The Nice biscuit. Often shunned by biscuit lovers it struggles to live up to it’s name, that’s if you come from the school of thought that believes it’s pronounced nice, not neice (After some research triggered by this thought the correct pronunciation is infact nis, like the town Nice in France, who knew?) I love them. Eddie loves them, calling them Nicey Nice. Jon and Rufus would eat them if they had to. Jon and I do not agree that Nice are nice.
It’s not nice to disagree.
I disagree with people, with strangers and with those I love and respect. It doesn’t often cause problems, unless I’m in a Karen/Hermione Norris from Cold Feet kind of mood then I could happily shout any insignificant imbecile into a hole of shame and terror, but generally because our disagreements are never directly discussed but delt with in moments and hints and tones and body jestures we do not cause each other pain. What a complex way to exist, only to preserve each others’ feelings. My twin boys however are yet to learn this subtle code which allows somebody to understand you without causing emotional hurt. If Eddie wants the the bashed up tiny owlie keyring who used to hoot but now shrieks and sounds like it’s drowning, and slowly, he takes it. Rufus will flap and scream and bounce and bop his brother on the head until Mummy comes to the rescue, “Eddie that wasn’t nice, Ruru chose to play with that.” I then enter into a series of steps designed to help them learn to listen to and share with each other and others, along with respecting each other’s wishes and needs. It’s a repeatative process, conditioning really, it’s time consuming and by no means near to being mastered by them, especially with regard to each other. Perhaps I shall start rewarding nice behaviour with a Nice biscuit.
Everyday I hope the boys grow up enjoying each other’s company but no one can be nice all the time. Perhaps I should allow them to fight, and occasionally I do. Sometimes watching them do so is entertaining. But there are moments, glimpses of love, a developing and fledgling relationship. An old friend who I’ve recently reconnected with came and helped me take the chaps to town so I could wait in line at the bank without feeling I was constantly growling at them. I’m usually proud to go it alone (I mean 5 days a week 8am-4.30 otherwise it’s undeniably a team effort) thriving on the challenge and wanting to prove it’s possible to bring up twin boys to be calm and loving, but it’s tough and on this day I required an assistant. We caught the local OAP bus, no pushchair and walked hand in hand with the boys when necessary or desired. They were good, they were toddlers. On our way back to the bus, Eddie stopped, mid run and approached Ruru, for a hug and kiss. I did not expect that. But it was nice. Really nice.
My year 6 primary school teacher taught me that the word nice is boring, I presume in a bid to help me and my 90s classmates further our vocabulary. But I think sometimes nice is perfect. When my boys got home yesterday from their adventure day out with Daddy it was so nice to see them. When I sipped my cup of tea it was a little too hot, now though it’s just nice ahhhhhhhhh. So I like the little word, more than I realise. It’s nice.