Three-legged Cat has written a post which brought back memories of my younger son, Ro, when he was a baby. He grew up to be relaxed and good-humoured, but he was certainly the least happy of all my children at the start. He seemed to both want and reject me at the same time; he woke frequently at night and appeared to be generally frustrated by life.

When he was ten months (or whatever age children are when this happens) old, he learned his first word. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t ‘mama’. It was ‘dah’. This proved to be vastly useful – it meant ‘water’. There are few more useful words than water. When thirsty, he could ask for ‘dah’. When it was raining, he could point at the window and comment knowledgeably on the weather. We lived by the sea, and he could remark on the scenery. He was, at last, able to communicate and he loved it. He was also able to talk to his father by name, because if you can say ‘dah’ you can say ‘dada’.

Things improved further as time went on and he became more independent. We bought him a slide, which he enjoyed, but the matching swing wasn’t so popular – he had to be lifted into it and then be swung. We moved house the day before his second birthday: the friends who bought our house had a little girl of about the same age and she loved the swing, so we gave it to her as a housewarming present. He hated the car seat and screamed every time he was put in it – car journeys were miserable times. When he was three, he developed severe car sickness, so I suspect this was a major part of his distress.

What still seems remarkable to me was the change in his nature as he grew older. When he was born, and in view of the 8-year age gap between him and his older brother, we were thinking in terms of having a fourth child. But when he was a month old, I looked at the Sage and said “we won’t be having another, will we?” Thank goodness for a doting elder brother and sister, who took a good deal of the strain off me – they became thoroughly neglected themselves, as there was only so much time and emotional energy I had. But by the time he was three, he was absolutely lovely.

I suppose, as a baby, he must have thought I was extremely thick. No wonder he was frustrated. Learning his first word, and realising we could understand him at last, transformed his life.

Al and Dilly decided to go to a car boot sale today; indeed, they were going to have a stall themselves. They asked if we could look after the children; fine, I said, I’m not playing the organ so I’ll take them to church. Um, we’ll have to make an early start, added Al.

Fine. I set the alarm for 6am and was walking up their garden path at half-past.

The children were sweet. I always get to the church an hour before the service as there’s a lot to do – today, I was helping with coffee and responsible for the Mothering Sunday flowers, as well as the usual things that crop up, and Squiffany and Pugsley were amazingly good-humoured as I bustled about. They started to suggest it was about time to go home at about the time the service was starting, but were still cheerful when I explained. During the service, they cheerily proffered hands to shake and Pugsley clapped at the end of each hymn, and they helped hand out the bunches of flowers to everyone, including men.

On the way home, Squiffany fell over and cried first for Mummy and then for Daddy, but she was brave and allowed herself to be comforted; I carried her the rest of the way. We decided that a good bounce on my bed would cheer her up, and talked about endorphins … she knows quite a lot about ‘dorphins because she’s watched Finding Nemo.

Ro cooked lunch, and excellent it was. Roast chicken, which was perfect and moist and herby, sausages, roast potatoes, sweet potatoes cooked with shallots and cumin, carrots and broccoli; and rhubarb crumble and custard to follow. He cooked the rhubarb in orange juice and a very little sugar. Squiffany and her mother had made cakes to eat with coffee.

I slept for over an hour in the afternoon.

The Sage is entirely adorable, and never more so than when he’s screwed things up.

He paid his car insurance, and a couple of weeks later, realised that his car tax was due and his insurance certificate had not arrived. He phoned, and was told that a replacement would be sent out at once, but it still hadn’t got here yesterday. “Never mind,” I said, “I’ll pay for it online; the DVLC are notified by the insurance company and you don’t have to produce the document.” The trouble was, he also hadn’t had a reminder for his car tax (what is it with the postal service?) and so he didn’t have the reference number. “what about the log book then, that’ll do?” He searched. He couldn’t find it. He tried to ring them, but the line was constantly engaged (no queue, just an engaged signal) from 4 pm yesterday and we concluded that the weekend had started early.

I tried to think where the registration document might be. “Where’s the MOT certificate?” I asked. He tapped his pocket. “Okay, where was it before you put it in your pocket?” He looked boyish. “I couldn’t find it, I got a replacement from the garage.”

Today, the replacement insurance certificate arrived, but the logbook still is nowhere to be found. He went to get an application form for a replacent…which will cost £25.

We’re working on the catalogue for the next sale. There are a few pieces from one seller which didn’t go in the last sale, which are being re-entered this time. The Sage was worried. Three saucers, but no matching teabowls. And two cream jugs were missing. He was still fretting about it when we went to bed. “Look,” I said. “We didn’t leave them behind in the saleroom and the owner didn’t take them away” (he’d phoned to check). “So they’re here. You just put them in a different box.” “But there was plenty of room in that box, so why weren’t they together?” “When you find them, you’ll remember why you packed them separately. They aren’t lost. You are careful and you would never lose a piece of china that belonged to someone else.”

This morning, of course, he found them. They were in a box that has divisions, in which they fitted perfectly; which is the reason they were there.

I love it when he’s fallible. He never complains when I lose or forget things but is pretty reliable himself – usually. It’s rather a pleasure to be the one to comfort him.