Tuesday 28 February 2012

Bed

Last week we bought the Boy a new bed. It's a very cool bed, sort of like a bunk bed but without the bottom bunk. Needless to say, if I thought it would take my weight I would have swapped with him. The Girl was very jealous. This presented us with a series of dilemmas.

First of all, if you've got two kids, you won't get away with buying one of them something new. The Girl reminded us of this at VERY high volume once we'd set the new bed up. She decided she wanted a new bed. A football bed to be precise. And so, to placate her I drew a football and stuck it to the side of her bed. Bizarrely this seems to have worked. After a brief attempt to throttle Boris the cat she trotted merrily off and went to sleep without a complaint.

Problem number two was that the Boy, whilst more than able to climb the ladder into his bed, couldn't get back down. This led to me being woken at three AM to rescue him because he needed a wee. The Boy appears to have the prostate of an eighty year old, he nips to the loo twice per night on average. I'm nearly forty and I don't need to do that.

I explained to him the next day that it might take a little time for him to grow into the bed so that he's comfortable going up and down the ladder. He mused on this for a moment and then asked the two questions he thought most pertinent.

"Will my bum get bigger when I'm older?"

And, after I confirmed this.

"Does that mean my poo will be even bigger?"

He certainly puts the 'logical' into 'scathalogical'. Finally, tonight I heard him crying after I put him to bed and on entering his room, found him quite inconsolable. Earlier this evening I'd discovered the Girl in a similar condition and established the cause of her distress was that;

"Boris meowed."

So I was expecting a similarly odd rationale for the Boy's tears. I was not disappointed.

"I miss my old bed. It was my friend."

This, I feel, explains a lot. About eighteen months ago the Boy found me wiping tears from my eyes as I chopped onions.

"Why are you crying?"
"Because I'm chopping onions."
"Oh. They're not your friends. They're just onions."

So now I find myself in the weird position of worrying that the Boy's new bed befriends him. Christ, what if it bullies him? The therapy will cost a fortune.

Saturday 25 February 2012

In Other News

Theory: The Girl is not ready to have the rail taken off the side of her bed.

Evidence: Loud crash and crying from upstairs.

Conclusion: Terrible parent.

"Dad, I've got something to tell you..."

I can't say I went on many bad dates during my single years. This is mainly because I didn't go on many dates on account of my looks and my personality. My personality you'll already have a handle on if you've read my previous posts. Sorry about that. As for my looks, imagine Chewbacca with a bad case of radiation poisoning and you'll have a good idea.

So while I didn't go on many bad dates, the ratio was still pretty high. None worse than when I was at university and finally managed to bag a date with the girl who - on three separate occasions - had caused me to walk blissfully into a lamp post. The point it went wrong was over dinner in an Italian restaurant in the Elephant and Castle when she said;

"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"Sure. Anything."
"How long have you known you were gay?"

This was not the worst bit. This was simply the preamble to the worst bit. The worst bit was;

"Why did you agree to go on a date with me if you thought I was gay?"
"We're on a date?"

Interestingly, this was not the first time someone thought I was gay. Around about the time I was eighteen, whilst I was slumped in front of the telly one afternoon, my Dad appeared in the doorway. Without ever getting eye contact we had the following conversation;

"Alright, Boy?"
"Meh." (I was, remember, eighteen)
"So... You're not gay are you?"
"Whu-? Er... No."
"Ok."

And he left. I never found out exactly what the cause of this conversation was, funnily enough it didn't come up on his death bed. I do wonder what would have happened if I'd said yes - although I suspect it would have elicited a similar response to if I'd said; "Dad, I'm a serial killer." Or; "Dad, I support Chelsea."

I remembered this the other day when a friend and I discussed how we would feel if our children turned out to be gay. The honest answer is that I wouldn't know unless it happened. In some ways it would be a relief. At least with the Boy. It would avoid the question "Dad, what do you know about girls?" to which the only true answer would be "Nothing." And since I don't have the ability to stop speaking at the right moment, I would probably follow this up with; "I'm still not sure what all the bits do." This, I fear, is likely to estrange my son from me. Ironically, today the Boy said;

"Boys can't marry boys, can they?"

And I found myself fumbling my way through an explanation of civil partnerships. Bafflement ensued and I was only saved when the Girl shouted something that sounded like "Arse soup!" at the top of her voice.

And would it be different if the Girl was gay? Probably not. Difficult to say. I doubt she will be, she doesn't like other girls. In fact, whenever she goes to gymnastics she starts shouting

"I don't LIKE that little girl!"

Which is embarrassing. Not as bad as when she does it to new born babies though as she did on holiday last year as people walked past us, pushing prams.

"I don't LIKE that baby! I don't like its face! GO AWAY BABY!"

The fact is, if either of my children turn out to be gay I'll be as supportive as I can be. However, if they decide to support Chelsea they can piss off.

Friday 17 February 2012

Ying And Yang

This week the Girl got Scarlatina. Scarlatina is diet Scarlet Fever - and no less horrible for it. Symptoms include a very sore throat, a rash, high temperature and - weirdly - it makes your tongue look like a strawberry. Entertaining, but unpleasant. Less entertaining was the moment when, having given her the first dose of antibiotics she threw up in my face.

Naturally once the doctor had made his diagnosis (and commented "Bloody hell, is she only three? I wouldn't want a fight with her.") I headed to Google to find out more. Scarlatina was a major cause of infant death before a vaccine was devised in the 1920's. So as she lay on our sofa having liberally coated me in vomit I could help but think how lucky we are that we live in the 21st century. I started thinking about how my grandmother had so many siblings for no other reason than the tacit acceptance that not all of then would make it through childhood. This thought, as well as the judicious application of a nice Rioja made me quite emotional.

Since the Girl is so robust, she shook the fever off in one night and the next morning got jacked up on Calpol and turned into the Tasmanian devil. It was a relief to see her feeling so much better. It was a feeling of relief that lasted almost 24 hours until I got a text from the Wife

Would have been home an hour ago but Girl still laying in the footwell of the car.

For the Girl "feeling well" translates as "physically able to make Mummy and Daddy cry." As we struggled to keep our hands from her throat the relief evaporated and was replaced with...

Well. I wouldn't say it would be nice if she got Scalatina again. I love my daughter, and want only the best for. So maybe something mildly debilitating would be okay. Narcolepsy maybe.

How serious is a heart murmur?

Tuesday 14 February 2012

Abscess Makes the Fart go Honda


 

Last week my employers sent me on a week long residential course. When I originally found out about this I was somewhat dubious. Last time they sent me to Wakefield, and I'd taken that personally. This time I was assured it was an actual room, with an actual bed, breakfast, lunch and three course dinners and as many bread rolls as I could fill my pockets with. Naturally, I went.

Day One

After the first day I went back to my room (which had a kitchen - bizarre because there was literally nowhere to buy food), attempted to phone the Wife and had one of those conversations that largely consisted of one or the other alternatively saying "Hello?" and "I can't hear you" before laying the blame on the other person. "Its your phone. Its shit!" As it turned out, I had no signal.

Not being able to speak to the Kids one day in wasn't too much a drag because, to be honest, I hadn't started missing them. I was still in "relief mode." Although it was nice to speak with the Wife. She told me how to make the lights come on in my room.

Day Two

This time I Skyped the Wife. I'd never used Skype before because I didn't see the point. People would tell me that it was great for talking to friends in foreign countries. I work on the principle that if a friend of mine decides to move to the other side of the world, they're trying to tell me something. Consequently I'd never had recourse to use it. If any of you haven't used it, I'd recommend it. As far as I'm concerned, video calling is like being Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. 

Anyhoo, after a few false starts we got through to each other, although sadly whilst the Family could see me, I couldn't see them. The Girl, amazed that her daddy was on "the little telly" kept kissing the screen whilst the Boy remained coolly unimpressed. 

"Are you missing me?"
"No.... OW! What?" 
(Background whispering)
*Sigh* "Yes."


The Girl did a lot of yelling, and telling me she was galloping, and then updating me on her bowel movements. Weirdly the distance from her made me notice little things about her speech that I hadn't really paid attention to before. Like the fact that she says "mine" instead of "my." I had actually noticed this before, but for the first time I realised it made her sound a bit German.

"I did poo in mine knickers."

It made me want to reply to her in German, but sadly the only phrase I know is "Don't come any closer or I'll get Mr Knobbly" and this seemed a bit inappropriate*.

Day Three

Now I was missing the Family.  At about ten I got a phone call from the Boy's school saying they've had to take him out of class because

"He's a bit rashy."
"Right. 'Rashy'... I'm guessing (and hoping) you're not the school nurse. The Wife did say he wasn't feeling well earlier this week."
"Yes, there's been a case of *mumble* foot and mouth going around the school."
"You what?"
"Its nothing to worry about."

Right at this point I had a mental image of this

Note: This is NOT Eric Pickles Barbecue
Except with school children not cattle..

"What did you say it was?"
"Hand foot and mouth."
"Right. Is that foot and mouth?"
"No, its a childhood viral infection. Its not serious, but it is contagious and we had to take him out of class. We've tried calling your wife, but I'm afraid I can't get an answer. The Boy is fine. He's reading a book about sharks."

So I called the Wife on her mobile. Nothing. Then the home phone. Then the Mother-In-Law, then the Sister-In-Law (Chief Chirpa, for those regular readers amongst you), then the other Sister-In-Law. Then I called the Wife again. And again. And again. Finally, after about an hour I got through, and she trundled off to pick him up leaving me to spend the next three hours responding to text messages from everyone I'd phoned asking why I'd phoned.

 Later that evening

"Hi dad. How is your course?"
"Its alright, Boy. Are you being good?"
"Yes." (Pause) "I'm not even lying."
"Er... good. How are you feeling?"
"My face hurts. But I'm alright. I'm reading a book. Its about sharks."
"Right. Are you there Girl?"
"Yes. I'm Slartibartfast."
"Ok... What?"
"I'm Slartibartfast."
"No, I'M Slartibartfast. Dad! Tell her I'm Slartibartfast!"
"NO. YOU NAUGHTY!"
*Smack*
"Aieeeeee!"

I should explain, I'd given them nicknames the previous week of Slartibartfast and Zaphod Beeblebrox (I'm not known for my originality). I'd forgotten this. Clearly they hadn't. We chatted uneventfully for about ten minutes and then the Boy terminated the call with the words;

"Dad? Get off Skype, I want to go on the CBeebies website."

Day Four

At this point, due to extreme boredom, I'd decided to eat myself into a coma at every meal. After full English breakfasts, two course lunches and three course meals, I was regretting not bringing another more voluminous pair of trousers. Finally, however I managed to get a video image out of Skype.

"Hi Boy, show me your face... JESUS CHRIST!"

Watching a viral rash appear over days is one thing, seeing it suddenly after three days is something else. It looked like the plague. Turns out it wasn't Hand, Foot and Mouth - it was impetigo. Similar thing, very contagious.

"No one's allowed to kiss me. Especially not the Girl. Which is good. I'm allergic to kissing. Dad. Why can't I hear you?"
"Because I'm not saying anything."
"Oh."

Day Five

Back in the bosom of the Family. Huge cuddles, laughs and kisses.

Twenty minutes later - the first argument.

*Komm nicht nahe, oder ich hole Herr Geknollegaber - I believe. Just in case you were wondering.