Tuesday, 13th January 2009.

Starter For Ten

"Daddy, what do you do in your job?"

I looked up from the changing table and thought for a moment.

"I make magazines."
"Why do you make magazines?"
"We-ell...you know Nina and the Neurons?"
"Yes."
"What do they do all day?"
"What do they do?"
"They do experiments, don't they? You see, Nina's job is a scientist - "
"What's a scientist?"
"Listen, and I'll tell you. A scientist is very interested in how the world works. So Nina and her Neurons do all sorts of experiments each day about why loud noises make our ears hurt, or why we can see shadows, or why we can't taste things when we have a cold. And then she writes all these things down, so that other scientists like her can read about the experiments she's done and maybe do some of their own. And what I do is collect all these experiments together in magazines, and send them out to other scientists so that everyone can read them."

This appeared to satisfy Joshua, and he got down from the changing table and ran off to the lounge. Emily glanced up from the bedroom floor, where she was deconstructing the Wendy house, and said "It's a rubbish programme, though".

It was an inevitable question, and one I'm surprised that I hadn't heard before now. Joshua seems to be back on the repetition pattern when it comes to conversations: he's picking up things he hears and dropping them into our daily talks. One particular example is his recurring use of "That's enough of that now!", which is something that we tend to say to him when he's in danger of overstepping the mark. Said phrase has now been adopted, memorised and corrupted so that it now crops up whenever anything happens that is not to his liking.

Another thing Joshua does an awful lot is to question incessantly. Generally I can live with this, but there is one notable exception: it tends to occur in absolutely every story we read. As such a ten-minute session is stretched out to half an hour.

"So Mr Rusty picked up a hammer and chisel and started to work -"
"Why did he start to work?"
"Well, because it was a big job."
"Why was it a big job?"
"Because it was going to be a big house to fit everyone in. May I continue?"
"Yes."
"So Mr Rusty picked up a hammer and chisel and started to work. It took a long time to complete the house but every day a bit more was done."
"Why was a bit more done?"
"Well, because they'd go home every night and then come back and start again in the morning. Every day a bit more was done. There was no furniture, of course,
because it had all been damaged in the flood - "
"Why was it damaged?"
"Well, because the flood had made all the wood damaged, and everything got wet and couldn't be used again."
"Why was there a flood?"
"Because it had rained so much."
"But why did it rain so much?"
"Because it just did."
"Why? No, don't close the book!"
"Josh, I don't know why I'm bothering to read. You're not listening. It just rained a lot, and all the furniture got swept away in the flood, remember?"
"Yes."
"Right. May I continue?"
"OK."
"There was no furniture, of course, because it had all been damaged in the flood, but the villagers of Fern Hollow all gave the Rusty family old pieces of furniture that they no longer wanted, and Mr Chips the Carpenter provided lots of tables and chairs that he had made himself."
"Why?"
"Because he was a carpenter, and he wanted to help them."
"Why did he want to help them?"
"Because the Rusty family didn't have anywhere to live, and because he was a kind carpenter."
"Why was he a kind carpenter?"
"Because. He. Just. Was. Now may I continue?"
"OK."
"Finally the house was finished, and Mr Rusty and his family held a house-warming party to celebrate, and to thank all their friends and neighbours for their help. It was a jolly party - "
"Why was it a jolly party?"
"Oh for heaven's sake, Josh! I don't know why it was a jolly party. It just was. Listen. I don't mind you asking questions but they just keep coming. You're not actually listening to anything I'm saying, are you? Now I'd like you to just try and listen nicely to the story, and if there's anything you don't understand I'll explain it, but if you listened a bit more you might not need to ask so many questions."
"OK. I'm sorry Daddy."
"That's all right. But could I please finish the story now?"

This particular exchange hardly qualifies me for father of the year, but in my defence this was the only occasion when I actually lost my temper. It's not that I mind him asking questions. It's something we've always welcomed and encouraged and I realise that in a way I've shot myself in the foot with this. I always hoped that, somehow, all our children would have an inquisitiveness of the world around them.

This is pretty much a given, actually, because one thing you find out quite early on is that small children in particular are naturally inquisitive. It's got to the point where we have to monitor our in-car conversation because they will pick up on everything you say - whether it's with a non-specific "Mummy, what are you talking about?" to "Why did she say that?". It reminds me an awful lot of Benedict, who doesn't miss a trick, and who was once present during a conversation between my parents and one of their old friends, who had just left a wedding reception. As Benedict played on the floor with a set of Eddie Stobart vans, apparently oblivious, Marian said "It was dragging on a bit, but I managed to get away", at which the small child pricked up his ears before asking "Did you run really fast, then?".

I don't like losing my temper with Josh, and I don't like curbing his natural inquisitiveness. It's just that sometimes I wish it wasn't so constant. I just want to enjoy the moment with him, rather than having to repeatedly field notes and queries that I've already answered ten times on other occasions. I keep holding pictures in my mind about wonderful, tranquil father-son moments, where we're just sitting at the edge of the harbour, looking out at the boats, not thinking about anything or saying anything, just enjoying each other's company. Firegazing. Cut to soft-focus montage, acoustic guitar swells quietly in the background. "We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun..."

But there's a problem with this approach, and when I stop to think about it I feel quite cross that I didn't realise it sooner. Because Josh's priorities are completely different. So are Thomas's, come to that, although his usually involve seeing how many DVDs he can pull off the shelf while I'm out of the room. But Josh - who, given that he is the one with whom I have the most two-way interaction, is the focus of this entry - Josh wants to learn about stuff. Sometimes, I'm not even sure it's that. I think he just wants the conversation: the reassurance that I'm there, the promise of an undivided attention that I can only give him by answering his constant questions.

So perhaps I shouldn't complain. The barrage of notes and queries suggest, if nothing else, that he is not autistic (a medical diagnosis that was thrown at us by one of the coordinators of a nursery school who simply weren't able to handle him). He'll interact on his own terms - i.e. when he wants to - but when he does it's like a torrent of questions and chatter that, while occasionally tiresome, I wouldn't trade for all the coffee in Brazil. I just wish it were a little simpler at bed time, although we do appear to be making progress in that department, as I found out the other night.

"So Mr Small started to walk along the path to Mr Robinson's house. It was a long, long walk -"
"Why was it a long long walk?"
"Well, because he was so small. So it took him a long time to walk anywhere."
"OK."
"It was a long, long walk and Mr Small soon felt tired, so he stopped to rest on a pebble."
"Why did he stop to rest on a pebble?"
"Because he was so tired. So he had a sit-down on a pebble. Look, there it is."
"But why was he tired?"
"Josh? You're doing it again."
"OK. Read the rest of it to me."

Baby steps. Baby steps...