MenGetPregnantToo

There's Another Term for Squeaky Wheels: Crazy People.

"Squeaky wheels get the grease."

*****

There's a reason for that. That constant, relentless, merciless, high-pitched squeaking will bring a person to their knees. With the right wheel, with enough accumulated rust and a little bit of friction, you can annoy a moose into knitting a scarf. A wheel's squeak can be just that bad.
As can people.

Anyone who works in an office deals with at least one of these people daily. The person who - for instance - doesn't realize that around the time desktop personal computers were invented, so were headphone jacks. This little hole accepts the male end of standard headphones, muting the sound for everyone except the person wearing them.
Why would someone in a busy office not use them?
They're crazy, that's why.
Why wouldn't someone bothered by their office neighbor's ambient noise ask them to use headphones?
Crazy people can do crazy things, that's why. Offence would be taken, grudges would be held, friendships would end.
Round and round goes the squeaky wheel.

Photo: Wheel Circle by Brenda Anderson via flikr

They roll around everywhere, these crazy squeaky wheel people: their stereos blasting from their cars at 2am; their shoulders wedging their way into line while they pretend they don't see the people patiently waiting.
Some of my favorite squeaks are after the wheel next to me comments on a phone call which was none of their business:
Me on the phone: "Ok, honey; I'll pick up some pork chops on the way home to throw on the barbecue. Anything else? 'K; love you, too."
Hang up.
Mrs. S. Wheel: "Mmmmm....pork chops!"
Who invented these Wheel people?
Why did I not just turn to Mrs. Wheel and politely say: "Please, I'd like my conversations to at least preserve the illusion privacy."
Because Mrs. Wheel is crazy.
Because individuals who routinely disturb others lack the logic to realize they share the planet to begin with; therefore, they take offence at the notion someone may not appreciate them all the time.

There are Mr. Wheels, too. Like the guy on the beach last month burying his cigarette butts in the sand. On that occasion, my friend actually spoke up. She could afford to do that, since women are rarely punched in the nose by strangers. Mr. Wheel laughed at her, and then shared some secret funny joke with his wife, Mrs. Wheel.

According to online sources, the wheel was invented in Mesopotamia five-thousand years ago. The first squeak (yes, wood squeaks) was heard about 4,999 years, 364 days ago. Since then, Squeaky Wheels have been known to:

• Block driveways
• Yell on their cell phones
• Not bring their barking dogs into the house
• Whistle in enclosed public spaces
• Tap on their desks with pencils
• Let their cats foul your garden
• Pretend they're asleep on the bus while someone worthy of a seat develops varicose veins
• Sneeze really loudly (like, exaggeratingly so)
• Search for a new ringtone in an enclosed space
• Have children

The problem with Wheels having kids is: their kids become Training Wheels; little annoying adults in waiting. You'll recognize them when you see them: they’re the ones kicking shins and ramming the Costco shopping cart (the one with the squeaky wheels) into your calves from behind.
* important note: somtimes my kids do that thing with the shopping cart, but that's diffferent.
 
*****

Maybe I'm just becoming an old, crotchety person: more sensitive to noise, more protective of my privacy. By the way, I'm not blind to the irony of complaining of invasions of my privacy while regurgitating my thoughts onto a blog.
What can I say; I find this process very soothing and therapeutic. It keeps me on an even keel.

I have to go, someone just complained about the loudness of my typing.
What a nut job.

 

 

My Best Friend has a New Friend. (OMG, am I Out??)

Background:
"Steve" and I met in 7th grade. Despite my tranferring to a different school after that one year,  we remained best friends ever since.
It was almost uncanny how our lives developed along similar tacks:

• Same summer camp
• A deep understanding of how, for an unrealistically long period of time "Bat Out of Hell" was the greatest album on earth.
• The acceptance that life on the various starships Enterprise was clearly optimal living.
• A deep understanding of how, for an unrealistically long period of time Rush's "2112" was the greatest album on earth.
• A marriage and two kids each. (No, our marriage was not to each other).
• Family vacations together (with the single goal of getting the kids to bed and making it through the "Godfather" trilogy before the week was up).

Etcetera.
We've spoken to each other at least once a week for nearly thirty years, though we see each other a little less frequently than we would like - I moved to the burbs, he's in the city.
And now...he has a new neighbor....a peer...a cool peer.

Less than a month ago, this guy moves in next door with his finacée. We'll call this new neighbor...actually; we will bestow no proper name upon him at all, lest he become more human to me.
Neighbor is a runner, Steve is a runner. I used to be a runner. Steve has developed into an elite runner. Neighbor is an elite runner who now runs with Steve. 
I sit on the couch and blog, wondering if there’s bacon in my fridge's deli drawer. 
Neighbor was married two weeks ago: Steve was invited to the ceremony AND the after party. Not only that, he commuted to the festivities with the best men, closest friends, etc. Why wouldn't he? Steve and Neighbor's houses are attached...attached! The wedding party was standing on the front lawn shouting "C'mon, Steve!"

Not only that, but Neighbor is...BRITISH! Like, with an accent. Like, British in the same way Daniel Craig and Pierce Brosnan and Queen Elizabeth are British. This guy definitely has some James Bond Cool in him. I've been told I have a little Queen Elizabeth in me (especially when I whine in a blog post), but this is not that kind of jealousy. I would call this more like 'concern'. Like the kind of concern one has when a mole on one's back may or may not be growing larger. Or the concern one has when the ache in one’s knee hasn't gone away despite refraining from running for....months (so you can create literary masterpieces online 500 words at a time!)  Or the concern one has when one may, or may not, be supplanted by James Bond.
(Did I mention that due to British Neighbor's Britishness he has run into some difficulty with local services who only deal in French? Don't worry, he has a translator at his disposal...Steve!) 

I began to take all the necessary precautions to protect my relationship with Steve: spy camera, long range listening post, a complaint filed with Immigration Canada and Immigration Britain, and I've forbade my wife from ever watching another episode of Coronation Street.
Then, last night, my wife and I were invited to a party at Steve's house.
I met Neighbor.
Polite, cheerful, interested in where I lived and what I had to say. He was funny, too.
S**t.  
Maybe I'll try to poach him; I like Britain, I like James Bond. I even like rice pudding and Newcastle.

Maybe I'll just relax and rely on my history with Steve and my own maturity as an adult to carry me through. 
If a worst case scenario develops, I'll just remind Steve that I was here first. In his life, and at the party last night:) 

 

 

Are You Annoying and Inconsiderate?? These Rules Might Help:

A guy was supposed to meet me at 2pm. He called at 2:15 to let me know he was running 45 minutes behind schedule. That kind of stuff really gets my goat. But, I blog, therefore I am:

1 - If you're going to be late, call before you're scheduled to arrive:

You same people are always late. If you're due somewhere at noon, you damn well know at 11:30 you're not gonna make it...call at 11:30! A phone call fifteen minutes after you're expected to arrive is just plain selfish.

2 - Email does not replace a phone call:
You know you're too embarrassed to call. You don't want to be made to feel guilty, or to have to listen to the sadness in my voice as I waste away at a Starbucks  pretending I have enough email and text messages to keep me busy alone at my table; so you email or text instead of call. Then you hope I cool off before you get here. That's just plain chicken s&*". Guilt and remorse are your punishments for not calling thirty minutes earlier. Feel them, brother.

 3 - Be courteous first, not only in response to courtesy:
When you are the last of ten people in line at a grocery store, and a second cash opens, don't trample the people in front of you. Let the line divide itself and accept your new position as fifth in line instead of tenth  (still better by half!). See the guy who rushed to be first at the new cash? He's avoiding eye contact with you because he feels guilty. Besides, it's probably that cashier who has to deal with lottery tickets and bottle returns; you'll still beat him out the door.

4- The world is not a toilet for your pet, nor an ashtray for your butt:
Read this. And this.

5 - Signal when you change lanes:
Instead of slowing down, frightening the person behind you (who would just loooove to rear-end you, except for the financial and legal ramifications of doing so) and looking over your shoulder at a rate which would make a hummingbird puke: signal. I will then notice your intention to pull into my lane (always the fastest moving one), and consequently I will slow down....for three or four seconds. 

6 - Once in the passing lane, PASS!:
That's why it's the passing lane. That's why I'm tailgating you. That's why he's tailgating me. That's why she's tailgating him...(I know, trucks are scary. They're even scarier when you cruise right next to them for two miles....pass it, already!) 

7 - Turn off your phone, completely:
 At the movies, in the theatre, in the restaurant. Can we have two hours without electronic interruption? BTW: the movie is about two hours long (exact times of hundreds of films are available on thousands of websites). When-- in a dark room -- you use your phone to check the time, not only does it close my pupil and reduce the image quality being sent to my brain; it snaps me out of my Jennifer Connelly fantasy so fast it would make a goat puke.

7a - Don't let your five-year-old daughter play with your smart phone during a piano recital:
I apologize. I was devastated; I didn't know the app she activated triggered music. It will never happen again. I know: some people...sheesh.

Photo: "Sad Phone" by Ron Bennetts via Flickr

8 - Wipe the seat:
Do unto the public washroom as you would have done unto the public washroom. You know you missed your target: clean it! You know when you walk into a dirty stall you then comment to your friend about the pigs in this world: 'how could anyone leave a stall looking like that?' You're a hypocrite. ..One big I-shoulda-used-that-weird-toilet-seat-cover-and-thrown-it-away-then-I-wouldn't-have-to-clean-anything hypocrite. 

9 - Don't roll your eyes at my kids:
I know eating lunch on that dirty toilet seat would be more agreeable than standing next to my family during their current tantrum. I know you think I have a troubled home. I know I should leave the cart I spent the last two hours filling so I wouldn't have to come back to the store for a week (read: tomorrow, after I realize I forgot milk) and go home. But, trust me. I'm doing my best, and their usually really good kids. (Quick, don't analyze that last part...move on to number 10).

10 - Answer my emails:
Not the same day, or even the next day. But, I think forty-eight hours is fair. Doesn't have to be a long answer, or even the right answer, but a "Got it.", or "I'll think about it", or "Your email submission has been received; though our budget/editorial profile is not interested in new submissions (i.e. your idea) at the moment, we will keep it on file. Thank you for writing." You know, B.S. me...I don't mind. At least I won't resubmit.

11 - At least acknowledge my pain:
Whether you're a friend, colleague, or customer service agent (hello to my overseas readers); when I talk to you about how much something sucks, just start with a "Wow, how horrible for you." Then put me on hold, or discretely check the time on your phone.... 

 Any annoyances you'd like to add? In the comment section, please. I have a feeling this list is the first in a series.

Dan Zevin Discusses "Dan Gets a Minivan" (read this and you may win a copy!)

The easiest thing to say about "Dan Gets a Minivan - Life at the Intersection of Dude and Dad" is that it's funny. Because it is. Relentlessly so. 

But, just as importantly, it is intelligent, sensitive and amazingly perceptive. A parent who has had their lives in any way transformed after creating little haywire facsimiles of themselves will not help but recognize their own journey at some point in this book.
Where most parent-humorists (especially men) clamber to portray themselves as incapable klutzes; Dan demonstrates a stay-at-home dad can be as hysterical and smart as he is competent.

I spoke with him yesterday:

Q: One of the things you do so well is maintain a self-deprecating sense of humor throughout the book without making yourself seem overwhelmed and incompetent (like so many daddy books do). Was this a conscious decision? 

 DAN: I find it amusing  that 'Mr. Mom' is supposed to be a cute term for men in primary caretaking roles but 'Mrs. Dad' would be an offensive term for women in management roles.
Lots of stay-at-home dads are really more "work-at-home" dads. It doesn't matter if you're a self-employed writer or a day trader. Parents with traditional jobs like to think you sit home in your bathrobe watching ESPN all day. Not that I don't look forward to that day.

*****

Dan on Not Giving a Shit:

 Q: The "Don't Give a Shit" chapter was particularly refreshing for me: a father of two little kids. When the idea for that came to you, was it as liberating as it sounds?

DAN: When the two of us turned into the four of us, there was no time to sleep much less give a shit about my career ambitions. Personally, the most important thing I think it takes to be a father is a sense of humor. Also cargo pants. They're like a filing system for your legs.

****

                                                   Dan on His Parents: 
"One of the things I find most endearing about my mother is her ability to get
sicker than anyone else."

Q: I think almost any parent can relate to the pros and cons of having your in-laws help out. How did your mom react to the "she gets sicker than everyone else" line?

 DAN: As a humorist, the cheapest thing to do is to make fun of people. I'm very careful to deliver the jokes with affection. My mother loves that chapter. Trust me, she taught me everything I know about being funny. 

****

       Dan on Marriage:

"There's a fine line between a happy, long-term couple curled up on the couch and two carcasses who've fallen asleep to the same movie they've been trying to watch for six Saturday nights in a row."

Q: What do you want people to take away from this book?

DAN: Every parent, dad or mom, tends to think nothing's going to change when we have kids, then EVERYTHING changes. I was a dude living in the coolest neighborhood in Brooklyn, now I'm a dad living in the suburbs and driving a minivan to Costco--and LOVING it, which should give you an idea of what I'm talking about. The way I see it, if life deals you a minivan, you might as well enjoy the ride. 

*****

"Dan Gets a Minivan" invites you not only to enjoy the ride, but insists you get comfortable. It offers everything a literary road trip should: laughs, music, strife and those proverbial flat tires when parents feel stranded, wondering what to do next with themselves and their kids. Dan Zevin pulls us all over and says: "cool it!" - there are worse things than following your gut and plunking yourself into a big fat car, a few longitudinal lines away from the nearest subway station.
This book reminded me I have a sense of humor, and insisted I apply it more to my parenting. It made me a better father (for the next week or so, anyway, until I morph back into my crotchety old self); it also split my sides (or as his mother might say: Ribious Crackopenus).
Intelligent, sensitive, funny. I don't think it's a man crush I have. Maybe a book crush. Either way, I understand why Dave Barry wants him dead.

       Dan on Percocet:
 

"My surgeon implanted donor tissue. Donor tissue, In other words, "dead guy" tissue. So: who was he? Or: who was she? Holy Shit. What if I have a she-knee? What if I went in for knee surgery and came out a hermaphrodite?"

*****

  All readers who comment will be entered into a draw (once I find a hat) to win a copy of Dan's book.
Contest closes Canada Day 2012 (that's July 1st, people). 

 

 

 

 

FatherDaddy via The Good Men Project: Unlike Dads, Kids Don’t Care Who Hears Them Sing

Unlike Dads, Kids Don’t Care Who Hears Them Sing

Why Is It Sometimes I'm Aching to Criticize My Spouse?

After dinner, we divide and conquer. Generally, I tidy the kitchen and my wife prepares the kids for bed.
The hind-end of kitchen duty includes the preparation of my son's school lunch. As some of you may be aware: I hate making school lunches. So, sometimes I fish for suggestions, which my wife happily provides.
Monday night's suggestion:
"How about turkey and cheese roll?"
"I thought we were out of wraps." I countered, already mentally dancing like a boxer.
"We are. Just use the turkey slices and cheese." she explained.
"What!? Just a slice of turkey rolled around a piece of cheese?? What kind of lunch is that?"
"Sure," she was being frustratingly patient with me "three or four of them, along with some carrot sticks and hummus, and voila! Lunch."
I was ready to bob, weave, and counter punch. But my mental seatbelt locked up and held me still. I thought about it, it was a darn great lunch; nutritious, playful, easy to prepare.
"You know what?" I confessed "I was ready to argue about it, but that's a darn great lunch."
"Thank you." off she went, fishing for toothbrushes and pyjamas, children in tow.

Within our marriage I have a reputation of holding in contempt many ideas and suggestions simply because I don't like change. I don't want to be deviated from whatever plan I have in my stubborn head. I'm a master at rolling my eyes over her simplest suggestions: adding one more name to a dinner guest-list, putting a sweater on the kids before skating, fixing the leak before the insurance company offers us a canoe instead of financial compensation. 
Why is that? Why do I get impatient?

To the person on the receiving end of criticism, not only can it be exhausting, but also hurtful. It is upsetting not only to be challenged, but also to be spoken to in a way your spouse would not speak to anyone else.
Why is that?
It's partly because, at the time, I'm not lashing out about a turkey roll, but rather about the dozen or so small moments which frustrated me before I got home: traffic, spilled coffee, an upsetting e-mail, a computer crash. These are the psychological termites which gnaw at your patience and understanding until you can vent to someone who will listen.

In any marriage, one partner occasionally becomes the other's burden to bear.
We nitpick sometimes because we know they'll listen. They may walk away purse-lipped, expecting an apology, but they'll always listen.
And each time she sits opposite me at the dining room table, listening to me crow, she's saying the same thing: 'Despite your chiding, I'm not going anywhere. I'll always be right here.'
 
I certainly will never criticize her for that.

I've Figured it Out: Why a Busy Father Mourns Whitney Houston.

Sitting in front of my laptop last week, I wondered why I was so distracted by the losses of a singer: Whitney Houston, and a ball player: Gary Carter.
I tapped the hind end of my pen on the surface of my desk, and thought it through tap...tap...tap:

I don't watch much baseball anymore, what with two young children.
I don't set time aside to listen to music anymore. Not much, anyway.
So, why did I care?
tap...tap...tap

Now I know.
The answer: 1985.

1985 is the year Arista Records released "Whitney Houston", the singer's debut album.
It is also the year the Montreal Expos released Gary Carter to the New York Mets.
I was 13 years old, and as with most new teenagers, I was almost as prone to getting lost within my own imagination as I was prone to hero worship.

I've lived in Montreal my whole life. Like many fans of our professional baseball team, Carter was one of my favorites. I loved the way he crouched behind home plate, his pinkie holding the edge of his catcher’s mitt in front of his nose, so when the center-field camera was pointed at home plate all you saw were Carter's eyes glaring back at his pitcher. He was the reason my first baseball glove was a catcher's mitt.
"Whitney Houston" was among the last vinyl LPs I ever bought. I was 13, hormones out of control, and here was album on the cover of which was a beautiful woman stolen, like a Tahitian princess, from a scene in The Bounty. The only image more captivating than the front of the album was the image of Whitney gracing a white swimsuit, statuesque in the sand, on the record's back.
Then, of course, there were those songs.
As an adult, I would not speak of sitting in my living room listening to Whitney Houston albums ad nauseum. But, in 1985, at 13 years of age, not only was it permitted, it was nearly obligatory.

13 years-old in 1985 is, in its soul and spirit, barely separable from 13 years-old in 2012: still a balance and battle between confidence and intimidation, hormones and blooming awareness, and boys feeling their way from running the bases at the baseball diamond to being transported elsewhere my music and romance.

 

One of my favorite bloggers, Roger Ebert, is fond of saying: it's not what a movie is about; it's how it is about it.
The losses of Whitney Houston and Gary Carter reminds me it was not what they accomplished in their lifetimes which remains with me, but rather how my life was when their footprints were large on this world.
Losing them reminds me I am no longer 13, dusty from sand in the park, sipping on cola, blaring music and waiting to be told where to go next.
I'm older now, and two immortals who garnered my hero-worship in 1985 are no longer with us.

I don't have that album anymore. At some point, when it became unfashionable, I gave it away.
And, where is that catcher’s mitt?
...tap, tap, tap...

Associated PressPhoto

 

 

 

Kids, Parents and Grandparents are All Touched by Sunsets

Wikipedia, 'Sundowning': A person who is sundowning may exhibit mood swings, become abnormally demanding, suspicious, upset or disoriented, and see or hear things that are not there in the late afternoon and evening.

This definition normally applies to those in their golden years. But, in our house, the hours between sunset and sunrise trigger shifts in emotions and behaviors in us all.
In the dark of the winter evening, after the hustle of the day fades, each of us anticipates the hours ahead with their unique senses of need, resistance, and anticipation.
By the time night time encroaches, the adults are eager for tranquility, both mental and physical. We're thirsty for quiet after wading in responsibility since before sunrise that day. That state can manifest itself in the form of impatience and restlessness towards the children. But can also create a closeness, a magnification of the parental instinct to hold and nurture them.
The Boy and the Girl can be manic, emotional, playful, defiant, loving, or a mosaic of them all. The sun has set, and fatigue and playfulness are battling within them beyond their capacity to control them.

My son consistently rises minutes after I leave his room with his nightly 'affliction': it ranges from growing pains in his shin to a headache, a tummy ache, an unquenched thirst, or an ambiguous inability simply to get comfortable in his bed. The subtext to it all is constant: night has arrived, but he's not yet ready to greet it. He's overpowered by a child's simple need for a moment or two more of reassurance from his parent. This can be as simple as a piggy-back to his bed, to having his head rubbed while he lies on the sofa by my side until the next commercial.
Once the ritual is complete, sleep comes easily.

My daughter's nature is more restless. Her routine is short: a story, a short song, a kiss, sleep. Her nights, however, can be complicated. She frequently wakes, whimpering and tearful, anxious after a nightmare. "What was your dream?" I ask.
"I was alone." is a recurring theme. Occasional she'll speak of a monster, but mostly the fear was mommy or daddy not being there when she sought them.
She's quickly soothed by a hug, another kiss, or by holding my hand to her cheek for a short while.
I'm fascinated by the irony that this girl, whose fibre is so fearless by day - much more so than her older sibling - is so discomposed during sleep.
Is her subconscious storing this anxiety? Is it pushing it aside while she's awake, allowing more room for her courage, cockiness and cheekiness to lead her through her waking hours?

As for me, sunset brings reflection and a need for relaxation when I'm alone. It may be physiological, physiological, or both; I find it hard to motivate myself for anything but a peaceful resistance of responsibility.
I enjoy listening to the sounds the house makes when it's quiet: the hum of the furnace, the wind nudging a beam here, a window there. It seems almost as though our home is aware of the day's travails and is itself at a state of rest.

The onset of night never increases my mood swings, nor does it make me demanding, or disoriented.
But, I am more likely to become introspective, perhaps emotional, as I'm released from daylight.
The children can become upset and disoriented; either through their dreams or the restless moments before sleep takes over.
Morning always brings with it those same little faces, now refreshed and eager; little bodies which hop and skip from one part of their day to the next the way only children do.
But on occasion, when twelve hours later the sun goes down, we each become affected by our own sprinkling of Sundowners.

Photo Credit

 

Perhaps - As Infants Do - We All Need Our Heads Supported.

He's about four feet tall, weighs slightly more than fifty pounds, and is at the limit of what can be referred to as comfortable when I cradle him as I did seven years ago.
But, I can still feel my son relax in my arms, his head in the crook of my elbow, as I carry him downstairs to his bedroom.

My neighbors' new son is nearly one month old. Holding him the other day naturally brought back memories of my own children at that delicate stage: soft bones, unfocused eyes, twitching muscles, and a steady flow of warmth radiating through his onesie. 

Photo Credit
After seven years, my son has begun to assert his individuality. With more frequency he insists on creating -  and seeing through to completion - projects of his own. His has filled a box with his own office supplies: Post-Its, a stapler, hole puncher, pencils, pens, erasers, sticky tack, and a plethora of other provisions. He has become more insistent and objectionable concerning what he should be allowed to hoard, and what he no longer has any use for.
He is no longer memorized by pre-school programming; there is no more mystery to behold in mundane objects such as coffee percolators and garage door openers.
He's growing up.

But, as the day ends and his courage is weakened by fatigue, he expresses only a muted defiance, in the form of a petulant whimper , when I scoop him up like a baby to carry him to bed.
I believe this is a metaphor for us all. We grow brave and distant because the adult world necessitates it. But we all have softness to our bones, eyes which become unfocused, muscles which ache and twitch, and we will radiate warmth when someone takes the time to support our heavy heads.

Photo Credit

4-Year-Old in Onesie: A Glimpse of Time Flying by

It was a reminder of how small she still is, and a measuring stick for much she's grown; my daughter came downstairs last night wearing a purple onesie handed down to her from her older cousin.

There she stood in front of me; covered head to toe, resembling a little grape. The garment was pulling on her shoulders and plucking at her toes, like violet flannel shrink-wrap.
Due to its cramped sizing, we were prepared to make a donation of the footed pyjama; but the moment she saw it, my daughter protested. There is still that infant inside her, which either consciously, or through some emotional muscle memory, yearns to be seen as the helpless infant she once was.

Seeing her with those snaps, climbing from crotch to clavicle, and her feet wrapped in treaded cotton, made me realize how many years have passed since rubber stitching on her soles represented little more than a wink of humour, and hinted at the day when she might crawl, let alone walk.
Now, though she is only four and running still brings with it the uncoordinated risk of a tumble, the pencil measurements on the kitchen wall climb quickly, the pyjamas grow larger and larger, and her vocabulary resembles more so the protestations of a teenager rather than the babbles of a newborn.

I'm not sure if there is a ceiling for onesie sizing. I believe they exist to accommodate adult measurements; I remember girls adorning them on cool nights at summer camp, perhaps seeking that same perception of childhood, and the need to be cared for. As for more practical needs for adults sizes: the onesie did appear more than a century ago as a pure provider of warmth - disguised as what we now refer to as long underwear - complete with the convenient trap door.

As for my son - two years my daughter's senior - he abandoned onesies years ago in favour of Spider-Man sleepwear. But, even those bottoms are reaching above the ankle, and the top not quite making the journey to the wrist bone.

Imagine, seven year-old, and already outgrowing a super-hero costume.

When did that happen?