Arrgh!

Here is a list of things that I am scared of;

• Spiders
• Tunnels
• Being touched
• Funnel Web Spiders (they live in tunnels)

We'll ignore the whole touching thing, I get asked about that a lot. Most commonly; "How did you have kids?" The response to this is; "Disappointingly quickly" which has nothing to do with not liking physical contact.

Weirdly, as I type this I can hear the Wife rolling her eyes.

Anyway, I have three phobias, which is a fair collection for anyone. This is why it doesn't come as a great surprise that the Boy - who is essentially me³ - is scared of just about anything you care to mention. I'll give you and example; earlier today the Wife put on a DVD to keep the Kids quiet. The Boy watched it for ten minutes, then ran away saying it was too scary.

It was Lady and the Tramp

Yesterday we treated the Kids to staying up with us to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special. The Boy spent an hour with his hands over his ears, insisting the Wife covered his eyes. It wasn't entertainment for him, it was self-induced sensory deprivation. I sat with him to watch Finding Nemo about a year ago. Let me give you the plot breakdown (as far as we watched) from the Boy's point of view.

Pretty fish talking
Pretty fish EATEN BY MASSIVE EVIL FISH
Pretty fish talks to small pretty fish
Small pretty fish ABDUCTED BY MASSIVE GLASS-FACED MONSTER
Pretty fish goes looking for small pretty fish
SHARK ATTACK!

You would have thought I'd made him watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Which is ironic because the first film the Girl ever watched was the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. She was about a week old, she wouldn't sleep so I lay on the sofa with her and watched it. In some ways I think that was a mistake. I think it might have given her ideas.

Clearly then, nightmares are a bit of an issue. The Boy's first recurring nightmare was that there was a bee in his room. This was whilst he was still quite young.

"There's a bee in my room! Its going to bite me!"
"Bees don't bite. They sting you."
"Whaaaaat?"

Which is why we've had to choose our words carefully. Not that I always remember.

"Night night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Whaaaaat?"

On the other hand the Girl is scared of nothing. She'll happily play with cats (as demonstrated), dogs, snakes, alligators, plastic bags (thanks Granddad) or electric outlets. She's the one that stands on the arm of the sofa and dives onto the hard wood floor, or surfs the stairs. On one occasion I got home from work and on opening the door was greeted by the sight of the Girl hurtling down the stairs face first and crashing into the radiator. The radiator seemed more bothered than she did. She simply got up, dusted herself down (well, pulled her trousers up) and ran into the living room to watch the tweenies.

Meanwhile, the Boy was being terrorised by a moose with a wellies on its antlers.

I Felt Your Presents

Let me ask you a question, my lovelies. When do you think Christmas starts? First of December? Twenty-fifth of December?

Optimistic.

Try mid August. Ish. In truth you can't tell exactly when its going to start. All you know is that it will start during an advert break with the words

"Ooh... I would like one of those!"

And you're off and running. From this point you'll find yourself saying; "If you're good then maybe we'll get you <insert toy name here>." Unfortunately, its not quite that easy. The Kids change their mind like they change their underwear (with the Girl, that's several times a day). The Boy has been doing a lot of Ooh-ing this year. Initially it started with the sort of things you might expect; Hot Wheels, Nintendo, Hexbugs... After a couple of days he started to say it about pretty much every advert. This led to

"Ooh... I would like one of those!"
"Really?"
"Yes! What are they?"
"They're tampons."

Fun? Yes. But six months of this can get a bit dreary. When it finally gets to the time of the year I'm given Christmas cards by people I sit next to at work (WHY???) I'm all strung out with it. Don't get me wrong,
I love Christmas. However... at the risk of sounding peevish, this will be the twenty fifth year running that I don't get an Optimus Prime. So despite loving Christmas, I also find it all rather irksome.

Before I had Kids, Christmas felt (to paraphrase the late, great Douglas Adams) like having my brains smashed out by a bit of tinsel wrapped around a large, gold brick. Too many hours in the pub, too much alcohol, too much Slade, too many drunken headlocks telling people I'd just met "I love you!"

Not that I've finished drinking at Christmas. This weekend the Wife and I found time (and willing babysitters) to go out for drinks and dancing. This ended with the Wife blowing her groceries in the taxi rank and me spending several hours getting intimate with the toilet bowl at home. At one point I woke the Boy up because I was crying "Why won't it stop?" and (bless him) he asked me if I was okay.

That's some great parenting right there.

I woke up with a bruise on my chest from falling into the toilet and when the Boy said "Good morning" I accidentally replied "Armitage Shanks." He then told me that I needed drink hot water for my tummy and trundled off to get me a glass.

"Dad? Is the hot water on the left?"
"Yes."
"Okay! Which way is left?"

This is one of the difficulties of Christmas with the Kids - you just can't afford to drink that much. It's testament to what great children I have that they were content to watch Cbeebies whilst I dozed on the sofa. They even tried to get rid of my hangover, although they did this by riding their scooters over bubble wrap. Which made me a bit shouty.

So the one thing that I used to do at Christmas - drinking - has to stop. Instead Christmas has become all about making sure the Kids have a magical time. Partly through Christingle services and nativity plays which I've covered before, and trips to see Father Christmas. Those personalised videos you can set up from Father Christmas are brilliant too. But the most important thing is to make sure you get the right present.  Now before you say kids are too materialistic these days

"Daddy, can I go in your bedroom?"
"No yet, your Christmas present is in there and its not wrapped."
"Pleeeeeeaaaase???"
"Not until its wrapped!"
"BUT DAD!"
"Look, you can't see your present until Christmas!"
"I KNOW! I WANT TO JUMP ON YOUR BED!"

They're not. I'm an optimist, so I've argued against people who claim people don't understand the spirit of Christmas. Last year I took the Kids to my mum's on Christmas Eve and on the way over...

"You're going to sleep in the big bed at nan's tonight, Boy."
"Yeah, and the Girl can sleep in the car."

Actually, that rather disproves my point...

What I mean is, its nice to see their faces light up, but that's not the main reason to buy the right present. Lets be honest, within five minutes the toy will be lying in the corner of the room whilst you're forced into pushing the Kids around the floor in a box. Or at the very least the Boy will be dressing up the Girl's new doll whilst she chases the cat with his remote controlled car.

No, its important to get the right present because the more they want something, the more able you are to blackmail them with it. And the blackmail game starts in about October, which means we get about two months of relatively good behaviour before filling the house with all manner of noisy, god-awful crap.

Anyway, as a Christmas present I'm going to leave you with a quote from the Boy I've been holding back thus far. Its pretty much my favourite one. It was while we were on a camping holiday about eighteen months ago.

"Daddy, why are you chasing that kite?"
"Because its our tent!"


Merry Christmas everyone!

From the Wife, the Boy, the Girl and Me.

Birth

Last week at work, amongst topics of conversation ranging from the state of the economy to vaginal flatulence, I was asked a series of questions about birth. So I thought I might do an entry here.

In the autumn of 2006 the Wife woke me up with the words "Guess who's water's broken?" to which I, in my semi-conscious state replied "I don't know... whose?" And at this point I'd like to take the opportunity to break a few myths

Myth 1

People always panic in the films, don't they? Its all "get hot water and plenty of towels!" and people passing out.

I have to say, there was no panic. There were corn flakes, there were some phone calls... the Wife had a bath. No panic. I know that's not as funny as running into walls and bags of clothes bursting open, but I wasn't at all nervous. Its true what they say. Ignorance is bliss. I boiled the kettle for hot water, but only because I wanted a brew. At no point were towels involved.

After an hour or so the Wife's contractions got to the point that we needed to phone the birthing unit. It was all very calm and pleasant, we drove through the middle of the night to the unit and got parked up, dragged the small bag containing the ENTIRE CONTENTS OF THE HOUSE inside, popped the Wife on a birthing ball (for the uninitiated, a massive beach ball you sit on and bounce up and down on) and set in for the wait. It took about ten minutes for me to realise that the birthing room was about the temperature of the surface of the sun. By the time the Boy was born four hours later I was about half the size I was when I went in. A tip - dads, dress for summer regardless of weather conditions.

The Wife bounced up and down on the ball until the labour pain got so bad we put the TENS machine on her. This is like one of those abdominal exercise machines that electrocutes you to a six pack. It did feel a bit like pouring salt in the wound - wiring her up to the national grid, but it seemed to work for short while until the gas and air came in and the good times rolled. Well, at least between contractions. The Wife was steady as a rock, calm and collected, focused on the task at hand. She only offered me violence once when she was gesturing for the gas and air and I misread the situation and handed her the cup of ice chips. They promptly flew through the air as she snarled through gritted teeth; "No motherf****r, THAT!" and stabbed a finger at the gas.

Myth 2

Some people (I'm guessing men here) still claim birth is actually painless.

My arse. It wasn't painless for me, let alone the Missus. She was in so much pain she squeezed my hand tight enough to dislocate my finger.

(I realise at this point I'm about to lose the mother's in the audience, but hear me out on this one)

 Now here's a thing - imagine you're in the birthing unit, your wife is in the throes of labour, you're surrounded by women all of whom have had children. There's a slight iciness when you speak or you're spoken to because, on some level you're being blamed for the pain your wife is in. Like (true story here) when your "mates" tell you to meet them in a certain pub before a Charlton match and you turn up wearing your Charlton top to discover its where all the Millwall fans are. Like that, except without flying barstools and a mounted police officer to rescue you. You are, in short, not particularly welcome. Your wife squeezes your hand and dislocates your finger. You yowl in pain. The midwife looks at you and asks you what's wrong and you find yourself - amongst the blood and screams - saying; "I think I've hurt my finger."

For once I chose the wise path and didn't say anything. Not because I'm brave but because I'm a coward. And regardless, I was watching her go through child birth. I had bigger worries.

Whilst we're talking about the pain, I'd like to dispel one other myth though.

Myth 3

Whilst the Wife was pregnant with the Boy a colleague showed me an article in a women's magazine. It was one of those classy, 60p magazines that have headlines on the front cover like "I Was Sold into Slavery By My Mum" or "My Dog Exploded Doing a Wee". I think it was Vogue. In this article it said that it was; "not unheard of for women to orgasm during child birth."

That is likely in the same way that being struck by an asteroid made of jam is likely.

Moving on...

The Boy was a water birth. The best way to imagine this if you're a prospective dad and a film fan is this; watch the scene in Jaws where Quint gets eaten by the shark. But play it backwards at low speed so it takes about three hours.

 The best thing about a water birth is that as a dad you get a role to play. Aside from giving encouragement (don't, in your exuberance, yell "GIVE IT SOME WELLY!!" or people will judge you), you get given a sieve. Yes. A sieve. This was handed to me with the words, "just in case something pops out" to which I rather naively thought; "I'm never going to fit the baby in this."

No. I was on poo duty. However, it is my pleasure to say that the Wife behaved impeccably. Even when she was completely off her tits on the gas and air. Because the thing is, it only works if you breath a bit of gas and then take it out of your mouth to breath some air. My Wife in her befuddled state couldn't understand what the mid-wives and I were saying when we were trying get it off her. I ended up putting my foot on her shoulder so I could pull it out of her mouth. When she wrestled it back off me (she held my head under the water)* she actually knocked out one of her teeth putting it back in her mouth. Since I'm quick on the uptake, I formed the conclusion she rather wanted it back. After that I didn't argue with her and when the mid-wives tried to get me to do it again I simply replied, in a quavering voice; "But I want my child to have a father!"

Myth 4 

Childbirth is awful right? Wrong.

After all this you may be wondering why you'd want to go through it. I'm not a particularly schmaltzy guy (partly because I don't know what it means) but it really is the most amazing thing in the world. And as a bloke you're pretty much a spectator, so you might as well enjoy it because you can bet your arse your other half won't. I got as involved as I could, checking on his progress, cutting the umbilical cord, dressing him for the first time. The only thing I didn't do was look at the placenta. I saw a picture of one once. It looked a bit like something that you used to see eating small towns in B movies.The Girl was born at home, the Wife only bothered waking me up when it was time to call the mid-wife and by the time the gas and air arrived it was too late for it to work. So the Wife gave birth to the Girl with no pain-medication at all. I have never been so proud of and amazed by anyone as I was that day.  I don't think any experience in life can compare with childbirth, and the moment you hold your kid for the first time. Even if they crap on you. Which they might. And then you get to watch them sleep which is one of the most beautiful experiences life can bestow on you,

Myth 5

You'll never sleep properly again.

Actually, that's not a myth. You won't.




* Its possible I made that up.

Boys Versus Girls

This evening when I got the Girl out of the bath (after the normal, ask, ask, ask nicely, threaten, shout extravaganza) she looked me square in the eye and in a no-nonsense tone said;

"Winkle."

What she's pointing out here, in her own individual way, is that boys and girls aren't the same. Now I know you know that (or some of this is going to be a BIG shock) but the Girl is only just getting her head around this. Up until recently she insisted she was a boy, to the point the eyes were poked and faces scratched should anyone be foolish to contradict her. She was quite determined and it lasted about eighteen months. That phase has now almost passed, and now she thinks she's a cat. Its all part of a learning journey for her, and bless her it must be confusing. The Boy still can't always be relied on to get things right

"I've got a dad. He's called mum."

But then thinking that I'm a woman is an ongoing trend with him. I've mentioned before about "worming" Bill (see Ess Eee Ex), or only ever comparing me with female characters in programmes. Even when he's saying something he imagines can't be misconstrued he doesn't quite get it right

"Does your friend Steve make you happy?"

"I er... well... Its not like we take windy walks together, Boy."

"You're weird, dad."

A friend of mine once said that boys are physically exhausting, and girls are mentally exhausting, which I agree with. I also agree with it the other way round. The Boy is equally good at manipulation, the Girl is equally rumbunctious. Since the gender divide is so blurred, and since the Girl has idol worshipped the Boy since she was born its natural that she feels left out of being a boy. To be honest, when they're toddlers the only differences are anatomical. The Girl was born when the Boy was about two, so for two years I'd got used to changing nappies on a boy. Changing nappies on a girl is a whole new experience. Apart from the fact that, as a man, I'm not sure what all the bits are, the cleaning process is considerably different.Which is why she'll say things like

"I've got a winkle on the inside!"

As I say, we've only recently come out of the other side of the Girl thinking she's a boy. However there's a psychological phenomenon known as an "extinction burst" (see, you're learning something!) which means a behaviour shows a dramatic increase shortly before it stops. This explains why we had the comment above tonight, and only yesterday this - which I will leave you on.

"Daddy, what are these things behind my winkle?"

"They're, uh, your nuts, Boy."

"Oh."

The Girl, at this point, looked between her legs, looked baffled and said

"I haven't got any nuts."

"No darling. Girls don't have nuts. Only boys."

"Do you have nuts?"

"Er. Yes."

"Can't I see-"

"NO!"

Christingle

The Boy attends a faith school, which ordinarily is of no consequence. The Wife and I hold our own views on religion, but chose his school because it seemed like a good one rather than to brain wash the Boy into conforming (as if that would work on him). Plus the council told us it was that or the school down the road. We didn't fancy that. It is an academy of excellence, but unfortunately it's chosen specialist subject is murder. That might be an exaggeration.  It does have the look and the catchment area you normally in shots of the aftermath of the London riots though. So we passed.

The one time of year it is an issue is Christmas. Or more precisely the Christingle service. The weird thing is; I went to church as a boy myself and never encountered Christingle myself. So for the uninitiated, let me give you the low down.

Essentially the Christingle service is a Christmas carol service for children. There's rather more to it than that, but I'll get the important part a little later. Last year I went to my (and the Kids) first Christingle service with my mother-in-law. Having navigated the Girl past the font without her bursting into flames and keeping one hand clamped over the Boy's mouth to stop him talking about poo, or singing his favourite song which was, embarrassingly; "Sex on Fire" by Kings Of Leon. He'd picked that song up a few weeks before and the intial amusement of him singing;

"Whooooaaaaaa, my socks are on fire!"

had worn of once he'd started getting the lyrics right and yelling

"That man's sex is on fire! Put it out, daddy!"

and finally come to a head with the conversation

"What did you do at school today, Boy?"
"Sang songs."
"What songs do you like singing?"
"Sex on Fire, but they won't let me sing that."

So you can imagine there was a level of stress involved before we'd taken our pew. I've never been particularly comfortable in churches myself, and while the Boy seems to get on with it okay, the Girl will develop ADHD the moment we cross the threshold. As such, most of the service was spent doing the parenting equivalent of putting an eel in a jar, with the Girl by turns jumping on the pew, shouting "RAAAARRRR!" whenever the priest said; "Bow your heads an pray" and occasionally biffing the elderly gentleman in front of us in the back of the head. You be surprised how few times it took before he turned round and dropped the "c-bomb." So, whilst juggling a highly strung Girl, preparing to clap a hand over the Boy's mouth and fending off abuse from the potty mouthed 90 year old chap I was handed two (not one, mind, two) of these

A Christingle. Suitable for kids of no ages.

So, to clarify this is an orange, with a candle in the top, a red ribbon, four cocktail sticks and some raisins. This is symbolises (and I'm quoting Wikipedia here); the world (orange), fruits of the four seasons (raisins), the blood of Christ (ribbon) and the light of the world (you can probably work that out yourself.) Alternatively, its a festive hand grenade. As if it wasn't enough that I had two very sharp objects to hold whilst the Girl jumped up and down on the Bible, they then set light to them. So, its sharp, on fire and round bottomed so you can't put it down.

Seriously, don't go. Because that's not even the most dangerous bit. After the service they invite you to have a mince pie and a cup of mulled wine. At this point there was a stampede of zimmer frames, crutches and surprisingly angry pensioners towards the back of the church. The Girl got caught in the middle of this stampede and reacted in the only way she knows how, she threw a tantrum. This lead to the unenviable situation of me, standing in a church, pushing pensioners around. And I'm informed that God doesn't go in for that kind of thing.

Away in a Manger

Quite frankly, I deserve a bloody medal. Yesterday I had the pleasure of attending three Christmas plays. I wouldn't mind but I've only got two kids.

Before anyone thinks I'm cruising school plays for nefarious reasons I should point out that the Boy's school put on two plays, and I had to watch both of them. Watching your own kids in a school play is ok, because you can laugh at them. Laughing at other people's kids is just plain mean though. So you have to laugh at the funny bits, and it's not always easy to work out which bits are funny.

First up was the Girl's play which, If I followed the plot properly was about Rudolph the Reindeer being too ill to pull Santa's sleigh and being replaced by Ralph the Reindeer who claimed he could fly but couldn't. A kind of festive "Rogue Traders." The Girl was dressed as a reindeer because (weirdly) we had a reindeer costume, and very cute she looked. When we entered the hall she was sitting with her friends on the stage, craning her neck to see us before beaming and waving. So far, so good, we thought. Earlier the Wife and I had discussed that if she managed to start the play smiling it would be a minor miracle. The Girl does not do attention. On her birthday when the cake came out and everyone sang "Happy Birthday" she threw herself on the floor and screamed until everyone stopped singing and started crying. Even some of the mums. So I was working on the principle that so long as no one lost an eye, it was all good.

She lasted about fifteen minutes before ad-libbing a line

"I need a wee!"

and needing to be rescued. Needless to say we couldn't get her back on the stage and that was pretty much her career in drama over.

A few hours later, after taking the Girl for a tantrum in the local petting zoo, I went to see the Boy's play and enjoy another hour and a half perched on a seat half the size of an arse cheek. There's nothing like seeing your little Boy dressed in an old shirt, wearing a tea towel and a coit on his head, pretending to look full of awe at the glory of the Lord whilst surreptitiously rooting around in his hooter. It really is quite magical. And there's much to enjoy, like one of the Wise Men having a billious attack at the side of the stage, or the Angel Gabriel singing Away in a Manger with the sort of gusto and venom only the Sex Pistols managed. Honestly, she scared me. When she sang "lay down his sweet head" it sounded like "You're gonna get you f**king head kicked in."

Sadly for this blog, it all went rather swimmingly and I was very proud of both my Kids. However, it wouldn't be right to finish on that note, so I'll finish with this.

On our return we gave the Boy his dinner, forwent his bath because, well, we couldn't be bothered, and we were in the process of reading him a story when he suddenly leapt to his feet, clutched his bum with a look of surprise and said "I need a poo!"

It was at this point that I spotted a A toy lying on the floor. A small brown plastic bear that looked remarkably like a nugget of poop. I couldn't resist.

"Oh no! You've already done it! Look!"

With a panicked expression the Boy looked at the toy and said;

"Oh! You frightened me then! I thought I'd poo-ed out a bear!"

I'm having that as my epitaph.

Ess Eee Ex

I've not had the best day today. The Girl has been in a miserable mood all day, refusing to get out of the car when we got to my mum's house, yelling "No!" in response to everything that was said to her and generally giving me the stink eye the whole day. This came to a head when, whilst I was crouching down sweeping the fireplace, she put a cup of drink in my hood. I don't think she was being mean, I'm pretty sure she mistook me for a table. I didn't notice. I got juiced.

I could deal with all of that though. What was more of a struggle was the conversation with the Boy about girls (on to which I will come later). I'm not squeamish about sex, I should add, I just think its all a bit unhygienic and poorly thought through. I do, however, believe in telling the truth to my Kids and not hiding things from them. Which is why, one bath time when he was four, I had absolutely no idea how to answer

"Daddy... am I sexy?"

I defy you to find that in any parenting text. You see, that's why I'm here. Not to tell you how to deal with it. To tell you to expect it. Now naturally the immediate response is "No", however its not as straight forward as that. Aside from the fact that he doesn't actually know what sexy means, you don't want to hurt his feelings. I simply said "No to me Boy" and left it there. Quite frankly it doesn't do to even think about who would when he was four. So we'll move on from that.

Today's conversation went like this.

"I've got way more boyfriends than girlfriends."
"Er... what?"
"More of my friends are boys than girls. I've got about three girlfriends, but I've got a hundred boyfriends."

A hundred, at this point in his life, is the highest number possible.

"Right. You mean friends that are boys. That's normal, Boy. When I was your age most of my friends were boys."
"Yeah."

And here comes the mistake, dads. This is the point where I sought to amuse myself in the Boy's discomfort, and it backfired.

"But when I grew up I started to have more friends that were girls."
"What?? WHY???"
"Because I like girls. Er.. women. You'll learn when you get older. You'll want to kiss and cuddle them."
"WHAAAAT???? NO WAY! I'm only going to kiss and cuddle boys!"
"Ha ha ha... What?"
"I'm not kissing girls! I'm only going to kiss boys! Well... not kiss them. Maybe just cuddle."

I'm barely experienced enough at heterosexual sex to discuss it with the Kids (much, MUCH later in life) let alone homosexual sex. And yes, I know its not about sex as far as he's concerned. I'm not stupid. But when you have a conversation that goes like this

"Do you like Bill, daddy?"
"Yes. I do."
"Do you love him?"
"No. I like him."
"Do you want to worm him?"
"What does that mean???"

You can't help but worry a bit. And no, I never found out what "worm him" meant. After our conversation in the car I decided to switch subjects. Its best not to have him still talking about sex when he turns up at my mum's. She's still mentally dealing with a  misunderstanding from about a year ago.

"Next time I come to see you, nan, you can blow me."
"Yes, I... WHAT?"
"Like this."

And he blew her a kiss. Seriously thought she was going to have an aneurysm. He doesn't know what he's talking about, you say. He's just a boy, you say. Yeah. Ok. I'll leave the last word, as ever, to the Boy.

"I like Cbeebies. Daddy likes to see boobies!"

Manipulation

Here is the most expensive noise in the world;

"Daaaaaaaaaad. Pleeeeeeease?"

Oh the money, time and patience I've lost over that. I mean, the Kids are quite good at a lot of things; you should see the picture the Boy drew in my birthday card. It was awesome. He drew a knight with a sword. Admittedly the sword looked rather like a penis, but it was really rather good. However, there is no skill they possess in greater or more frustrating abundance than the ability to manipulate you. And its not just "pleasepleaseplease." Oh no, they're far more cunning than that. It ranges from the relatively subtle

"My dinner tank is full, but my sweetie tank is empty."

To an all out broadside

"Look, Boy - nanna and granddad are h-"

"WHERE'S MY PRESENT?"

And its not like they only do it when they want something. Noooooo. Sometimes they're do it to make you go completely out of your mind

"Dad, what's the name of the song I like?"

"Which one? How does it go?"

"Can't remember."

"What are the words?"

"Dunno."

"Are you on a wind up?"

"Yes."

Some time ago I was watching television with the Boy whilst he was carefully rooting around in his nose for something delicious to eat. He was taking his time, to the point I was expecting him to pull Lord Lucan out his hooter, but eventually he latched onto a winner, retrieved it and was about to put it in his mouth when I interceded with "Don't pick your nose and eat it, Boy." He responded by pointing at the television and looking surprised. I looked at the telly. It was showing the credits to a programme. I looked back at the Boy. He had a expression of triumphant satisfaction. The little sod pulled the oldest trick in the book on me at three and a half. And I fell for it. They can even undermine your confidence in making the most straightforward of statements

"Girl, are you being a bit contrary?"

"No!"

"Are you?"

"NO!"

"Ok, then. You're not."

(Boy) "Yes she is!"

The Girl has a ten step routine she goes through every time we go shopping with her. It goes like this

Phase 1: Walking around quite cheerfully.

Phase 2: Walking slowly, frowning.

Phase 3: Refusing to hold your hand any more.

Phase 4: "My feeeet hurt."

Phase 5: "I want to go hoooooooome..."

Phase 6: Sitting down in the aisle.

Phase 7: Ignoring you ignoring her

Phase 8: Lying spread-eagled across the aisle

Phase 9: Kicking people trying to get past her

Phase 10: Screaming like she's being kidnapped when you try to pick her up.

The trick is to get to the checkout before she hits phase six, otherwise you're buggered.

Even the Wife (who, let me tell you, is not one to mess about with) falls foul of this. Imagine you've made lunch, you place a drink in front of your son. He complains its water. You tell him it's not water. He disagrees. You point out it's squash, it's just a bit weak. He disagrees. You tell him to just bloody try it. He disagrees. Finally, you relent and stalk off to make a new drink, at which point he turns to your sister-in-law and says

"See? I told you it was water."

And yet, ridiculously, there are laws against murder. Its best to accept that you can't win all of them. The Boy refuses point blank to eat any food that is hotter than tepid. This has gone on for four years now to the point that we cook his dinner fifteen minutes before dinner time so it has congealed in the manner of his approval by the time it hits the table. At times in the past I've had fights with the Girl that have only ended because I pretended to cry.

I say "pretended"...

I should leave you with this. A couple of months ago I was sitting on the arm of the sofa trying to cajole the Boy into doing his homework about telling the time. It wasn't going well.

"Can you count the numbers on the clock face?"

"No."

"Go on..."

"My tummy hurts."

"No it doesn't. You're just saying that. Get on with it or you won't be able to play later."

His response was unorthodox, unsubtle, and yet remarkably effective.

*Sigh* "One... two..." *Sigh* "Three... four..." (Long pause) "Five... six... ATTACK!"

And he pushed me off the sofa.

Suggestions

Hello everyone. Hope the world is treating you well. I'm looking for some suggestions for topics on the blog, so if there's an aspect of family life or parenting you think I should cover, drop a comment below. You can remain anonymous, and I'll do my best to be funny. Toodles!

Race

In light of the video of that psychopath on the tram in Croydon, this seems a good time to address the thorny issue of race. For those of you that don't watch the news (or don't live in the UK - as I've been lead to believe some people don't) I'm referring to a YouTube video of a young woman screeching racist claptrap and swearing at passengers on the tram. All whilst her young boy was sitting on her lap no doubt wondering if his mum had been drinking window cleaner again. So before I get to the funnies (hopefully) let me make a point here.

Whilst it would be ridiculous to suggest I've been subject of racist abuse, I got beaten up three weeks running at school because my mother is Spanish. The first week because we were learning about the conquistadors and I got beaten up for killing Aztecs. The next week we were learning about the Armada and I got beaten up for trying to invade Britain in 1588. The third week I got beaten up for the Can-Can. I've never worked that one out. But then racists often aren't very bright. I got called a "frog" quite a lot too and being only a little Boy found myself saying;

"I'm not a frog, I'm a dago!"

until my mum heard me and hit me over the head with a broom.

Being a racist in the 21st century is on a similar intellectual level as thinking you can sail off the edge of the world. So I can't understand why we don't leave all that nonsense behind and get on with the good stuff like spaceships and silver spandex catsuits like in Buck Rogers. Its the 21st century. I should be travelling to work on a jetpack not having BNP leaflets shoved through my door.

The reason I make this point is not because I'm a pompous arse. I am a pompous arse, but its not the reason. I say this is because it sets the scene for how I deal with the issue of race with my Kids. Carefully and with great thought. Unfortunately because I am a galloping clusterf*ck of a man, fundamentally ill-equipped to deal with the world I also deal with it badly. Carefully, with great thought, and very badly.

Example. When the Boy was a toddler and the Girl was no more than a drunken fumble away, I took the him to a play group. I'd not been to a playgroup before so a good (although somewhat Ewok-like) friend came with me. I shall refer to her as Chief Chirpa.

To gain an understanding of what its like being the only man in a toddler's play group, imagine being a fighter pilot shot down in enemy territory. Its a bit like that only without the party atmosphere. Consequently I was ill-at-ease to begin with. Naturally this did not faze the Boy and he set about playing with a pirate ship. I chatted awkwardly with the mum's, drank a plastic cup of orange squash so strong you could have degreased and engine with it, and slowly became aware of what the Boy was doing. The pirate ship had a hold below deck (it was really cool!) The Boy had placed half the pirates into this hold. The other half of the pirates he'd put on the deck. What was disturbing to me (keep in mind, I'm an idiot) was that the white pirates were on the deck, and the black pirates were in the hold. To normal, well adjusted people this might have appeared to be perfectly normal imaginative play. To me (remember; idiot) he was recreating la Amistad.

I turned to Chief Chirpa and said; "Oh my Christ, he's made a slave ship!" In my head, I whispered this. In reality a room full of eyes swivelled towards me. Chief Chirpa rolled her eyes before felling a stormtrooper with a rock.

The last bit might just be how I remember it rather than an actual fact.

I am, by my own admission, hypersensitive to my Kids talking about race. So years later, when the Boy came home from school and said

"I've got two friends called Robert at school. One is brown Robert and the other normal Robert."

we had a looooooong conversation, none of which he understood in the slightest. Finally I got to the point that "brown Robert" is just the same as "normal Robert", he's just got different colour skin.

"DUH! I know that!"

I then carefully, with great thought and very badly pointed out that calling one Robert "normal" suggested the other one wasn't. Cue a blank stare.

"Call them by their surnames."
"What, like Robert Smith and Robert Jones?"
"Yes."
"Ok. Robert Jones is the normal Robert."
"Oh, crap."

So in the end I fell back on the good old fashioned "Don't say that. Its not nice." I had to use that same phrase tonight whilst  chuntering away over dinner he was spelling out "log"

"Luh-O-Ger. Log."

and started to realise he could spell out rhyming words

"Buh-O-Ger. Bog."

which meant he ended up saying

"Wuh-O-Ger. Wog!"

just as I was walking past him. I actually clattered into the wall trying to turn around and then stood for a long moment wondering what to say. Its like swearing, you can't make too big a deal of it otherwise they'll be talking like a dock worker. Or in this case probably walking up the high street shouting racial slurs. This, I came to the conclusion, was a Bad Thing. So, in went the big guns; "Don't say that. Its not nice" which set up another long and complicated explanation of why "some people are horrible to other people because they're different."  Its an ongoing process and as time goes by I become less and less squeamish talking about it.

The weird thing is, I remember having very similar conversations with my nan.

Sick

I love the Wife. She's bright and funny and warm, clever and a fantastic mum*. She works very hard ("full time worker, full time mum") and regularly brings home gifts from work. Sadly, because she's a nurse, these gifts generally end up with one or all of us pointing one or both ends at a toilet.

When the Boy was about six months old I got a text message from the Wife saying that he was sick, and it might be because there was a bug going round at the hospital. By the time I got home, the Wife was yelling "Ralph!" down the toilet, and within two hours I was earning the Native American name "Both Ends Running." There's no dignity in these situations. Hosing down a vomit soaked child is unpleasant enough as it is. Particularly when its your vomit. Having to start over because you accidentally did it again is a rare and awful kind of frustrating.

You think its not so bad when they're a little older because they have some understanding why they're ill, and what they can do to get better.

"My bum can't fall off because I'm holding it on."

But its never that straightforward.

"If you eat nothing but sweets you'll get ill, fat and your teeth with fall out."

"Oh. Does uncle Bill eat a lot of sweets?"

They can become weird hypochondriacs

"I hope my nipple doesn't fall off."

Or worse they start to think you're falling apart

"I think mummy looks ill. She needs rouge."

The fact of the matter is that the vomit, crying and re mortgaging the house to buy a metric ton of Calpol are a small price to pay for the one upside to sickness. Peace. Oh yes, after the walls, carpet and Xbox have been liberally coated in semi-digested turkey twizzlers they curl up into a ball and fall asleep. Sometimes for days. And whilst the grandparents are cooing and saying "Bless, they're poorly..." you find yourself holding out for something more than just a 24 hour bug. Earlier this year the Niece got chickenpox and the Wife and I spent hours rubbing our Kids against her until they came out in spots. It wasn't so they caught chickenpox early. No, we fancied a lie-in over the weekend.

You might think this is cruel, and you'd be partly right. But you have to remember, when parents get sick there's no climbing into bed with a teddy, a warm duvet and a copy of Heat magazine. Oh no, you might be dry heaving into the sink but you still need to wipe their bums. On one occasion I came down with something my doctor brilliantly diagnosed as a "non specific virus"(leading me to observe "So you don't know what it is then.") Symptoms included not being able to move off the sofa without passing out and... well, pretty much that really. I managed to pick the Boy up from school, cook dinner, give him a bath and got most of the way through reading him a book before I fell asleep. I was woken up by him with the words

"Wake up daddy, its time for me to go to bed."

These words were delivered by sympathetically shouting them into my ear. Sympathy is not within my Kids vocabulary. The closest I've ever come to any form of pity was

"You woke me up last night doing a noisy poo."

We don't help ourselves though. I foolishly left the cap half done up on a bottle of Calpol once and the Boy, being the enterprising chap he is, fetched a spoon and fed himself half of it because he had a cold. Off to hospital we went. He was fine in the end thankfully (in fact, it got rid of his cold completely). Unless you've been there you can't understand what it feels like to be responsible for your child overdosing on medicine. I wanted to hurl myself under a bus. Two nurses and a doctor told me it was very common and they'd overdosed their own children too. Apparently that was meant to be reassuring. We don't go to that hospital any more.

And if I'm not endangering my children with medicine (not, I should add, that I've done that since), then its my Wife trying to poison them with Spaghetti Bolognaise. Oh at first it was okay, but then later came the crying and the screaming.

"I don't want it!"
"Eat it! Your mum cooked it for you and its lovely!"
"But I don't like it!"
"You love spaghetti! Stop complaining! EAT IT!"
"But daddy...!"
"I don't want to hear it! EAT IT OR I'LL TAKE ALL YOUR TOYS AWAY!"
"But my tongue's all fizzy!"
"I - Er, what?"

Turns out it was weapons grade chilli con carne. Oooh... the guilt. Still, its nice that we can look back on it an laugh. The Boy still talks about it now.

"I liked that dinner! But it made me cry..."


*Please note, as the Wife herself recently said, any reference to her is greatly embellished.

Weird

At university I studied psychology and was most interested in abnormal psychology (as it was called at the time) and child psychology. It wasn't until the Wife and I spawned that I realised they could have been combined in the same module. 'Cos kids is mental. I know they have a different perspective on things because everything is new (and because they see the world from a lower angle) but that doesn't explain the Girl randomly shouting

"My leg exploded!"

Which it clearly hadn't. It doesn't explain why the Boy said

"I wish I was a camel."

This was whilst we were reading a book about volcano's. Which was notable for its lack of reference to camels. Not that being a camel is his only aspiration. Once whilst watching television an advert for a well known furniture store came on and he smiled beatifically as he told me

"I'd like to live there with all those sofas."

And once he'd stop answering the question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with

"Bigger."

He thought about it harder and realised that it wasn't weird enough and that he really wanted to be a sausage. We've already discussed the Girl inserting cutlery into our cat, but its worth noting again. A spoon. Up its arse. And it wasn't out of any sadistic pleasure, she's not like that. She did seem to exhibit some kind of grim satisfaction in a job well done. These days Boris loves the Girl, but in the week after the spoon-Boris interface he was understandably wary. In fact one afternoon he was asleep on the landing when the Girl asked me if she could play with him. I didn't get to answer because Boris - in a fraction of a second - went from asleep to hurling himself out of the window. Sadly for Boris, the window wasn't open and whilst concussed the Girl put a hat on him and covered him with a towel. She seemed to think it was the right thing to do.

They can't even be frightened of the right things. Whilst the Girl claims

"Reindeer scare me"

in the middle of June the Boy became terrified of

"Mooses! They're really scary and they chase me with wellies on their antlers."

And for once at dinner time I'd be grateful for a "I'm not hungry" rather than this

*Sigh* "I would eat my yoghurt, but I haven't got a tank to hold the yoghurt in my tummy with until it turns into poo."

A sophisticated argument, I'll grant you. Audacious even. Not particularly normal though. Another classic excuse is

"Can I have a kiss goodnight?"
"Nope. I've hurt my finger."

Meanwhile the Girl's getting her kicks on by standing in front of the chicken coop flashing the chickens whilst yelling

"Chickens! TUMMY!"

If its not just outright freaky statements such as

"What do you want to do today, Boy?"
"I'd like to shear sheep."

Its a complete misunderstanding of the principals of having an invisible friend.

"He's invisible because he can't see me."

Or jokes only the Boy understands

"Why did the elephant cross the road?"
"I don't know."
"Because it was dead!" (Laughs maniacally)

I think some of it has to be due to children's television. I was thinking about a show that was on telly when I was a Boy called "Ludwig". I mean the show was called Ludwig. I've never been called Ludwig. Anyway, the show was ostensibly about a robotic egg being chased by a professor. By comparison, if you have twenty minutes, try watching "In the Night Garden" - it makes robotic eggs look fairly mundane. I'll admit that every time Mr Pontypine's moustache flies off and lands on his wife, I laugh so hard a lung comes up, but on the whole I've had nightmares that left me feeling warmer and fuzzier. Frankly, that ninky-nonk scares the bejesus out of me. Thomas the Tank Engine? Very sweet, until you get to the story where Gordon won't come out of a tunnel because his paint is dirty so the Fat Controller bricks him up forever. And when you look back on those cartoons we used to watch, you've got to wonder the messages they were sending. I mean, forget the inherent violence of Tom and Jerry - that's justifiable. Its funny. Instead think of Pepe-Le-Pew, which essentially implied that the French are foul smelling rapists. Or Speedy Gonzalez which makes you wonder if all Mexicans are actually off their tits on amphetamines. Even something as seemingly innocent as Chuggington is fraught with potential sexual content when you overhear the Boy singing the titles

"Chuuuugington... chugga chugga chugga Chuggington... VAJ QUEST!"
"Er... that's Badge Quest."

All I want is to come back from work, have a cup of tea and ask the Kids how their day was without

"Mummy called me a worm, and I don't like being called a worm so I told her I didn't like being called a worm but she took me upstairs and cut my legs off because worms don't have legs."
"Riiiiiight... But you still have legs."
(Looks down. Looks surprised)
"Oh. They grew back."

Let me leave you with this one. A conversation that I still don't really understand a year after it occurred.

"Hey! Who switch off the lights?"
"What? No one. The lights are still on, Boy."
"Oh. Oh yeah! Great!"

Sibling Rivalry

They say that if you show a chimpanzee a mirror it will attack its own reflection. Regardless of the accuracy of this statement its a very good metaphor for my relationship with my brother. Our politics are different, our music and film tastes are so far apart its fair to say if he likes it I hate it - and vice-versa. He's quiet and introverted, I'm writing a blog about myself for crying out loud. We have argued on pretty much any topic you care to name. He stabbed me in the eye with a comb, I knocked him out with a coffee cup. He shot me in the arse with an air rifle. I shot myself in the leg with an air rifle (I'm a terrible shot). So it comes as no surprise that my Kids get on like a house on fire. Or at least, that level of violence is generally involved.

The other day I got home from work and stood patiently at the front door as the Kids battled each other to open the front door for each other. Tonight the Boy pushed the Girl into a wall so he could be the one to turn the telly off. There was nearly a drowning at bath time when they argued about who was coming out first.

There's a clear division in the type of violence involved between them. The Girl prefers the direct approach. Whilst sitting in a go-kart in the back garden the Boy shouted at her that it was his go. Her response was to wait until he ran towards her to drag her out and carefully, and very precisely, punched him in his "gentleman's area." "So what?" you might ask. She was eighteen months old. That's what.

The Boy is more into psychological warfare.

"Ha ha! The Girl's got chickenpox!"
"You had chickenpox last week, Boy!"
"Yeah, but it wasn't funny when I had it."

Fortunately, there are comic aspects to their battles.

"Eyew! You've done a poo, Girl!"
"I have NOT done a poo. It was a blow off, actually."


To which the Girl's response two days later was

"I done a poo!"
"Well done!"
"I called it 'Boy'"

However most of the time, its just all out violence. Such as the moment whilst doing the washing up you hear

*CRASH*
"AHA! I'M THE DADDY NOW!"

Or, whilst you're running the bath

"BOING!"
*THUD*
"Arrgh! The Girl's sitting on my head."

Like everything with my Kids, I've discovered its about going with the flow, and making things work for you. Which is why I've taken to setting the Girl on the Boy.

"Boy... BOY! Come back here! Girl! Get him"
*WHACK!*
"Arrrgh! My bum!"

Don't believe me? Think I'm making it up?

I'm not.

Apologies

The Wife and I are on the road again, this time with the nippers on tow. As I type they're both asleep, both wearing headphones and bathed in the light of their DVD players. The Wife is driving... A bit like Colin McCrae... flew... Meanwhile I've been entertaining myself by sending obscure text messages from her phone. This far my favourite has been: I fell on a wine bottle once whilst naked and now when I fart it sounds like a pan pipe solo. I can advise it as an excellent way of livening up a dull journey. Anyway, I wanted to let you lovely people that due to having something to celebrate I shall be spending the weekend largely inebriated. Thus, no blogs. Try to contain your disappointment. Have lovely weekends, my pretties.

School

I got a text message this morning from the Wife that read; "Boy's teacher spoke to me about his behaviour. Ring Me." Not what you want to read. "Boy invented renewable energy resource - we're rich!" That would have been nice. I would even have settled for "Boy wiped his bum on own." I'm not fussy.

Two days ago the Boy told me he was on a warning at school because he punched a classmate on the back for ignoring him. He's a good lad normally, so its all a bit out of character. Yesterday he came home from school and told me, hands on hips

"I'm still on a warning and I've been good as gold!"

I agreed it all seemed a bit unfair. Turns out he was still on a warning because yesterday he and a group of his classmates took it on themselves to redecorate the school toilets in hand paint. So today we re-educated him in what "good as gold" means. And hid all the paint. I have, it must be said, had my doubts about sending the Boy to school. When I announced his first day on Twitter a friend replied; "Good luck to the Boy's teachers! He's great. Love his words of wisdom wrapped up in insanity!" I'm starting to think she had a point.

Initially I felt quite sad about him starting school. I told people that it felt like the end of the first chapter of his life. That he wasn't just ours any more, we were sharing with the world. I talked a lot of shit, in short. The Wife, ever the pragmatist, said it was nice to have a few hours where she couldn't hear him CONSTANTLY TALKING. You know, you worry about the language they'll pick up (so far just "dangleberries") and the things they'll do (I'll be honest, the more I think about redecorating the toilets the more I'm just glad it was paint they used.) As with all other things to do with parenting psychotic kids, the real problems come out of left field. 

"What do you want in your sandwich, Boy?"

"Not peanut butter."

"I thought you liked peanut butter."

"I do. But someone might get hurt."

In case you're wondering - peanut allergy. They're very safety conscious at the Boy's school. Although some things go without saying

"We're not allowed guns at school."

And you can forget getting any description of what they've been doing at school because by the time they get back all they want to do is watch telly or moan. The most I've ever got out of the Boy on the subject was as he was climbing into the car when I picked him up.

"Do you know what I'm doing on Wednesday? I'm... er... Oh. I forgot." (Waves dismissively) "Ask mummy. Shut the door."

Actually, that's not true. The most he's said about school was

"I saw a duck get hit by a lorry because an angry pigeon attacked it."

But lets face it, that's just weird. I should really have learnt that he's generally interested in more mundane things than those people we refer to as "normal". Such as when he went to see "The Cat in the Hat" in London, and on his return when I asked him what he'd done he said

"We went on a train!"

"And?"

"And what?"

Or

"Remember when we went to see the show jumping?"

"Yeah. It was great. We had crisps."

Strangely, the Girl is slightly more verbose about her day. From

"What did you do today at school today?"

"Drawing. Painting. Crying."

To

"What did you do at gymnastics today?"

"Jumping. Falling off things. Crying."

I've decided after today that I'm not going to ask any more. I'm worried what the answer might be.

Recipe for disaster

Add several gallons of warm water to a large container. Add baby oil, bubble bath and balneum. Test water is correct temperature. Add children and marinate until you are thoroughly wet and annoyed. Light blue touch paper. Retire.

Somehow bath time is my job. Sure you can say that the Wife had eighteen months of pregnancy (not all in one go, obviously) and went through the pain of childbirth (without anaesthetic the second time round). But don't forget a) I brought the sperm and b) I do bath time. I'm sure you'll agree, I win. Or I lost. Or something.

Anyway. When you see bath time on adverts its nothing but fun and bubbles and soft towels and occasionally Domestos. In reality, as these things often are, its a nightmare. My Kids have bath time just after tea time (for non-UK residents - that means dinner. Or cena. Or  время ужина - hello Russians!) so things normally get off to a bad start with


"I don't want a bath" 


Occasionally with the rationale


"I don't need a bath. I mean, the cleaner at school is rubbish so I had to lick myself clean today. But I'm clean."


Once I've managed to get them up the stairs (normally by dragging them) the arduous task of getting them undressed begins. Now I'll admit that the first time the Kids try to take their jumpers off, get it stuck over their eyes and blunder into a wall or door frame, it makes you laugh. Repeat each night and you'll be gouging your own eyes out in frustration. Eventually they'll get their kit off and complain its too cold, to which I came up with the brilliant plan of getting them to jump on our bed to keep warm while the bath fills up. Naturally this backfired in a fairly spectacular why. You see cold air does strange things to Kids. It makes them need the loo. So within a minute both of them queue up at the toilet to empty themselves out. Normally, this is when the Boy likes to have a poo. However, if I'm not on the ball, he'll be in and out of the loo without wiping his bum before I can stop him running back into our bedroom and leaving "chocolate kisses" all over the duvet cover. 


Moreover, bouncing on the bed will invariably end up with an injury. The two most recent of which were


"Dad! The Boy just kicked me off the bed with my foot."
"He... what? How?"
"Don't know..."


Or even more bizarrely


"OW! I just bit my ear!"


Finally you get them in the bath, which generally leads to arguments over bath toys, and someone (often me) getting bonked angrily over the head with a plastic boat. I don't mind that so much because its better than the conversations. Naked children have very weird, very disturbing conversations. The Girl, for instance, was convinced she was a Boy and spent many bath times looking for her winkle. Quite thoroughly. I'm British. I'm not emotionally equipped for that kind of thing. But even that was better than the following conversation with the Boy

"Wow, this bath is deep. Its right up to my boobies!"
"You don't have boobies, Boy. Girls have boobies. Actually can we not talk abo-"
"I've got small boobies, but the Girl's going to have MASSIVE boobies like mummy."
"Right. Ok. What did you do at pre-school tod-"
"I think the Girl has a baby in her tummy."
"Nooooooo..... no she doesn't."
"But when I get older I'll put a baby in her tummy."
"Stop talking. Really. Stop talk-"
"Did you put the Girl in mummy's tummy?"
"Er... yes."
"Oh. How did you get her eyes in?"


I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting the birds and the bees talk quite so early. Or so weird. There are no correct answers to this kind of line of questioning, although there are a lot of wrong answers. I went for stoney silence. The route of the coward.

Naturally, having argued with them to get in the bath, they don't want to get out again. And if you manage to get them out, then getting them dressed will lead to

"IF YOU DON'T GET DRESSED I'LL TAKE YOUR TOYS AWAY!"
"If you do that I'll stick frogs up your bum."

Why you little...!

In my head, I'm the fun one in the relationship and the Wife is the authoritarian. I'm the one that has learnt to do magic tricks like pulling the end of my thumb off (I made a friend's son faint doing that once. It was awesome), I have a selection of superb jokes, I can do that flippy thing where you spin them over backwards. Quite frankly, I'm Mr Tumble with social skills.

In my head.

Outside of the fantasy land I've conjured for myself, I'm probably more like a cross between Homer Simpson and Frank Spencer.

Take for instance the events of yesterday bath time. The Boy was being uncharacteristically cross, and point blank refused to get undressed. I went through the parent check list, 1/ Calm approach. 2/. Stern approach. 3/. Cajoling approach. 4/. Pleading. 5/. Bribery. 6/. Shouting. None of the above worked, and by the time I'd reach the shouting stage the Boy was lying under my bed, refusing to have a bath because "They're stupid" and I was pretty much apoplectic. What I did next is on the "DON'T" list for good parenting.

 I went into his bedroom, picked up his box of Lego, held it out of the bedroom window and shouted; "I'll throw them out of the window if you don't get undressed!" This was a mistake because the Boy, being an expert poker player, called my bluff. Having backed myself into a corner, I was left with the decision whether to make good with the threat, and spend a week picking Lego out of the conservatory gutter, or backing down. Being the spineless type of psycho, I backed down. I managed to get the Boy into the bath (cost me five quid) but he didn't want to talk to me anymore, and spent the whole time saying "I want mummy!" Here’s my issue, friends, neighbours - they're allowed to have favourites, but apparently it’s wrong for you to. So whilst this is okay

"I want mummy!"

"Mummy's right here."

"I want daddy then!"

"I AM daddy."

"I want... Boris-cat!!"

Its not okay to take a sudden dislike to the Girl when I give her my car keys to play with and, on trying to get them back, she stabs me quite deliberately in the throat with them. Instead I'm meant to smile sweetly whilst people say "Well, they say red heads are more fiery." Which, when you think about it, actually means "Ginger = Psycho." Similarly when the Boy turns to me after a game of Monster Buzz! and says

“I beat you again, dad. Do you want me to let you win this time?”

I’m not allowed to completely ignore him for a week. At least, not without taking some considerable flak about it. The same goes for when I was about to go out for a beer and the Girl ran over to me yelling

“Its not! Its not!”

“Its not what?”

Before grabbing the bottom of my t-shirt, blowing her nose and running off yelling

“Snot!”

The Boy even knocked me stone cold sparko, once. Once again during bath time (a melting pot for all the worst behaviour of my Kids) we were having an argument. I forget what it was about, but the upshot was this, as I turned to pick up the Boy’s trousers he crouched down and sprung up, cracking me under the chin so hard I hit my head on the sink. I came round to find him kneeling on my chest, slapping me in the face and shouting

“Wake up, lazy!”

Not that he's a particularly violent boy. Its more comedy violence - the equivalent of a pie in the face by someone who doesn't realise the pie shouldn't contain battery acid.

"How many numbers are on that clock, Boy?"

*Sigh* "One...two...three...four..." *Sigh* "ATTACK!"

Or someone who has only a tenuous grip on the English language.

"I'm going to chop your knackers off!"

"What??"

"Er... I meant 'neck'."

“Time outs” in the boot of the car, flushing their goldfish down the loo, shaking them warmly by the throat – all of these cross your mind. I used to tell people when the Boy was tiny that if he screamed during the night we’d tie a rope to his leg and hang him out of the window. You’re allowed to have these thoughts. You’re allowed to think that your kids are out to humiliate you, or hurt you. For a while I was convinced the Girl was trying to insure she had a better inheritance by sterilising me using the uncomplicated method of jumping on my crotch every time I sat down. You’re allowed these because you won’t act on them (and if you do, well, you’re a shit) and because it won’t be long before they say something that makes you love them. Last night it was this

*Sigh* “I can’t be bothered to put the chickens to bed. Boy, can you shut the chickens up?”

“Yep.” Opens back door. “SHUT UP CHICKENS!”

Respect

I read a news article today about a poor little girl who had been born prematurely and had spent the first two years of her life intubated. When doctors finally removed the tube this week her first words were; "I love you, daddy." I love this story, and it gave me a great deal of hope. Hope that was shattered when I discovered the NHS doesn't intubate children on request of their parents. I now have no idea why I pay my taxes. If that little Girl had been one of my Kids the ending of the story would have no doubt been less Disney and more Edgar Allen Poe. Something like,

"You'll be dead by the time I learn to drive."

Nice. Its not that he's being nasty. He just has a bit of a morbid sense of humour. And whilst he's not necessarily disrespectful as such, he does love throwing the odd insult my way. Generally when you're expecting sympathy. Such as after a hard day at work and he says;

"Why are you sad, daddy? Is it because your bum smells of poo?"

Maybe he's trying to put my problems on his level so he can empathise. But then I'm not sure

"Had had, you said your wedding ring is made from nine carrots! You're an idiot!"

Because sometimes its a bit mean

"Don't worry, Boy - my cold will go away soon."
"When its bored of you?"

Of course, we do reprimand him when he's rude like this. But its quite hard when other people are laughing at what he's saying, or worse, nodding in agreement. At least I'm safe in the knowledge that it isn't just aimed at me.

"Where's mum?"
"In the bath... where are you going??"
"I'm gonna wee on her!"

I didn't let him, in case you're wondering. As for the Girl, well her abuse is more physical. If its not just the threat

"Daddy's head broken. I fix it."
"Ah, that's sweet. With a kiss?"
"With a hammer."
"Er..."

Its actual violence.

"Can I have a kiss, Girl?"
Girl head butts me.
Boy: "Ha, ha, ha! That was brilliant! Can I do that, Dad?"

Or psychological

"Eat!"
"Er... oh, thanks. What am I eating?"
"Bogie!"

I am however told that its not a lack of respect on the part of my Kids. Its a lack of anything to respect.

Nice.

Winkle

Possibly the most alarming thing I've ever been told is that male foetuses can have erections in utero. The Wife was pregnant with the Boy when I was told this and frankly I started praying for a girl so I didn't have to deal with that information. But we had a Boy, so now I use it to spoil other people's pregnancies. Its a bit like that video in the film "The Ring"...

Anyhow, one of the more squeamish aspects of being a new dad is dealing with the fact that your children are anatomically correct. Its safe to say I've done a good job at not looking at other people's genitals. For several years in my twenties I managed to avoid seeing the genitals of many, many women. As for winkles (this is the term we use in our household) - I try not to look at my own, let alone anyone else's. But then the Boy came along and ruined everything. Not just by having one, but by talking about it. Pretty much non-stop. This happens mostly around bath time and can range from the awkward

"You can't see my bum under the water." (Pause) "But you can see my winkle and the pointy end."

To the really awkward

"I can use my winkle as a magic lever that will lift you up."

To the galactically bizarre

"My winkle is going to get so big it'll break that window and knock over grandma's sofa!"

Especially impressive as grandma's house is about three miles from our place. And when  he's not tucking it in and yelling

"Daddy I'm a GIRL!"

Or turning it into an adjective

"I'm winkilicious!"

He's saying it by accident and giving me an aneurysm.

"Daddy I've drawn a monster with massive cock!"
"What????"
"Its how he tells the time!"

The fact of the matter, dads, is that you just have to get on with it. You can't clean a dirty nappy up without looking directly at it. Although I should warn you that when changing a dirty nappy, keep your mouth closed. Trust me, you'll thank me for that one the first time your baby boy pees in your face. And yes, it can go that high. He's knocked pictures off the wall in the past.

Fortunately the Boy has moved on to other subjects. This was partly thanks to the Girl who dissuaded him from gesticulating with his penis when she was about nine months old. I forget the context of what the Boy was saying, but whilst he was no doubt opining on the merits of his bits and pieces the Girl reached over, grabbed hold of it and attempted to pick it like an apple. The Boy didn't care for this. Determined  little blighter, the Girl. It took some effort to extricate him and he was walking like John Wayne for a week.

Honesty is the worst policy

Oh yeah, honesty - we're all about keeping our kids honest aren't we? "Don't tell lies" we tell them, before feigning amazement at the rorschach inkblot test masquerading as a picture of a dog they wave in front of your face. It seems like such a good idea and then

"Lets play football! Not you, nan. You're rubbish."

Or

"There's a man at school just like you except he's really funny."

I fully encourage my children to lie. Quite frankly I'm don't want to hear people's honest opinions of me because I have a nagging doubt they don't quite tie in with the perception I have of myself (witty, urbane, clever, well dressed, sane). Not that it matters, no matter what we say, we always end up getting the truth. And its quite unpleasant. I'll admit, it does occasionally cut through some BS. For instance when the Wife and I were getting dressed to go out to a wedding reception the Boy, innocent of the complex social politics that revolve around the whole "shall I wear this dress" question, went with his gut feeling.

"If you wear that, people will laugh at you."

This whilst he was wearing a spiderman costume with a pair of fairy wings. The Wife pulled that face that made it clear that she was only pretending to laugh it off whilst considering the pros and cons of giving him a "time out" in the boot of the car. The Girl is rather more sweet about it

"What did you do at gymnastics?"
"Running."
"And...?"
"Falling off things."
"And...?"
"Crying."

Whilst the Boy has a certain savagery about his honesty.

"Are you having fun with Lenny, Boy?"
(Angrily) "I'd have fun if I punched him in the head and pushed him in a ditch."

Particularly if he thinks it might freak me out. Such as when he got chicken pox and proudly told anyone who would listen

"I've got spots on my winkle!"

And even when he's got the wrong end of the stick, he can still make me look like a fool.

"Girl, you've got your shoes on the wrong feet."
"WHAT? She hasn't got any other feet?!"

And sometimes he can cut straight to the heart of the matter without even realising it.

"Where have grandma and Phill gone?"
"They've gone on holiday."
"So they can argue?"
"Er... actually, you're probably right about that..."

The Kids, as with all kids, are keen observers of psychology and anthropology. I shall illustrate my point with the Boy's final quote of the post. Some people take a moment or two to get this. See how you do.

"Daddy, why did you call that spider Jesus?"

Mr Fixit

I had to iron a firework display this morning.

When I woke the first thing I hear was the sound of the Boy crying. He was crying because he went to bed looking at a picture he'd drawn, fallen asleep, dribbled on it a bit, crumpled it up and tore it. Bless him, he was gutted. So, before I managed to get to work, before I'd even stepped into the shower, I found myself in the curious position of ironing a firework display so I could flatten it out and tape it back together. Unfortunately I hadn't figured out that the picture was drawn in crayon, and I succeeded in ironing a lovely firework display onto the ironing board. However, the picture was fine, I taped it back together and the Boy was happy again. And that's me. Super dad.

"My dad can fix anything. Except dead chickens."

I have glued bin lorries, sewn bridles back together, re-wired remote controlled cars and fixed clockwork crabs. Oh, and while I'm here I should say, NEVER buy your children clockwork crabs. Aside from the fact that they're slightly creepy, you'll undoubtedly find yourself in the situation where your child proudly says to a passer-by;

"My dad gave me crabs!"

It can lead to misunderstandings. Consider yourselves warned.

Anyway, what I'm saying here is that you spend a lot of time fixing badly made toys. The Boy is profoundly respectful of this, although he can be a tad sexist about it.

"Mummy fixed the car. Well. She asked a man to do it. She's just a girl."

If you're not fixing toys, you're putting them together. I have to say, when I was a Boy Lego was fairly straightforward. These days you have to have a masters in engineering just to put the little people together. Its a big moment in any Boy's life when he is faced with the fact that his dad isn't invincible. For the Boy this came distressingly early when I tried to put together a Lego camper van last year on his birthday. I don't exaggerate here when I say it took me nearly an hour to build it. I'm fairly sure neurosurgery is less demanding. It doesn't help when you find yourself being chastised by a four year old

"CONCENTRATE, daddy!"

I might just be the first person in history to build a Lego set with a hammer. Even so, the Boy and the Girl now think I'm the mechanic from the Octonauts. Nice enough, but not without issues.

"You're Tweak, daddy!"
"Er, yeah. Thanks Girl, but Tweak's a girl. I'm a man."
(Doubtfully) "Well... okaaay..."

However, the best bit of advice that I can give you is that there will always be something you can't fix.

"Dad, can you help me?"
"What?"
"I've got a cow stuck in my trousers."

And moreover dads, you're not in charge. Bear this in mind, I installed my bathroom and my kitchen. I can do plumbing, carpentry, electrics. Once I sharpened an axe and sprayed something with WD40 in the same hour - so I'm pretty much the urban Ray Mears. Or at least I was until...

"Dad, the Girl keeps telling me to shut up. She can't tell me to shut up. She's not the boss."
"That's right, Boy. And who is the boss?"
(Suddenly very serious) "Mummy is. Mummy's the boss."

I really shouldn't have said that

I can be a bit... sweary at times. These times tend to be during my conscious hours, although I have been known to swear in my sleep. I don't swear in front of my children because that's just plain bad parenting. I know this because my last neighbour took great delight in teaching their six year old girl to say; "Wanker" - and they were the type went eighteen stone but always wore a tracksuit. They were cheery enough, and always said hello when they went past pushing a pram whilst holding a can of beer. At ten in the morning. I try not to judge. I often fail.

I have, to date, only sworn in front of my Kids once. I had dropped a plate and it just slipped out. The Boy was on it in a flash.

"What did you say, daddy?"
"Er... ship."
"Why did you say ship?"
"Because I dropped a plate."
"Oh."

So far, so good. And I suspect I would have got away with it if the Wife hadn't walked into the room just as the Boy was saying;

"Ship! I dropped my fork!"

Ironically though, the Wife's reaction to this was to mouth the words; "You twat" at me. So I don't think I can be blamed. She's a terrible influence. The thing is the Kids might not listen when you want them to, but they're always listening when you don't. Worse still, you generally don't find out straight away. You'll be sitting at a set of lights when you'll hear a voice from the back seat yell;

"Come on, you lemon!"

When you realise that you're not quite the calm and considered driver you thought you were. Or that gentle approach to parenting you pride yourself on is proved to be a lie when, whilst having an argument with the Girl, the Boy walks into the room, puts his hands on his hips and yells;

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

Even when they're not swearing or insulting people (or, in the Girl's case, punching them in the ear hole) you'll find them suddenly switching into "adult speak."

"Well done, Boy! You ate all your dinner!"
"Yeah. I'm quality."

And television doesn't help. Since the BBC started showing Rastamouse my Kids have taken to responding in Jamaican dialect.

"Did you flush the loo?"
"Ire, mon."

Its only a matter of time before they start calling me a bumba clart...

I don't really help myself at times. When the Boy first started to speak my Wife was obsessed with making him say "bubble" because it was so cute. On the other hand I regrettably taught him to yell "black power!" That came back and bit on my the arse on a number of occasions.

Essentially, your children are mirrors of your own personality. Thus far what the Kids have taught me is that the Wife and I are no nonsense, call it as you see it, rather judgemental, insulting people who think its okay to use Marmite to write in birthday cards. The last one might just be them though.

Allow me to finish with an anecdote that I think makes the point.

One evening when the Wife was at work I was reading stories to the Kids after their bath when there was a knock on the front door. As I got up the Girl ran to the door and opened it.

"Hello, little girl, is your mummy in?"
"No."

And she slammed the door in the woman's face as I rounded the corner. I opened the door and was trying to apologise as the Girl pushed against the door yelling;

"Arrrrghhh! Dinosaur! Dinosaur!"

Now, I should say at this point that a) the Girl was right, her mummy wasn't in and b) the woman did look a bit like a dinosaur. However, I managed to get the Girl back to the living room by giving her a spoon and showing her where the cat was. The woman/dinosaur at the door (who was giving me a look like I was something she'd just trod in and couldn't get off her shoe) turned out to be collecting for Christian Aid, so I went and got the little envelope and handed it to her. With a look of disgust she said; "Why is it empty?" and before I got a chance to reply the Boy yelled from the living room;

"BECAUSE WE DIDN'T PUT ANYTHING IN IT, STUPID."

Ordinarily I would have told the Boy off for this, however like the Girl, he had a point. She might have been collecting for a charity, but she was a miserable, judgemental witch who clearly had taken exception to me the moment I opened the door.

It was only later on that I remembered that at bath time the Kids had coloured my face in with bath crayons and, to make the Wife laugh before she went to work, I'd written "twat" on my forehead.

What?

I just had to have a conversation with the Boy about things he's not allowed to say. I'll be honest, I was a bit weirded out this evening. As I was running the bath the Boy was lying on his back, rolling over backwards because he wanted to see his bum hole (its nice that he has ambition.) At the same time, the Girl was sitting down trying to shout her trousers off.

"GET OFF TROUSERS!"

So I might have over-reacted when the Kids were playing "throw the sponge" at each other and I heard the Boy yell.

"Oof! Right in the dangleberries!"

It seems that when I asked him what he'd learnt at school today he omitted to say;

"Jordan taught me to say dangleberries. And nuts. It means winkle."
"No, it means... actually, never mind what it means."

The real point of what I'm talking about here is that it took three attempts to get him to pay attention to me telling him not to say it again. Recently I went to my first parents evening, the whole of which I kept expecting my dad to turn up and tell me I needed to pull my socks up. The Boy's teacher asked me if he was happy, told me he was a bright boy, explained how she was teaching the children to read, that were using PowerPoint and designing slides (annoying, as I don't know how to design slides in PowerPoint) and then told me that he was easily distracted. My reply ("I'm sorry, what did you say?") was met with a thin smile and reminded me why the Wife sometimes introduces me as "This is my husband. He thinks he's funny." After a moment of awkwardness, I agreed with her, and when it had all finished I went home to speak with the Boy. I told him what the teacher had said about being distracted to which he replied earnestly;

"I've got a hurty nipple."

Things like that can rather deflate your righteous indignation, especially when the Wife has to do an about face and pretend she's laughing at the radio. Which isn't on. With the Boy I work on the three times average. If I only have to say something once we write to the Pope. Three miracles and he'll be declared a saint.

Only tonight the Boy, never taking his eyes from the telly, asked for a drink.

"Sure. What would you like?"
(Pause) "Ok."
"No Boy, I'm asking what kind of drink you'd like."
(Pause) "No thanks."
"BOY! Pay attention! What kind of drink do you want?"
"Ooh! I'd like a drink!"

His lack of listening has wider implications than the Wife having to talk me down from window ledges  though. Its why he says things like;

"There was an earthquake in the sea and then there was a massive poonani."

Or;

"What do you want for lunch? Ham? Cheese? Eggs?"
"Cheese eggs? I LOVE those!"

Or rather unfortunately;

"Mum bought me this ray from the Sea Life Centre!"
"Cool! Is it a stingray?"
"No, its a paedo ray."

Which is embarrassing when said in mixed company. There are even occasions when he doesn't even listen to himself.

"Daddy, do you know... You know the... Um... do you know...?"
"Do I know what?"
"I don't know."

I have been genuinely worried for his hearing, but over time it has become clearer that it all stems from having the attention span of a strobe-lit goldfish. On amphetamines. My mum tells me that he gets it from me. At least I think that's what she tells me, I don't really listen. She might have a point. I can honestly say that the only time I've ever given something a hundred percent of my attention was beermat I once stared at for seven hours in a bar. In Amsterdam.