Thursday, 6th December 2007.

My family, and other animals

Joshua's developed a fascination with the pet shop. We occasionally go in there to buy fish food, or cat food when we had a cat. It's a large, airy place at the other end of the high street, full of books and leads and baskets in the front area, an aquarium sitting off to one side, a comprehensive aviary down the back and a collection of rabbits and guinea pigs in the yard.

Josh has now reached the stage where he recognises places we visit in the car: if Emily has dropped me back at work in the afternoon, in an attempt to get him to sleep, and finds when she reaches Wantage Road that he shows no immediate signs of dropping off, she'll take a detour out to Hagbourne or Blewbury. At this point a voice will pipe up from the back seat with the words "Where we going?". Similarly, every time she reaches the end of Broadway en route to Tesco (or, if she's feeling particularly adventurous, the temperate climes of Wallingford) he'll look out of his window at the passing retail establishments and call out "Want to go to the pet shop!". Emily takes him there when they're in the neighbourhood - they got down there yesterday afternoon, in the pouring rain, and managed to see the birds and mice and hamsters. There was a white parakeet in residence when we went to buy our fish, and as far as I'm aware it's still there - the price tag of #1200 has probably helped to ensure its ongoing presence. It was such a gorgeous bird that I wanted to buy it myself, but as Emily said it would probably drive us mad. Josh himself is always convinced that we're going to find sheep and pigs in there, which I have yet to see. I think he's confusing the pet shop with Millett's farm.

What's nice about trips like this, however, is that we can all talk about it. Conversations with Josh have become very interesting lately - he can form more or less coherent sentences, but his use of the words "I don't know" is quite staggering. It seems to have become the new phrase of choice. For a while, it was "No!", which then became "No, it's MINE!". Then he seemed to mellow into "Yeah..." or even "Yes". It was like watching the Blue Meanie in Yellow Submarine; more than once have I had to bite my tongue before replying "No, your blueness!".

Eventually the trend became "I don't know", which generally means "I do know, but it's more fun to plead ignorance". It's easy to forget, in the midst of this new-found gift of actual conversation (as opposed to him just repeating back everything you say to him, parrot-style) that you're talking to a toddler. As such you're faced with a constant barrage of questions - you can't be doing something else while you're talking to him, as you will most probably be interrupted with "What are you doing with your phone, Daddy?". Being able to talk to him while sending an SMS stands as living proof that men can multitask, but he doesn't like it, and will most likely respond to this lack of total attention by throwing his toys out of the pram (all right, the bathtub). It is at this point that I am overcome by feelings of guilt - the quintessential I-am-bad-parent syndrome - and any subsequent naughty behaviour that evening is, I am convinced, all down to me.

For all the difficulties we have with him, the boy can be unbearably sweet: Emily was almost in tears yesterday trying to fit the rain cover onto the buggy (thanks to me; I said that the weather looked nice and took the car back to work that afternoon) and she was kneeling on the hall floor shouting "I can't do it!". Joshua looked over from where he was sitting and said "You can do it, Mummy!". It's these moments of lucidity that throw you off guard, because you realise just how much he listens - the way he'll suddenly prick up his ears when we're discussing drinks and say "I want some beer!". At which point we have to explain why this isn't a good idea. (Yes, I know they used to feed newborn babies gin in the 19th century, but have you seen the infant mortality rates?)

The burning curiosity thing extends far beyond normal conversation. He's developed two standard responses to the music we play him - one of affirmation and one of enquiry. This is epitomised by an incident last weekend during a rainy Christmas lights festival in Bishop's Castle, full of delays and naff fireworks and cold hog roasts and lager-swilling attendants taking money in the admittedly impressive Santa's grotto. Eventually we got tired of all this and wandered down to where the brass band were playing by the Christmas tree, completely drowning out the ten or so people who stood around in the drizzle, awkwardly glancing at each other in the minute-long pauses between carols as if to say "Is that it, or are they doing another one?"

About fifty yards away, the Morris Dancers were in full swing, and when Mrs Knight mentioned this I was off like a rocket, taking the boy with me. It was Northern Morris Dancing: darkened faces, jackets made of rags, ridiculous hats - and sticks. Lots of banging and shouting. I was worried that Josh would be as unnerved as his Uncle Matt used to be, but as it turned out he loved it, likening the dancers' roaring exeunt at the end of each number to the Teletubbies' recurring use of "Run away!", and saying that the accordion was like one he'd seen on Pingu.

Emily and Thomas joined us at the end of the first dance, and when the men disappeared into the crowds Josh's response was the affirmation: an enthusiastic "That's a good song!". When they came back, however, the head of the troupe announced that the next dance was known as 'The Maiden's Prayer'. Forming a line, the male dancers split into pairs: one bent over backwards, holding their stick at pelvic level, extended upwards, while the others whacked it as hard as they could, accompanying the action with shouts and groans. We stood, eyes wide as dinner plates. What was interesting about the whole spectacle - apart from Emily's comment that "I'm sure that it wasn't this rude when I was younger" - was the fact that the lad making the most noise couldn't have been more than fifteen or so: he was, apparently, in possession of more testosterone than the rest of them put together.

It was at this moment that Joshua decided to ask the question he frequently asks when we're playing him music, which was "What's this song about?"
I rolled my eyes and replied "We'll tell you when you're eighteen."

You see the contradiction here. His mind is still developing, and sometimes he's more aware of his surroundings than we'd like. At other times he'll deliberately say silly things. It calls to mind the little girl they filmed sitting on a wall with Kermit the Frog, reciting the alphabet for an unscripted Sesame Street sketch. Every time they reached Q she would say "Cookie Monster!" and dissolve into fits of giggles. An increasingly fed-up Kermit eventually said "Well, if we're not gonna finish the alphabet, I guess I'd better be going", and as he walked away the little girl's face crumpled and she called out "I love you!", which of course prompted the return of the webbed wonder and an awkward Muppet hug.

Similarly, Josh will say the most ridiculous things - I've already written in here about the diggers, tigers and parrots that live on Old Macdonald's farm. He has a healthy sense of imagination, and I won't second guess or inhibit the developing mind of my child, so I play along - to be honest it just makes the conversation interesting. The most fascinating thing about talking with a two year old is that they'll never tell you what you want to hear for the sake of keeping things cordial, which is something that adults do far too much. He can be infuriating when you want him to tell you something and he won't, and I count every stage of increased coherence and sensibility as a moment of personal triumph, but I don't want him to grow up too quickly. It's much more fun not knowing what he's going to say next.

It was last night, when I was giving him his bath, that the subject of animals rose again.
"Want to go out, Daddy!"
"Where do you want to go?"
"The pet shop."
"You've been to the pet shop today, haven't you?"
"Yeah."
"And what did you see there? What animals?"
"Elephants and hippos!"
"No you didn't, you silly thing. There aren't any elephants or hippos in the pet shop."
Joshua giggled.
"Now, come on. Tell me what you really saw."
"Some fish!"
"Hey, fish! That's great."

There was a pause.

"And an octopus."