Alexei Burton Pattinson. My younger son. Bit of a handful in his younger years.
I'd picked him up from the creche, then gone to the supermarket. Bags hanging on the handles of the pushchair, balancing his weight.
Lexie is his own man. I love that. He's got a character you can strike sparks off. It'll serve him well it later life. But I had to deal with him as a toddler.
Going home from the supermarket. Full day of work, beating sun, son kicking off shoes. Trying to stand, struggling, shouting, screaming.
I wish I'd known why he was so angry. I'd have given him anything. Sudetenland? It's yours, mate. My underwear? Take them. Oh, you don't want them, you want me to put them on my head. Skid-mark face side? Nae probs.
You can't threaten, reason, or bargain with kids of certain age and anger level. I've tried. Bribe? Forget that. Money is meaningless to toddlers.
While I tried to stop him smashing himself onto the pavement, a stranger approached. Someone to help me soothe my child and support my shopping? No. A self-righteous bastard, who said: "People like you shouldn't have kids" and fucked off.
A middle-aged bloke came and helped.
Lexie wanted to come down the Wildeman today. Course he could. The main plank of my parenthood is never refusing the kids anything I'd like to do myself.
He was a pussycat.
I should't have kids?
News, Nuggets & Longreads 31/01/2015 - [image: Illustration: breakfast reading.] It’s Saturday morning and time for our usual round-up of beer-related news and links from around the internet. → ...
3 hours ago