Merry Bloody Christmas

Last month I foolishly turned forty. Forty has a level of gravitas previous decades don't have. People in their thirties go clubbing, people in their forties buy Volvo's  Ignoring the fact that I never liked going clubbing and I've recently found myself eyeing up the latest Volvo with an envious eye, I'm still in denial. Why? Because in ten years time I'll be fifty, and that doesn't bear thinking about.

Hence my recent silence on the blog, because in spite of the Wife organising a surprise party and then whisking me off to Edinburgh* I've been lingering in a month long temper tantrum about it. Fortunately my family can always be relied upon to give me the get up and go to hide under the duvet  and cry.

So, just to cheer everyone up, along comes Christmas. This year we swerved the Christingle service as my skills in juggling burning fruit have not improved since I last spoke to you about this (http://todaymyboysaid.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/christingle.html). It was a close run thing though. I took the Kids along to see the church Christmas tree lights switched on which was just before the Christingle service. We stood around in the dark four half an hour, then an old man dressed as a sex offender dressed as Father Christmas turned up in a tractor (obviously), handed out sweets for ten minutes and then switched the lights on. To get an idea of how impressive this was get up and switch on the light in the room you're in. It wasn't that good.

I was quite keen to scarpa at this point, but in a typically-slightly-dodgy move, the local church had an elf on stand-by - with a box of sweets, trying to lure the Kids into the church. Now, I went to church in the seventies and eighties, and I know what a trail of sweets into the church leads to. So the Kids and I had another role reversal, where they insisted we went into the church, and I told them I didn't want to go. For once, I won. By offering them sweets. 

When we got home the Boy raced upstairs and I went and got the jacket potatoes I'd left cooking from the oven. This, as it always does, set off our smoke alarm - which is set off by steam, but not smoke. So as long as our house catches fire during a flood, we're all good. As I went over to wave a tea-towel under it I heard the Boy yell;

"Sorry! That was me! I farted!"

To which I replied;

"If they're strong enough to set off the smoke alarm, you're moving out."

A few days later, the Wife and I went to the Boy's nativity play. I may have been expecting a bit much, but here's my review.

The acting was appalling, the sub-plot was just tacked on (it started with aliens landing in Bethlehem - which I'm pretty sure didn't happen), the chemistry between the characters was non-existent, the music was badly chosen, there was casual violence (when the Virgin Mary placed the baby Jesus into the manger by throwing Him from the other side of the stage) and the set looked like it had been designed by a five year old. I made this last comment as a joke to my Wife, who smiled thinly until the Head Teacher thanked the 50-something art teacher for "building such a wonderful set single handedly" and I felt a bit guilty. Honestly, it looked like an explosion in an aluminium foil factory. 

The Boy did well though. He managed to keep his fingers out of his nose for the whole thing.

The Girl's performance in her nativity play was a great success in comparison to last year, where her only line was "I NEED A WEE!" This year she got to play a shepherd, so the Wife sent her along with a cuddly sheep toy we had lying around the house.

On that, I'm pretty sure we have a cuddly version of every animal that ever walked, crawled or slithered on it's belly. We've got a cuddly velociraptor, for crying out loud. And it's not like we buy them. People just give them to us. There must be something about my family that says; "Crap attractor."

Anyway... The Girl's nativity play was called "Father Christmas needs a wee" and was, as you can guess, massively traditional. The Girl said her line well, then instantly got bored, dropped the sheep on the floor, kicked it a bit, picked it up and then repeatedly beat herself in the head with it for the next five minutes. Then she got a bit distracted, and her teacher had to go to the front of the stage and tell her to bugger off down the back. Fortunately the Virgin Mary took the attention off the Girl by dropping the baby Jesus on the floor and pushing Him into centre stage with her foot. Baby Jesus eventually exited stage left after a fairly decent pass from the Virgin Mary to one of the three Kings. And since no one lost an eye, I thought it was a great success.

Tonight the Wife and Kids decorated the Christmas tree with chocolates - a tradition from her side of the family. My family ate chocolates. But then we also got up, opened all our presents, had crisps for breakfast and did our best not to talk to each other until Christmas dinner. Then the Queen would come on telly, my dad would shout at her and then fall asleep in front of "The Dirty Dozen". So the Wife's traditions are probably preferable.

The Girl did a sterling job of hanging the chocolates, with the small issue that she put all of them on one branch. The Wife tried to point out the error of her ways, but the Girl said;

"I did that so they don't get lonely."

Awwww, you're thinking. How sweet. Except she's put them all on the bottom of the tree - so she can reach them. I tell you, she's a conniving little sod that Girl. 

Since they'd done such a good job I decided to take a picture of them, which I thought was rather lovely until I looked at the Girl and discovered that to spice up the photo she'd put a toy horse in her mouth.

For Christ's sake.

Have a very merry Christmas, people. Love from Me, The Wife, Boy and Girl. 

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.

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.