning all those new words.  Understanding what they all mean.  Understanding too the nuances of language and pronunciation.

So, here we are.  Tuesday July 1st, 2014.

The beginning of a big month for our family.

The beginning of a month of challenges.  Of decisions.  Of potential new beginnings.

So, finally giving in, our three year old little girl and I went to the chemists the other day with the sole purpose of purchasing some "pale and unobtrusive" nail varnish.

"What does pale and unbusive mean Daddy?"  Was the answer I received when I told our daughter that, hoping to manage expectations.

"It means that Daddy gets to choose what we buy darling," I replied.  Bottom lip poked out somewhat.  Hers.  Not mine.  

A week away from the keyboard.. firstly some Man Flu.  Then visiting friends.  Then... well it being too nice outside to sit inside and write and I couldn't see my laptop screen outside because it was too sunny.

So back tonight, normal service about to resume..

Father's Day.  Or in our case. Fathers' Day.  You would think it would be oh so simple.  The antidote to the awkwardness of Mothering Sunday.  

Wrong.

Awkwardness abounds as the day approaches.

In a very little while our son will be eight.  It doesn't seem possible.  

Where did the little boy go?  The one who was smaller then than our three year old daughter is now.  The one who joined our family, it seems incredulous to say it, five!  Yes FIVE. Years ago?

The cheeky little boy has been replaced by an increasingly gangly child.  One who pushes against boundaries.  Can see the currently forbidden fruit of teenager-hood just over the horizon.  Who is desperate to experience the tantalising independence adolescence will bring.

I wrote a post yesterday on the adoption part of this site describing our attempts to find the things that engage our children without having any clues from their histories of the talents to which they may genetically be inclined.

That has particularly been the case with our son as we have attempted to find the pastimes that engage him most.

Our three year old daughter is too young for us to begin that search yet.  We do however have some clues to her eventual place in life.  Today, for example, provided us with quite a few.

I'm not good with rodents.

So when a mouse ran across my foot as I sat on the sofa last night I moved more quickly than I have done in some considerable time.  

Surveying the sitting room from the safety, I thought, of a kitchen chair, I pointed wildly in the direction of the wood basket where the mouse had taken refuge.

If you have read much of this blog you will, by now, have realised that a repudiation of any hint of deafness is something that runs in my family.

My father, who we call Grumpy Deaf Grandad, refuses point blank to admit that he's deaf, despite the fact that we have to shout, very loudly, to get him to hear the question.

I fear I might be going the same way.

We encourage our children's creativity.  Both J and I believe it's important to do so.  To channel their energies.  Harness their ideas.  Encourage them to think as widely and openly as possible.

There are, of course, consequences to this.

Bit stormy isn't it?

I fear it's my fault.  You see I'm off out to vote and, being a homosexualist, the weather is down to me.

I was thinking of the way by which I could best demonstrate how lazy our dog is.

Let me share with you taking them for a walk.

Essentially, our dog's default mode is comatose.  So being woken to go for a walk is a bit of a challenge for us both.