Cool

Today we went to a park. A very impressive park. The sort of park that, if it had been around when I was a kid would have induced instant and uncontrollable bowel movements. It had rope climbing frames, a pirate ship, a death slide, a splash park and all manner of devices designed to make parents say; "Er... Aren't you a bit small for that." It was trouser-explodingly exciting.

"Awesome!"

The Boy yelled as we went through the gate.

"Yeah! Look, there's a pirate shi-"

"A BIN THAT LOOKS LIKE A ROCKET!!!"

"Yes, but the p-"

"AND ONE THAT LOOKS LIKE A FROG!!! Awesome!"

Awesome, it appears, is the word du jour. Or "cool." Although the Boy's standards are rather low. After the usual ten minutes of clutching his winkle he finally admitted he needed a wee and we dashed to the toilets. Here the Boy had one of his formative moments by using a urinal for the first time. There was an awkward moment when he compared his equipment to the man already peeing

"Daddy..."

*Through clenched teeth* "Say NOTHING."

Then, stupidly I said

"Remember why you're in trouble at school..."

"I didn't look up her skirt! That was Henry! I just touched her!"

*Hurriedly* "On the hand, yes I know. I don't know why I started this..."

I should add, at this point, that the Boy's school is operating a zero tolerance policy. Seems a bit harsh. He's only five. They'll have him in an orange suit breaking rocks in the hard sun. And now I have the Clash in my head. 

Anyway, then he went to work, and as he did, the urinals flushed.

"Awesome! How did they know? Is there a camera?"

Equally, last night he told me

"I'm really cool. I'm like a stunt man."

This, based entirely on the fact that he'd walked up the stairs. He wasn't even on fire when he did it.

Meanwhile the Girl is going through a maternal stage, carrying her baby with her everywhere. Even to the loo. The Boy, sensing a new way to torture his sister, has latched onto this. Hence I walked into the house earlier to hear the Boy clutching his nipple and crying

"What happened?"

"He punched my baby!"

"She pinched my booby!"

I had to admire the word play, even if they made me feel like a Police officer at a domestic. I tried to settle things down but the Boy had aroused the beast that is the Girl's maternal instinct and she kicked him in the face. This, he later told me was

"Not awesome."

In other news, we're having cat troubles. The Cat insists on catching fleas. The fleas, in turn, insist on biting the Boy. The Boy, in turn, insists on being allergic to the bites. As does the Cat. Not ideal, and having treated the Cat with everything short of weapon grade plutonium or a shovel, nothing has worked. This has lead to me having the following conversation with the Boy

"Adam at school says that I've got chicken pox."

"Does he?"

"Yeah. I said 'I haven't got chicken pox, I've got fleas, you idiot.'"

"Oh... brilliant."

So the wife took the Cat to the vet. The vet has decided that the Cat is stressed. Because it has to crap outside. Whilst this may seem stupid to all but the weirdest, most socially inept of cat people, if you think about it there is some sense behind. Think of the tiger, on the verge of extinction. Has to crap outside. The Lynx, once common across Europe - no litter trays. It's why you see so many cats in rehab clinics. The Cat came home, no less stressed. So stressed in fact, this happened.

Keep back. Cat on the edge. Of falling asleep.