Best Laid Plans

The Wife and I are currently trying some behaviour modification on the Kids. The idea is to stop the Boy from moaning when we tell him to do his homework, and for the Girl to stop going f**king bonkers the second someone speaks to her, looks at her, doesn't look at her, tells her to do something, has ears she doesn't like, breathes after eleven o'clock or isn't dead. This might sound a bit... Clockwork Orange but it's nothing so sinister.

The Girl

We've created sticker charts. They get a sticker for every day they don't moan or throw a tantrum. When they get thirty stickers, the Boy will get a Mandalorian Battle Set and the Girl will get her knife collection back. I mean, er... we'll buy her a toy horse.

This has been fifty percent successful thus far. By which I mean, the Boy gets it and behaves, and the Girl... Well... the flaw in our plan is this - if she doesn't get a sticker because she's thrown a tantrum... she throws a tantrum.

Today I had to take the Boy swimming. I've mentioned his swimming lessons before and they haven't got any less aggravating. Since the Wife was going to work, I had to take the Girl with us. So, on returning home from work I checked how the Girl's mood had been with the Wife. She rolled her eyes, and told me a horror story that involved her Pre-School teachers having to team up to talk her into going into school. And then she wet herself. Twice. So, I went off to talk to the Girl, who curled up in a ball and started shouting "No" at me - which meant I had to come up with a plan to stop her going ape sh*t at the swimming lesson. It's something I have nightmares about - lots of people, slippery floors, a large quantity of water and an exploding child.

Therefore I came up with a plan. I grabbed the Girl's headphones and brought them along. The Boy got changed in the usual fashion.

"Get undressed."

*Blank look*

*Sigh* "Take your top off."

*Takes top off*

"Carry on."

*Blank look*

"Take your shorts off."

*Takes shorts off*

"And the rest."

*Blank look*

"TAKE YOUR PANTS OFF!"

This never gets dull. 

Once the Boy jumped in the water, I sat down, plugged the headphones into my phone and started searching for Spice Girls videos for the Girl to watch. The Girl loves the Spice Girls.

This seemed to work. The only small problem is that, like all small children listening to headphones,  she didn't understand that she DIDN'T HAVE TO YELL EVERY TIME SHE SPOKE.

"I LOVE THE SPICE GIRLS!"

I nodded, and after making sure she was settled down, watched the Boy and his friend spend the next ten minutes trying to drown each other. It was the first time I'd got to actually watch the Boy swim. Ordinarily I have to entertain a bored Girl. This time there was only the odd

"DAD. IT'S STOPPED."

"Right-o, watch this one."

I was quite impressed with the Boy's swimming. His back stroke was very fast and the only-

"DAD! FAIRIES!"

"Yeah. Great."

-thing slowing him down was his ears - which were sticking out like wing nuts because of his goggles. Would have been a bit nicer if he'd spent less time sneezing in the water on purpose, but you can't have everything. 

"LOOK AT HER BOOBIES! SHE'S GOT MASSIVE BOOBIES!"

In her defence, she was looking at Geri Halliwell, who did have massive boobies in the video. It did, however, look like she was pointing at one of the women teaching the swimming lesson. Who also had massive boobies.

Fortunately for me, the swimming teacher didn't hear, only the people sitting either side of me did. One found it hilarious. The other less so, and looked at me like I'd just urinated in her pocket. As if I'd said it.

Once we got home I took the phone off her, told her she'd been a good girl and just for good measure, she threw another tantrum. 

I'm now considering this;

Madness

Earlier on this week the Girl slipped quietly into back garden whilst the Wife was having a nap and I was gawking at the Olympics (I mean seriously, women's volleyball - if they only wear a couple of elastic bands, I'm going to stare. It's not my fault). Once out there she took the oportunity to sing "We Will Rock You" to the chickens at very high volume.

There are days where it feels like I'm an island of sanity in a sea of crazy people.

Take for instance the trip to Grandma's over the weekend. A typical family gathering over a Sunday roast, lovely food, a little alcohol... My Brother-in-Law and I having a discussion about geeky stuff when the Girl walked up to me, smacked me in the head with a badminton racket and walked away. No explanation, no rationale. Just sudden and extreme violence.

It didn't stop there. Later when I was coming to terms with my Mother-In-Law saying;

"Wow! Did you hear that flash of lightning!"

The Girl and Eldest Cousin ran into the room and delivered the following disturbing information.

"We're milking the Boy!"

Find that on Mumsnet. Six adults stunned into silence by a single comment, all simultaneously trying to NOT think the same thing.

"He's a cat."

While that made no sense, at least it didn't make the situation worse. Unlike

"We're drinking his milk."

As an adult, it's difficult to remember how innocent children can be. Even so, there's no place for milking your blood relations in modern society.

Later, as Eldest Cousin stood in a doorway giving instructions to the adults in the style of cheery concentration camp guard, I asked her if people either ran away or winces when she spoke. She mused on this said

"Winced."

And slammed the door so hard on of my fillings fell out.

And things got no better on leaving. On the command; "Get in the car" the Girl unleashed hell. After much scrabbling and kicking I finally got her strapped in by telling her if she didn't stop fighting me I was going to kill the cat.

I'm not proud of myself.

The Boy decided to play his part late in the day when I stupidly attempted to teach him something. Thinking; small boy + robot landing on alien planet = excitement I started to tell him about the Mars Curiousity Rover.

"It's landing on Mars tomorrow."

"Right-o."

"It's really big."

"How big?"

"About the size of a Mini."

"A mini what?"

"No, it's a car."

"You said it was a robot."

"No, a Mini is a car."

"Why are they landing a car on Mars?"

"It's... The robot they're landing on Mars is the same size as a type of car called a Mini."

"So it's a really small car?"

"Well... Not any more."

"Like a toy car?"

"No..."

"So why is it called a Mini?"

And then, on seeing my exasperated expression he said;

"You started this."

Nails

Since starting this blog I've been accosted on a number of occasions by people telling me that I give the Girl bad press when I suggest she'll grow up to be an assassin and such. Whenever I'm accused of this I remember a particularly awful tantrum the Girl once threw whilst we were on a trip to Ravensglass with some friends. I won't go into the details, all you need to know is that my friends now say "Ravenglass" the way Vietnam vets say "Saigon." When people say "My kids throw tantrums" those that have seen the awful splendour of the Girl in full flow simply smile and shake their heads, whilst the Wife and I laugh somewhat shrill and hysterical laughter.

That's not to say she hasn't got a sweet side. Lately she's been playing doctors and nurses (the non disturbing kind) a lot, and she's very caring. Today she wrapped me up in bandages and patted my head very sweetly.

"There, there. Mummy has to go away." *Leaves room*

"Er... where are you going, Girl?"

"Mummy will be back in a minute, darling."

"Ok."

*Several minutes pass*

"Are you ok, Girl?"

"I'm just getting some nails, ok?"

"Some nails?"

"Yes. Mummy has to nail you down to the bed, ok?"

So it all got a bit violent in the end, I'll admit. But she really was being very sweet. Part of what makes her particularly scary is that she's also tough as nails, as I've mentioned before. Aside from being incredibly robust (I get no greater thrill than seeing people's expression change when they pick her up - from "Ah... she wants a cuddle" to "Jesus Christ she's heavy!") she can tobbogan down a set of stairs and crash face first into a radiator without raising more than a quizzical expression. Three times we've been woken up by the crash of her face planting into her bed side table and entered the room to find her, still asleep, clambering into bed with bits of lego stuck on her cheeks. I've always been a bit nervous around big dogs because if they turn I'm unlikely to be able to fight one off. The same kind of goes for the Girl. She's three and a half, but I think in a straight fight she could probably take me. Or at least I did until we went to Legoland last week.

Legoland Windsor is brilliant, I should say, and would not hesitate to recommend it to anyone. Aside from the fact that they have a Millennium Falcon ten feet wide made of lego, it's also quite good fun for kids. However, I would urge you to do a bit of research about the rides. Because we didn't and I suspect the Girl is going to hold a grudge. As ever it all started quite well, we went on the Spider Spinner and the Girl (who has previously been a bit skittish on such things) loved it. Then we went on Pirate Falls and let ourselves down really rather badly. I'll fully admit I was feeling rather cocky. All of the rides had a minimum height of 0.9 metres and I figured if they were going to let three year old kids on the rides they not going to be all that right?

Well, yes and no.

Pirate Falls is a log ride that rumbles along nicely enough with skeletons coming out of treasure chests and the like before climbing twenty feet and plunging back into the water. I think the picture of the Girl and Boy below is more descriptive than anything I can say.

Fun for all the family. Except these two

That is not joy. That is an unbridled paroxysm of terror. Look at the Girl's eye - she actually thinks she's dying right there. I should add that the camera also caught me very clearly in the middle of a facial transition between smiling and saying the word "Shit!"

After this we went into the castle and found a ghost train called the Dragon. This was far better, chugging along past lego knights and a lego dragon head sticking through the wall, breathing smoke. Then it went through a doorway into brilliant sunshine and turned into a roller coaster. When I'd managed to get my bearings I turned to the Boy and asked him if he was okay.

"No."

He said.

"No I'm not."

The Girl still hasn't forgiven us for this, which is just another reason to be scared of her.

Driving Me Nuts

If there is one universal truth it is this; nothing sucks the fun out of a traffic jam like kids. I love driving, I love my Kids. I would rather feed myself into a garden strimmer than put the two things together. You see driving is my favourite form of catharsis. The inside of my car is the one place that I can shout obscenities at people without being punched in the face.

Generally.

The Wife recently noted that my own driving style involves loudly and angrily pointing out the idiocy of my fellow drivers whilst remaining blithely unaware of my own errors. I think she's half right. Allow me to give you an example of my driving philosophy. 

Disclaimer: if you drive a Volvo, wear gloves whilst driving, smoke a pipe or don't have opposable thumbs, THIS IS NOT FOR YOU

I reserve a particular hatred for people who hog the middle lane on motorways. The sort of hatred that most people reserve for serial killers, wasps or the Jeremy Kyle show.*  As a result of this I have come up with a brilliant way of dealing with them. First of all I catch up with them in the slow lane, carefully and safely (and more importantly - legally) move into the fast lane and overtake. When I'm a few hundred yards ahead I move back into the slow lane and then slow down to let them overtake me. Then I go back out into the fast lane, overtake and repeat. So in effect you orbit the offending car. Not only is it safe, its educational for the offending driver, and its bloody hilarious. My record is fifteen circuits around the same car. The only reason I stopped was because I'd missed my junction. The Wife hates this.

Now you might be thinking I'd be insane to do this with the Kids in the car, and that's my point. I don't get to do it when I have the Kids in the car. Put kids in the car and driving becomes mundane and dreary. At no point are you allowed to have the sort of fun that starts with; "WATCH THIS!" and ends with a car exiting a hedgerow backwards whilst on fire. And that first drive with your new born baby - there's no joy in that either. Its like driving with nitro-glycerine in the boot. The whole time you're expecting to get t-boned by an truck, or struck by a meteor, or have a giant eagle swoop down and fly away with the car (that might just be me). Only once have I been more terrified whilst at the wheel of the car which was this;

On a return journey we'd stopped to get ripped off at a toll booth. Whilst re-mortgaging the house for the  honour of driving through a tunnel I pointed out a mini-digger on a trailer in a neighbouring lane. The Boy loves diggers. Anyway, because I had Kids on board and therefore had to drive at the speed of glaciation, the truck with the digger on the back left the tolls before me. I thought no more about it until a short while later when the digger was literally flying through the air towards my car. The trailer had lost a tyre and thrown the digger straight up in the air and while everything went slow-motion and surreal as I swerved out of its way the Boy took this opportunity to say

"Look, dad! There's that digger again!"

As if was an every day occurrence. I failed to respond to this other than to say "shitshitshitshitshitshitshit."

The most you can hope for is a dull, mind-numbing journey because the alternatives are tantrums (bad), drawing on the roof lining (very bad) or vomit on the back of your head (I simply don't have the words). Yes, vomit on the back of the head. Whilst driving. And trust me, dads - when that happens you're the one person who doesn't get sympathy. And don't you dare suggest Eye Spy either because I'll quite happily track you down and run you over (assuming I haven't got the Kids in the car.) Have you ever played Eye Spy with a five year old and a three year old? At the risk of spoiling the suspense for you, the answers are always; "sky", "road" or "car." I've had dental work more fun than that.

*For non-Brits - Jeremy Kyle is like Jerry Springer but with far, far less class. Imaging smearing excrement on your television. Its a bit like that but with adverts.

Bad Dad

The other night I read a rather erstwhile blog about parenting. I seek out these things for the same reason I watch the news; to have something to shout at. This particular blogger said "There are no right ways to bring up children, but there are lots of wrong ways." This is an undeniable fact. They then went on to explain why the way they parented was THE RIGHT WAY (that was the point I started shouting.)

"Your children should be allowed to be whomever they want to be and shouldn't worry what other people think about them," the blog continued. This is a noble and right-minded way of bringing your children up. Only the insane would argue otherwise. However I've had Kids for five years now, and as the old joke goes "Insanity is heredity, you get it from your children." So I'm going to bloody well argue.

Yes, its a brilliant idea, right up until your three year old daughter won't stop crapping in her knickers and you find yourself saying "The other kids at school will think you're smelly and horrible." I said exactly these words only today. 

Clearly the author of this blog hasn't realised that my Kids are evil, and their evil is contagious. I'm not parenting, I'm in a battle of wits and I'm bloody losing.

This morning I was in a bit of a rush because I was taking them to see my mum. Typically this involved the Girl throwing an industrial grade, biblical epic of a tantrum. Lots of rolling on the floor, scratching, screaming,   trails of snot, hair stuck to her purple face. What I like to call "The full English Breakfast Tantrum." She was still throwing a tantrum when I crammed her into the car. Anyone who has every tried to get an angry child into a car seat will attest, its like getting an eel into a jar. First they go rigid as a board, which makes it absolutely impossible to get them into the seat. Fortunately I managed to get past this first line of defence by sticking a wet finger in her ear (another good tactic is to blow a raspberry on her tummy, but you risk losing your glasses - if not an eye). Then, if you get as far as getting the straps over their arms they squirm them free and try to scratch you. And if - like the Girl - they are particularly committed they somehow manage to kick you in the genitals. Which she did just as my next door neighbour came out. I find people don't get eye contact with you any more when they've seen a three year old girl beat you up.

When I finally arrived at my mum's house and got out the car, the Boy did what he always does. He undid his seatbelt and jumped on the driver's seat, leading to the following conversation

"Boy! Get off my seat, you've put muddy footprints on it!"

"Sorry."

"When we arrive somewhere, stay in your seat and get out of the car."

"Ok..." (Pause) "Hang on, I can't get out of the car if I'm still in the seat."

"No, I mean..."

"Do you mean I have to take the seat out too?"

"No. I don't know what I mean anymore."

"Well how am I supposed to know??"

Wiseass. He does this to me a lot. 

"I'm four, but my friend James is only three."

"Oh, right. When is he four?"

(As if to a fool) "On his BIRTHDAY."

Once we'd left my mum's house, leaving a trail of discarded toys, hand prints and snot stains on the carpet the Boy decided it was his turn go postal. This time it was because he didn't want the Girl to have a turn on a video game he was playing. When I handed the Girl the controller he went from Oliver Twist to Jason Vorhees, punched the Girl in the chest and then tried to bite her. 

Now the reason I say their evil is contagious is because an hour later I went outside to put the chickens to bed, and they threw a tantrum. So I found myself trapped in a chicken run re-enacting a scene from Jurassic Park as they ganged up on me. I literally have no dignity left. When I finally disentangled myself I saw the Boy at the window, crying with laughter and when I opened the back door he said

"That was brilliant! Do it again!"

As such, I've taken a parenting approach I call "Getting the revenge in beforehand." At some point in the near future the Boy will lose his first milk tooth. When this happens, we'll do what most parents in the western world do and put it under his pillow for the tooth fairy. When the Boy wakes up the next morning he will find a five pound note and a letter. We'll read the letter to him. It will say

Dear Boy,

thank you for your tooth. Here is five pounds. 

The Tooth Fairy.

P.S. I WILL BE BACK FOR THE REST TONIGHT.

Oh, by the way, if you don't know, this is Jason Vorhees.

The Boy

Mumdad Dadmum

My dad had it easy.

My mum didn't work when I was a child and as such the child rearing duties were almost entirely hers. My dad restricted him to;

• Taking me swimming
• Teaching me to ride a bike
• Taking me fishing
• Telling me off for moaning that I didn't like fishing
• Throwing my Action Man down the stairs in a fit of pique
• Trying to kill me

Now the last one might seem a bit excessive, but there's a story behind it. One day when I was ten I got to thinking about the ten commandments and how many were negative (as in "Thou shalt NOT!"). I went to my dad and, for some reason phrased the question thus;

"Dad, how many commandments are there in the ten commandments?"

This led to much mirth and merriment. He trundled off to tell my mum. He told my brother over dinner. He phone his friends to tell them. The next day he told my mum and brother again, just in case they forgot. Then he phoned some more friends. I found this somewhat irksome. So, a couple of days later, when I got my chance for revenge I took it. And how.

It was about a week later and I whilst in the kitchen I saw my dad watering the garden with the hose. It had one of those pistol grip attachments and, not realising he was being observed, he was quick-drawing it like a gun-slinger. A rather over-weight, baggy trousered gun-slinger. He did this as he worked his way to where the was a wasps nest near the pond. Even though he had his back to me I could see the moment the idea came to him. He straightened up, stretched his neck and carefully took aim at the wasps nest. When he squirted water at the nest, there was a moment's pause and then a dark cloud of wasps emerged from it. With a loud "SHIT!" the hose went up in the air, he took to his heels, ran to the back door and it was at this point he found I'd locked it. Hence the attempted murder.

He wasn't a bad father, he was a father of his time. His job was to put the food on the table, do a bit of DIY and taxi us around. He was always there for us, and he was endlessly generous. I miss him terribly. But he wasn't our mum and he really did have it easy.

Things have changed somewhat. The Wife and I both work because we have to, which means we take a split shift with the children. Because I work during the day, she spends most of the day with the Kids, and I get dinners, bath time, story, bed, homework and everything that occurs after they get back from school (mainly arguing). This situation means the Kids only see the two of us together at weekends. Consequently the Kids regularly call me "Mum er Dad."

The Girl highlighted the blurry line between Mum and Dad this evening when she wigged out as the Wife left for work. She hurled herself on the floor (the Girl, not the Wife) and screamed "I want mummy!" over and over until I asked her if she wanted a biscuit. At that point she jumped to her feet like a football player being awarded a free kick. Later, as she was having her dinner she started calling

"Where's daddy? Where's daddy gone? Has daddy gone to work? Has he?"

"No darling. I'm here."

"No. I mean daddy."

"I am daddy."

"I mean... Er..."

And, for the first time ever, she referred to the Wife by her first name. Its quite something that she got so confused she used the Wife's first name. We're not those kind of parents. As far as I'm concerned its one step down from incest. I get quite shirty about it. Then the Boy sighed and said

"You shouldn't call her <Wife's name> its... Er..." (Looking at me for confirmation) "Mummy?"

Now whilst I think my dad had it easy, I'm not suggesting parenting is harder now. It isn't. This weekend the Boy was invited to a birthday party at a bowling alley. We decided - very unwisely - to take the Girl. We figured that the Girl could spend her time on the soft play area whilst the Boy bowled with his friends. The Girl being the Girl had other ideas. She threw a tantrum when she couldn't bowl. Then the Boy generously let her have his go, and she threw a tantrum when she couldn't have everyone else's go too. At this point I dragged (and I mean literally) her off to a quiet part of the bowling alley, lay her down on the floor and distracted her by playing episodes of Peppa Pig from YouTube on my phone. I love technology.

 Mind you, five minutes later she threw a tantrum because a couple of skinheads wouldn't let her play pool with them. She made one of them cry.