February and March: Are you reading Neil Buchanan?

 "Make sure you cut the body along the fold, Ryan."

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To start our arts and crafts challenge, we begin with butterfly paintings. These are simple and effective. As easy as a Lionel Richie Sunday morning. As easy as idiomatic pie. As easy as a £100 question on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Easy. Easy. Easy. You just get some A4 card, squeeze on the paint, fold in half, leave to dry; then returning draw out a simple wing, cut along the fold, where the magic of symmetry will reveal itself.

I cut the wrong way and divest the butterfly of its body. 

Harriet did warn me against this, but I wasn't listening. Unfortunately the veterninary clinic down the road doesn't extend to insects, so a rudimentary stich-up operation ensues with a lollipop stick being applied centrally to provide ballast. Glued to within an inch of its life, the butterfly is complete. It doesn't look bad. At the very least, it's in Watford colours so I'm happy.

During the week Harriet tells me about a Julia Donaldson book that might help us with our project. Kit loves the What the Ladybird Heard series and as luck (cash-in commerce) would have it, there is an activity book to go alongside it. Note: this doesn't apply to Donaldson as such; for she is a supremely talented writer. But: all you need to be set up for life is one successful children's book. From there you can have lucrative offshoots: activity books, lift-the-flap books, puzzels, figurines, t-shirts, theatre shows and an animated Channel 5 cartoon. The world of children's books is like a song at Christmas: just one hit and watch the royalties pour in. Back to what I was saying: I order the book from Smith's and am impressed when I open it up. There's lots of lovely things to do, with the instructions tailor-made for six-year-olds: ideal for someone like me.

First, we set about making a Zog. Zog, if you aren't a parent, is a friendly orange dragon. In fact, the whole book Zog turns stereotypes on its head, whereby you have a Princess that's more interested in Medicine than a cosseted life of privilege, as well as a knight who comes to realise women don't need saving. It also has a compassionate Oligarch. Well, that last one isn't true. 

Kit goes crazy with the primaries mixing the red and yellow until it becomes a vibrant orange. I then use the template at the back to cut out the head and wings. There's a problem though: I've misjudged the head size. The body looks bloated, as though Zog had gone rogue and eaten his fill of princesses and knights. Yet his head looks like a Koopa Troopa that's been flattened by Mario. I feel like I've done Zog a disservice. Kit doesn't care though abour proportion, about perspective. Orange from head to foot, he is as happy as anything. You know when you've been tango'd.

Next week: I try to get my confidence back by choosing the easiest thing in the book: a kazoo. It just involves a toilet roll, a circle of baking paper and elastic band. Kit is responsible for decorating it, which he does by going ballistic with red paint and hedonistic with ladybird stickers. I put a hole in the tube to let the air escape. Together, we have made a musical instrument. In the same way that Brian May and his father, Harold, built The Red Special, a prototype guitar that would go on to provide the signature sound of Queen, Kit and his father have built The Ladybird, which will influence the kazoo music of the Zoomer generation.

The week after, Kit and I decide to make a fat red hen. I'm not fat-shaming the red hen here, this is what Julia Donaldson calls it in What The Ladybird Heard. Although by continuing to refer to it by this reductive nomenclature, I am perpetuating the discriminatory language. Am I therefore complicit in the damaging rhetoric or am I absolved given I didn't come up with it? It's a thorny issue. I'll let history judge me. I do need a yoghurt pot for this. Unfortunately, I misread the instructions and didn't realise I needed a natural yoghurt pot. Harriet said "that's what's needed for the heft." Harriet gets a natural yoghurt pot in the food shop and empties the contents into a tupperware, leaving us with what we need to go ahead with the fat-shaming. Again, the templates are in the back of the back, but this time I go bigger, aware of Zog's small head. It works, proving the point that 'you're never too old to learn how to complete six-year-old tasks.' Kit does a great job at painting the yoghurt pot and affiliated body parts. He sticks it all down nicely too. I'm genuinely impressed by what we've achieved. I high-five him and give him some raisins to celebrate. 

Our final design is to do a sheep using cotton wool balls. This should be easy, but Kit is in no mood for art. Our partnership today is like the Gallaghers or McCartney and Lennon in the late 60's. We seem to be struggling with creative differences. I want to create art, and Kit wants to eat it. It's like he's on a cocktail of Red Bull, E numbers and whizz. The boy is as high as a kite on a long, long piece of string. Tethering the boy to paint is an uphill task. Each thing I pass his way ends up in one of two places: the floor or his mouth. I have a word with myself: 'He's one, Ryan. Remember that. Don't flounce off and slam the door, crying, "How am I supposed to work in these conditions?" Embrace the chaos.' So I laugh. 

Laugh at the crazed despot that sits in the high chair. Laugh at the fact that all my years of behaviour management training are redundant when confronted by a giddy toddler. Laugh at his exuberance and glee.