Monday 21 May 2012

Specs

Recently I had the unpleasant experience of having blood come out of my ears whilst watching the television. This occurred during an article about a woman who had set up a support group. Not such a bad thing, you might think. But this was a support group for mothers "traumatised" by the horror of having to drop their children off at nursery. Traumatised. It didn't help that she had the unkempt, crazy haired, boho-"chic" look of a women that knits her own tampons from coconut hair. Worse still, she went on to claim that after dropping her own daughter off at school (I forget the child's name, I suspect it was "Vulva") she was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This caused me to shout unrelentingly at a blankly uncomprehending television until my eyes went blurry and I had to have a lie down. I can't bear melodrama in other people.

Interestingly (well, maybe not) I'm also a hypocrite of epic scale. And prone to significant fits of melodrama. I once commando-crawled out of a bedroom at three in the morning because there was a spider on the ceiling. So when the Wife recently told me that the Boy had to start wearing glasses because he's shorted sighted I handled it in my own idiosyncratic style - denial, grumpy acceptance and then sadness.

As I took the Boy to have his glasses fitted I kept looking at his face conscious that it was the last time I would look at his face without thinking it looked naked without glasses. I felt quite glum about this. When we got home he asked me why I kept looking at him funny, and I didn't know how to answer him. The Boy, being five and subsequently far more emotionally mature than me, took this all in his stride. Assisted by the fact that he was getting Ben 10 glasses and this, in line with his new vocabularic* trend was "Awesome." I have to say, in this respect it is awesome. As I've mentioned before, I had National Health glasses as a child. In the eighties NHS glasses were largely bought by parents that were on the breadline or, in my case, bastards. Where his specs have Ben 10 written on them, mine had "Apply fist". 

My concerns that he'll get bullied have been somewhat alleviated by people pointing out that Harry Potter has made wearing glasses cool. This hadn't occurred to me because the Harry Potter thing has largely passed me by. I put this down to the fact that I've never read the books or seen the films BECAUSE I'M NOT TWELVE.That said, my misgivings were not soothed by

"Boy, you need to put your glasses on."
"But I've worn them once today."
"You have to wear them all the time."
"Whaaaat?"

And to compound matters the next morning (having had to be reminded to put his glasses on) the Boy said

*Sigh* "Oh yeah. I forgot I can't see. That's two things that are wrong with me."
"Two?"
"Yeah. I've got a verrucae."

Bullying aside it turns out I still have a whole new world of worry. The Girl is currently stuffing the Boy into a cardboard box yelling (quite viciously)

"Do you like it in there? DO YOU?"

Not that I'm worried about her state of of mind. I've long since been convinced she's destined to be an international assassin of some renown. I'm worried about the Boy's glasses.

Everyone else has been more than impressed with how cool he looks in his specs. Adults are particularly taken with them - Facebook has been replete with "Likes" since I posted a picture of him grinning away (with food in his teeth). I suppose it's partly because he looks like a Little Professor.

The Boy
Only without the moustache. Or off switch.

This weekend I met up my Brother's family at my Ma's house and my brother was kind enough to complement the Boy on how cool he looked. Sadly this didn't get noticed by the Boy as a moment later my four year old Nephew hit my Brother in the face with a large foam number 7.

"Ow. What number have you got there?
"Arse."

He doesn't talk much, the Nephew. But he's a cracking judge of character.





*Before the comments come rolling in, it is a word, you just haven't heard of it because I made it up.

Sunday 13 May 2012

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.



Wednesday 9 May 2012

God

Before we start, I have to make several points.
  1. I am Catholic
  2. I'm not very good at it
  3. I do actually believe though
  4. But I don't really like the Catholic Church.
  5. Particularly the "Ignoring the child abuse" bit, you bastards
  6. I don't force my beliefs on anyone because it's up to you to make your mind up
  7. I once asked the question "How many commandments are there in the Ten Commandments?"
  8. Therefore, I'm not remotely equipped to talk about faith to anyone
Yesterday I had a discussion with a friend about her son. Apparently he'd taken to wandering about sing "God goddy god god god" and she was musing on how to deal with it. Now, she didn't ask my opinion - but you may have noticed that I'm not frightened to hand out my "wisdom" to anyone, regardless of whether they want it or how well equipped I am to hand it out. So I told her the following;

The Boy goes to a faith school. I've mentioned this before. This was not particularly through choice, but simply because it was the best school we could get him in. Since he went to this school he has spoken about God precisely never. This suits me just fine. The only question he's ever asked about God is this;

"You know the baby Jesus? How did she die?"

Brilliant. 

If however he starts asking about faith, I'm going to go with "Some people believe..." and leave it at that. I don't really want to tell him what I believe. Partly because I want him to make his own mind up. Mainly because he's cleverer than I am - and I'm a coward. I foresee the conversation ending with him saying

"So... you believe that the world was made by an invisible man who lives in a magical place behind the clouds?"

And that might cause me to have a crisis of faith.

As has been proved time and time again in this blog - both of my Kids are cleverer than me. So it won't be long before he has me backed into a theological corner such as

"So... even though I get presents every Christmas, and there were ash prints in the fire place, and the mince pie and sherry got eaten, and there was the video where he asked whether I'd been good or bad, and I saw him at the garden centre... Father Christmas doesn't exist? But even though you can't see or hear God, He does exist?"

And quite honestly I haven't really got the answer for that one.

Monday 7 May 2012

Full Circle

When I was about seven my Dad gave me a copy of Ray Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" to read, and I just devoured it. Before that I'd read nothing but the Famous Five and thought the world pretty much revolved around Dick and Fanny. But reading "Dandelion Wine" was like having someone draw back the curtain on the world. I still love that book now.

Since then I've loved to read. I don't always read a lot, I don't always read quickly, but I always read. That was what made me want to go into teaching when I was younger and in 1992 I went to university to train to be a teacher.

I will admit I went into this with eyes blinded by visions of taking the kids on "learning journeys", and watching their faces light up as they learned to read. What actually happened was they ignored me, or told me to me to stick my f***ing book up my f***ing arse. On one occasion, I was stabbed in the leg with a pair of plastic scissors. I still have the scar.

The culmination of my two years teacher training was when the parent of one of the kids in my class came in to complain that I'd told his son to ask him for help with his homework. His argument, made at high volume with liberal dose of swearing, was that I was getting paid to teach his son, not him. Dealing with the human equivalent of an unflushed toilet is not my strong suit, and I left teaching not long after this and took a job standing in a field for the next eight years (not an exaggeration).

The experience also put me off having children, being near children and pretty much everything to do with children other than avoiding them. It took some time to come round to the idea of having kids. Even when I had the Kids I wasn't always convinced. Once we went out for a meal at a well known Italian-American restaurant and the Kids both decided they needed the toilet. Since I had lost the battle to sit furthest away from the toilet, I got to take them. We went to the disabled loo because dealing with two frantic children full of wee in a cramped space isn't particularly relaxing. Everything went fairly swimmingly right up until I made the mistake of using the loo myself and - at the moment I was at my most vulnerable - the Boy threw the door wide open and wandered back out into the restaurant leaving me on display like a Tracey Emin installation.

But when the Girl tells me

"Grandma got eaten by a bat!"

Or the Boy draws me a picture of an alien that looks suspiciously like a penis, well I can't help but love them. In fact I can't understand those parents that don't want to spend their time with their kids.
And now I get to see the Boy learning to read - and I don't think there has been any greater joy in my life. As we were reading a book tonight I introduced him to a new word.


"Weary. It means tired."
*Gasp* "Cool! That's a 'wow word'! Can you write it down and I'll take it into school? I'll get the pen and paper!"


As he ran out of the room he said


"Query."
"Actually, it was 'weary.' A 'query' means something else. A query is like a question."
*VERY excited* "That's another wow word!"


At this point I clapped my hands on my cheeks in mock surprise and (unwisely) said

"I know! Joy-gasm!"

You can probably guess the next bit. Needless to say I'm going to have some explaining to do next parent's evening.

Park Life

Having spent most of my late teens and twenties in love with cars but without the means to buy one that didn't want to kill me, I also spent a lot of that time lying under cars. Not to say that I'm a skilled mechanic. Far from it. I once jacked a two and a half tonne van up on a scissor jack and, against no odds, it fell on my head once I climbed under it. I've electrocuted myself, driven screws through my hand, rounded every nut I've touched and accidentally drank engine oil (I was not well.) On one distressingly memorable occasion I sat in a puddle of battery acid I hadn't realised I'd spilt. At the risk of being indelicate, sulphuric acid and bum holes should never cross paths. Also, the arse fell out of my jeans which - as far as my Dad was concerned -  was the funniest occurrence in history.

So I didn't hold out much hope this afternoon when I started removing the front wing of my car. I won't bore you with why I had to do this, but assume it was both necessary and unwise and naturally it wasn't long before I was lying under the car try to swear it into working. This sort of thing draws my Kids to me like moths to a flame.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm failing to undo this nut."
"Why are you failing?"
"Because it's cleverer than me."
"Why is it-?"
"Boy, will you just fu-" (Deep breath) "Er... Pass me the spanner next to your foot?"
"What's a spanner?"
"It's the shiny silver thing with a circle at each end."
"Ok."
"...Boy?"
"Yes?"
"Why have you given me a dandelion?"

But he'd gone. Presumably to talk someone into jumping off a ledge. He came back later to annoy me, and when I finally lost my temper he patted me on the head and went away. However, despite my the angry vein on my temple ballooning to unprecedented size,  I somehow won this battle with the car. So I went back inside to crow about it to the Wife.

"Aha! Me big man! Me fix car!"
"You've got a flower behind your ear."
"What?"
"That was me."

the Boy said, without looking up from his book.

To celebrate this success we took the Kids and their scooters for a walk in the park. This seemed to confuse the Girl no end.

"Where's the park?"
"We're in the park."
"Where are the swings?"
"Its not that kind of park.Its a park with a lot of grass, and little gardens."
"Oh." (Pause) "Are we going to the park?"
"We're IN the park, Girl."
"Oh." (Pause) "Where are the swings?"
"Lets go and get ice cream!"

So we went to get ice cream - something I assume only the British do when its ten degrees Celsius and pissing with rain. Whilst the Wife stood in the queue, I showed the Kids around the outside of a stately home, some stables and then, having run out of ideas, the toilet block.

"Why are dogs allowed in the toilets?"
"Well, I guess because a lot of people walk dogs in the park and they can't leave them outside. And some people might have guide dogs."
"What's a guide dog?"
"Well, Girl - it's a dog that helps blind people walk about without bumping into things."

Now there are many replies to this. The one I hadn't expected was

"Boris is a guide cat."
"No he isn't."
"HE IS!"
"Girl, Boris keeps walking into the patio doors. I really hope he isn't a guide cat."
"HE IS!"

Fortunately the Boy saved me with the words

"Ooh! I need a poo!"

And so the three of us found ourselves in the worst public toilets that have ever assaulted the senses of mankind. They were the kind of toilets where you try to get in and out without touching any surface in the place, including the floor. The Boy, for once aware of his surroundings, did his business quickly and we bailed out into the sweet air outside where the Wife was waiting for us. Seeing my expression she said

"You alright?"
"Those were, without doubt, the worst toilets I've ever been in."

The Boy nodded and, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, said

"Yeah, they let girls in there!"