Words and wheels: rapid progress by the grandchildren

It’s hardly an original observation, but one of the most striking aspects of young children is how quickly they develop. Something of a commonplace, you might feel. And you’d be right, but that doesn’t stop me being bowled over every time I see the grandkids achieving some new breakthrough.

With Elliott, now on his way to two and a half, it’s mostly in the field of language. He talks and talks, which keeps me well amused, though no doubt in a few years it’ll also drive me round the bend. It’s ironic how we spend so much time hoping for our kids to start talking and then, once they do, desperately praying that they might occasionally shut up.

With Elliott, some of the words aren’t formed with the strictest accuracy, and that can sometimes make it hard to understand what he means. Take the other day, when he insisted to me that what he really, really wanted was something by one of the masters of surrealism. 

I kid you not.

“Dali?” I checked with him. “I don’t think we have anything by Dali.”

I wish we had an original Dali, I have to admit, but to be honest, we don’t even have any prints. Besides, was he after any old Dali, or something specific? You know, melting watch faces, a crucifixion from above, or a portrait of his sister by an open window? Which would he like?

Dali’s sister, by an open window
Not, it turns out, what Elliott was really after

Elliott cut through all this idle speculation.

“Dali! Dali!” he insisted.

He was pointing at the fridge so I began to suspect it might not be a purely aesthetic craving that he was hoping to satisfy.

“Dali! Dali!”

He grasped the fridge door and pulled it open. Yep, that’s another development. He knows how to open the fridge, though he hasn’t quite grasped the notion of closing it afterwards. Still, to be fair to him, his father who really ought to know better hasn’t mastered that skill either, so it may be a genetic problem.

I came over to look where he was pointing. I followed the direction of his imperious finger. It clearly wasn’t indicating the butter or the cheese or any vegetables.

“Jelly!” I cried, “you want Jelly!”

“Yes,” he agreed, relief clear from his voice, now that I’d at last emerged from my obtuseness and grasped his meaning, “Dali.”

Elliott enjoying his Dali

Matilda, who is celebrating her fourth birthday as I type, also likes jelly. But she expresses herself differently. I hesitate to say more correctly, as that seems unfair to Elliott, but I have to admit that I understand her better.

“I want some jelly,” she informed me the other day.

“Did you ask your mother and did she say yes?” I replied. 

I’ve been trained, you see.

“Yes,” she assured me, but there was something about the way she was looking at me that left me less than convinced that this was the unvarnished truth.

Suddenly, she ran off. Next, I heard her talking to her Mum.

“Can I have a jelly?” she was asking. 

“Yes,” was the answer.

Matilda ran back.

“My Mummy says ‘yes’,” she told me.

She got her jelly.

I don’t know whether she felt bad about the untruth and decided to set it right in hindsight, asking her mother after telling me she already had. Or maybe she felt it was an error to be economical with the truth on a matter so easy to check. Either way, whether she was uncomfortable about an untruth generally, or uncomfortable about an untruth so easily exposed, she’s clearly in a significantly higher moral class than, say, Donald Trump. A low bar, I know. But, hey, she’s four and he’s 77.  

Both Elliott and Matilda have what I think are called balance bikes. They have no pedals, but no stabilisers either. Instead, they’re driven along by kids pushing with their feet on the ground. One of the great benefits is that this teaches them to learn to balance on their bikes, since once they have a bit of speed up they can let the bikes coast, which allows them to get their feet off the ground.

Elliott, who’s always keen on doing anything that Matilda can do, is a committed cyclist, just as she is. Sometimes, however, he gets a little tired. Now one option is for him to get up on my shoulders, but that leaves me carrying him around my neck and his bike in one hand, which I find just a trifle tiring. I’ve found, however, that he’ll consent to keep riding his bike as long as I push him and sing a song to accompany the process.

The song in question is an invention of mine and he seems to appreciate it despite its complex and sophisticated lyrics. It’s sung to the tune of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’. The words, which you’re welcome to learn for yourself if you don’t mind the strain of studying them, and use with another kid on condition you change one key word to match the child’s name, are:

Push, push, push, push, push, push, push
Push, push, push, push, Elly, push, push

Repeat until home or Elly’s attention is distracted by something more interesting.

Matilda marks completion of her fourth trip around the Sun

Talking about bikes and Matilda’s birthday takes me on to another great breakthrough of this visit.

To celebrate her reaching the ripe old age of four, Matilda has a new bike, with pedals. But still without stabilisers. And the philosophy of training kids on balance bikes seems to be entirely confirmed by her experience. It took her twenty minutes to learn to zap along the pavement outside, pedalling away, and staying upright the entire time. 

Or almost.

Off, off and away
Matilda speeds away from her pit crew,
encouraged by Luci

She still needs some shepherding, if only to make sure she doesn’t stray into the road, and to help her get started again when she stops. That means following along behind her. And let me tell you, she’s mastered this sport to an impressive degree. It left me breathless and exhausted trying to keep up with her. I thought my running days were over but, apparently, they’re not.

I hadn’t allowed for yet another type of impact grandchildren could have on my life.

Correction: Sheena, my daughter-in-law and Matilda and Elliott's mother, who is seldom wrong on these matters, points out to me that Nicky isn’t the only adult who leaves the fridge door open. Since that seems to be her tactful way of telling me that I do it too, I can only say that this only proves my contention. If I do it, and my son Nicky does it, and his son Elliott does it too, doesn't that rather strengthen the idea that the problem is genetic?