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?

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.

Worry

Regular readers ("Hello mum!") will know that I worry quite a lot. Just because I'm a worrier, doesn't mean I haven't got a reason to be worried. Allow me to present Submission A, Mi'lud;

Barbie Does Dallas

This is not a random occurrence. Whenever I find the Girl's Barbie, she's in this position. The Girl is either making a statement on the sexualisation of children's toys, or she's opened a toy VD clinic. And yes, that cushion is saying "hello." Its very polite.

Its not that I really think that she's doing these things. But it worries me on a level I can't quite explain. As if its a little warning that in the future, when the Kids are a little older, things will be much more complicated. In the same way that I say to prospective parents "Huh! Think things are tough now, wait until your kid is born!" parents of teenagers say; "You ain't seen nothing yet, mate." The Wife tells me horror stories of what she was like as a teenager, and I remember... Well, actually I was a geek. I spent most of my childhood trying and failing to program a ZX Spectrum. My highest level of achievement was;

10 Print "TITS!"

20 Goto 10

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

TITS!

The idea of the Girl liking boys (or girls) is still a dim and distant thing since she's only three. I can't quite imagine how I'll react to a spotty oik turning up on my doorstep claiming to be her boyfriend. I my head I'll say "No. You're not," and spray Mace in his eyes. But on a certain level, I know I won't be doing that. At this point I'm more concerned about her anger management issues and sadistic streak.

"Where's mummy going?"

"She's going to give blood."

"I want to see!"

"You wouldn't want to see people sticking needles in her."

"I would!"

Or her weird obsession with the cat

"I'm sniffing Boris' bum!"

However, I once had a discussion that if the Girl was parachuted into the jungle she'd find a way to survive. She's naturally pragmatic. She'd be a bit like John Rambo in First Blood. She isn't the one to worry about.

The Boy, on the other hand... Well, the Boy isn't that practical. He has to learn everything the hard way

(Examining his pants) "My plan worked! At school I wiped my bum AFTER I did a poo!"

If you parachuted the Boy into the jungle, he wouldn't survive. He'd get eaten. Probably by the Girl. Either that, or there would be some terrible misunderstanding. It seems that the Boy doesn't so much get the wrong end of the stick, but miss the stick entirely. As demonstrated by

"Where's mummy?"

"She's getting the car fixed, then giving blood."

"To the car?!?"

And

"I don't know why they call her Mrs Lovall. She doesn't love anyone."

Or, he'd forget to eat. The Boy has a memory of a strobe-lit goldfish. Every day he comes home from school and I ask him what he did, and every day he says; "I forgot." In fact, he can forget things mid-sentence.

‎"Dad, what's the difference between a bogies and spinach?"

"I don't know. What is the difference between bogies and spinach?"

"I can't remember."

Most of all I worry he's going to end up in a secure unit with one of those nice button-up-the-back canvas jackets they give you.

"I licked a blow off once."

Dog House

The Boy is in the dog house. I took a day off work early last week and had the opportunity to drop the Kids at school. It was during this that the Boy indulged in his new game. He stayed in the car whilst I dropped the Girl off an when I returned he'd turned the interior of the car into the third circle of hell by dropping his guts so pungently it actually made me cry. I'm not sure what we've been feeding him but the Police could use it to disperse rioters. I had to drive with my head out of the window. Naturally he thought this was hilarious. So hilarious he did it to the Wife the next day.

Then at bath time we had our traditional row, culminating in the following conversation;

"Don't forget who is the boss around here."
"Mummy."
"No... Well, yes. But who else is the boss?"
"Grandma?"
"No..."
"The Girl?"
"No!"
(Pause) "Boris?"
"No, Boy. The cat is not the boss. I am the boss."
(Doubtfully) "Mmmm."

On top of this he's become so obsessed with his new camera he constantly videos things. More often than not me. Its like being under video surveillance. Its only a matter of time before he shows the camera to the Wife and says; "Listen to what dad is saying" and she hears me talking about the time I trapped my balls in a Corby trouser press.

To cap it all off he was kicking a football about and I overheard him yell


"Chelsea score!"

I support Charlton. (I should explain this for my American readers - imagine your son tells you he doesn't like baseball / basketball / American football but instead wants to play soccer. I know. Unthinkable)

Clearly, this is beyond the pale. So much so that I texted the Wife what he'd done and told her he had a week to find somewhere else to live. Her response to this was "Tell him to support Manchester United, they're way better" so a divorce is on the cards. 

And for that I blame him. 

The Girl has been sweetness and light this week though. Well... up until today when - whilst walking past her pregnant Aunt who was sitting on the sofa - she paused, prodded her tummy and gave her a look as if to say; "Sort it out, love."Dog

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.

Pants on Fire

Which one of these is not a lie?

1. Genesis front man Phil Collins invented the Vienetta ice-cream whilst at catering college
2. Jehovah Witnesses do not believe in the moon because "it's pagan"
3. The name Samantha is derived from the Latin word for "aircraft"

Answers at the end of this blog.

I'm a big fan of recreational lying. Not for any malicious or sinister reasons, simply because its fun to see what you can get people to believe. This isn't to test the how gullible people are, I only lie to intelligent people. What I like to do is think of a ridiculous "fact" such as; "The reason the water goes down the plughole in the opposite direction south of the equator is because the bottom half of the Earth spins in the opposite direction to the top." I then deliver said "fact" with confidence and authority to see if perfectly intelligent, rational people will believe it. And they often do. I once had an entire department at work discussing the amazing fact that polar bear hair is actually black based on the fact that; "its really shiny and it reflects the snow." 

"What a card," you're thinking. I know. At work I'm something of a cult. At least, that's what it sounds like they say. Since I'm an appalling parent, I've taken to do this with the Kids. Only last night at bath time I told the Boy that there had been a mistake on his birth certificate and he had to be a girl from now on.

"For real?"

"Sorry, kiddo. Its true."

"But I've got short hair!"

"We're going to let it grow long and put you one of the Girl's dresses."

"That's stupid! It won't fit!"

I love his sense of priority there.

Watching the Boy learning to lie has been quite the eye opener. I'm thinking of getting a training grant from the government because, to put it mildly, he's rubbish at it. In fact, he only began lying once he started school. Previous to this he answered every question with total (and often comic) candidness.

"Boy? Why is the Girl crying?"

"I kicked her in the head."

This progressed to

"Why is the Girl crying?"

"I don't know."

"Did you kick her in the head?"

"Only once!"

Before finally getting to

"Why is the Girl crying?"

"Er..." (Long pause) "She fell?"

That is pretty much as sophisticated as it gets with the Boy. Even when he tries hard he quite often catches himself out.

"Did you eat my chocolate when I told you not to?"

"Er... noooooooooo."

"Why is your face covered in chocolate?"

"I ate your chocolate."

"You ate my chocolate?!?"

"No! I didn't!"

Regardless of how bad he is, I've decided to start a zero tolerance policy to any lying. (I'm nothing if not a hypocrite) and have come up with what I think is an excellent strategy. Naturally it relies on telling an OUTRAGEOUS lie yourself, but if I say so myself, I'm a genius. And because I'm a kind genius I'm going to share this with any parents out there.

The next time your son or daughter tells you a very obvious lie, stare intently into his or her right eye and say the following words; "Aha! I know you're lying! When you lie a little light comes on in  your eye!"  For at least a while after this they'll either not lie or cover their eyes when they do. Plus, its hilarious. Its the most fun I've had with the Kids since I tried to get them to high-five one afternoon. Kept them quiet of ages because they simply couldn't manage it. Although that did backfire a bit. Eventually the Boy accidentally slapped the Girl in the face. At that point she pushed him over and sank her teeth in his bum. I had to give her a good telling off. He never wipes properly.

The Girl hasn't learnt to lie yet. She needs to learn a lot more about the world. There's still a lot of things that she doesn't really understand. A point proved this morning by the following text I got from the Wife

Girl throwing Boy's shoes down the stairs and telling cat to fetch.

Answer to question above - It was a trick question. They're all true. Honest!

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.

Smile!

Today I came downstairs to find the Girl packed an ready to go on a holiday. She was sitting by the front door, wearing a Peppa Pig rucksack and telling me she hoped it didn't rain. Bless.

I say bless, because we're not going on holiday. She just decided she was going. She'd clearly made the decision in a rush because she'd only packed a cuddly horse, her new camera and a takeaway menu. Self catering presumably.

As every year the Kids got a wide array of robots, horses, books, cars and death rays for Christmas. The blessing was that no one bought them any percussion instruments or crying babies. These are the gifts that truly keep on giving. The Boy got a drum kit a couple of years ago. It's a testament to my patience that it took eighteen months before I accidentally put my foot through it. Equally awful, when the Girl was a couple of months old someone bought her a baby that screamed when it was squeezed. Having not slept for two months because of the Girl screaming, this gift was as welcome as a cup of cold sick.

This year the Kids were bought toy digital cameras. For months the Boy has been filling my iPod up with a myriad pictures of either the fireplace, him sticking his tongue out or, disturbingly, my arse. So it seemed like a good idea. However, on the way to their Nan's house today the Boy kept taking pictures of the back my head and every time the flash went off I thought I'd gone through a speed trap. Annoying as this was, it was quite amusing when both of them papparatzied my mum on her doorstep and whilst she was dazzled, the Boy head butted her in the groin.

To the Boy a head butt to the fanacklepans is a whole new level of hilarious comparable with the physical comedy of Harold Lloyd. Nothing he likes more than to hear me say; "Not in the- OOF!!"

This is possibly because for two years he's been making up jokes that, on the whole, aren't funny and has now converted to slapstick. I'm not being harsh. I'm not. You spend two years being barraged with;

"Why did the turkey cross the road?"

"Because it was on fire!"

*Literally wets himself laughing*

Or

"Why did the pigeon fall out of the tree?"

"I don't know."

"Because it flew into a sign. Earlier, I mean. I should have said that bit first."

It drives you mental. In two years he's said two jokes that have made me laugh. And I'm being generous about the first one.

"Whats fat and sticky?"

"A fat stick!"

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Me, stupid!"

The Girl, ever her own person, doesn't do jokes. She simply laughs, randomly and surprisingly aggressively. She once did this to me whilst I was dozing on the sofa. To compound matters she was holding the Boy's toy chainsaw. I made a noise you normally only hear when little girls have spiders thrown at them.

I tell a lie. The Girl has come up with one joke, which I shall leave you with. Please note, this is verbatim.

"Blah blah blah blah blah blah. Say 'I don't know', mummy... SAY IT!"

"Er... I don't know, Girl."

"BECAUSE HE DID A MASSIVE BLOW OFF!"

Sleep

Parents are unbelievably annoying people

People without kids might be nodding at this because they already know where I'm going. So allow me to uncloud the eyes of all the parents out there by asking you a question.

Have you ever found yourself responding to something a friend has said with; "Pah! Wait till you have kids"?

The only truthful answer to this is "yes", in which case you're an annoying shit. But don't worry, so am I. We just have to live with that. It's one of the burdens of parenthood. That and higher depreciation on our cars because of crisps in the seats and crayon on the roof lining. Oh, and decreased sex-drive. I'll move on from this before I fail to remember why I had children...

Anyway, since you parents will have said this dreary line. I'll make another prediction. I'll bet you used this phrase when someone said; "Man, I'm tired. I didn't sleep very well last night."

Nothing drives a non-breeder crazier than that. As if you have to have kids to truly understand the meaning of sleep deprivation. Clearly that's ridiculous. However, I've been racking my brain to come up with something that adequately describes having a newborn baby that won't sleep. The only words that come to mind is; "GET BACK OR I'LL JUMP!!!"

Before I had the Kids, I was an insomniac. Since I've had the Kids I've become narcoleptic. These days if I sit on a sofa without something to do (like writing this) there's a good chance I'll be snoring within ten minutes. Its safe to assume that on evenings when there isn't a blog entry here I've probably fallen asleep before I've thought of a topic, and dribbled into the keyboard. My body seems to work on the principle that, even if I can't "bank" sleep, I'll give it a bloody good go.

I will say here and now that we are very lucky, the Boy and Girl go to bed between six and seven (yes, that's right), sleep between twelve and thirteen hours, rarely complain when they go to bed, rarely wake us up in the middle of the night. You might think that I'm a bit smug about that, and you'd be right. It's taken five years to get to this point. Things were not always this way.

For the first three weeks of the Boy's life he slept for a maximum of two hours at a time. This meant that the Wife and I took it in shifts through the night and averaged about four hours sleep per night, which can have an impact on your sanity. (At this point in the story people often say to me; "Margaret Thatcher only slept for three hours a night." A good point, except the woman currently thinks she's a gerkin.)

Initially this lack of sleep was a bit of a novelty. I watched a lot of DVD boxed sets, I got a lot of reading done. The novelty lasted three days.  On day three I vanished and was only discovered when the Wife heard me crying. In the toilet. Whilst asleep. Later that day I found myself suggesting quite seriously that the Wife "put him back in until he stops crying." Turns out it was a feeding issue which took three weeks to resolve before he started sleeping about five hours at a time. By the end of those three weeks both the Wife and I were clinically insane. For instance, that first night he started sleeping properly we were so unused to him being quiet for that long we kept checking to see if he was still breathing. I chose to do this first by watching his chest, then holding a mirror to his face and finally by poking him until he woke up and started crying. Because that seemed logical at the time. Naturally, the Wife thought this was somewhat counter productive, which she explained with a right hook.

It is impossible to be a rational human being when you've just been woken up for the fifth time in a night. At two in the afternoon it's much easier to accept that babies can't tell you what's wrong than it is at two in the morning. At two in the morning shouting "GO TO SLEEP!" seems like a sensible response to a crying baby. At two in the morning using a bottle steriliser will, more often than not, lead to you melting your face off. At two in the morning you will attempt to bottle feed your child without actually being awake at any point and not notice you're pushing the teat up the poor little sod's nose.

All of which assumes you lost the battle of "who can pretend to be asleep longest?" The usual ritual in our house is that the loser has to fling back the covers, snarl "Fine!" before stomping off and trying to be comforting whilst livid.

The only way I managed to get through of this was that once I'd been woken up I'd never expect to get back to sleep again. And that worked quite well. Because I didn't sleep for three years.

Arrgh!

Here is a list of things that I am scared of;

• Spiders
• Tunnels
• Being touched
• Funnel Web Spiders (they live in tunnels)

We'll ignore the whole touching thing, I get asked about that a lot. Most commonly; "How did you have kids?" The response to this is; "Disappointingly quickly" which has nothing to do with not liking physical contact.

Weirdly, as I type this I can hear the Wife rolling her eyes.

Anyway, I have three phobias, which is a fair collection for anyone. This is why it doesn't come as a great surprise that the Boy - who is essentially me³ - is scared of just about anything you care to mention. I'll give you and example; earlier today the Wife put on a DVD to keep the Kids quiet. The Boy watched it for ten minutes, then ran away saying it was too scary.

It was Lady and the Tramp

Yesterday we treated the Kids to staying up with us to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special. The Boy spent an hour with his hands over his ears, insisting the Wife covered his eyes. It wasn't entertainment for him, it was self-induced sensory deprivation. I sat with him to watch Finding Nemo about a year ago. Let me give you the plot breakdown (as far as we watched) from the Boy's point of view.

Pretty fish talking
Pretty fish EATEN BY MASSIVE EVIL FISH
Pretty fish talks to small pretty fish
Small pretty fish ABDUCTED BY MASSIVE GLASS-FACED MONSTER
Pretty fish goes looking for small pretty fish
SHARK ATTACK!

You would have thought I'd made him watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Which is ironic because the first film the Girl ever watched was the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. She was about a week old, she wouldn't sleep so I lay on the sofa with her and watched it. In some ways I think that was a mistake. I think it might have given her ideas.

Clearly then, nightmares are a bit of an issue. The Boy's first recurring nightmare was that there was a bee in his room. This was whilst he was still quite young.

"There's a bee in my room! Its going to bite me!"
"Bees don't bite. They sting you."
"Whaaaaat?"

Which is why we've had to choose our words carefully. Not that I always remember.

"Night night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Whaaaaat?"

On the other hand the Girl is scared of nothing. She'll happily play with cats (as demonstrated), dogs, snakes, alligators, plastic bags (thanks Granddad) or electric outlets. She's the one that stands on the arm of the sofa and dives onto the hard wood floor, or surfs the stairs. On one occasion I got home from work and on opening the door was greeted by the sight of the Girl hurtling down the stairs face first and crashing into the radiator. The radiator seemed more bothered than she did. She simply got up, dusted herself down (well, pulled her trousers up) and ran into the living room to watch the tweenies.

Meanwhile, the Boy was being terrorised by a moose with a wellies on its antlers.

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.

Birth

Last week at work, amongst topics of conversation ranging from the state of the economy to vaginal flatulence, I was asked a series of questions about birth. So I thought I might do an entry here.

In the autumn of 2006 the Wife woke me up with the words "Guess who's water's broken?" to which I, in my semi-conscious state replied "I don't know... whose?" And at this point I'd like to take the opportunity to break a few myths

Myth 1

People always panic in the films, don't they? Its all "get hot water and plenty of towels!" and people passing out.

I have to say, there was no panic. There were corn flakes, there were some phone calls... the Wife had a bath. No panic. I know that's not as funny as running into walls and bags of clothes bursting open, but I wasn't at all nervous. Its true what they say. Ignorance is bliss. I boiled the kettle for hot water, but only because I wanted a brew. At no point were towels involved.

After an hour or so the Wife's contractions got to the point that we needed to phone the birthing unit. It was all very calm and pleasant, we drove through the middle of the night to the unit and got parked up, dragged the small bag containing the ENTIRE CONTENTS OF THE HOUSE inside, popped the Wife on a birthing ball (for the uninitiated, a massive beach ball you sit on and bounce up and down on) and set in for the wait. It took about ten minutes for me to realise that the birthing room was about the temperature of the surface of the sun. By the time the Boy was born four hours later I was about half the size I was when I went in. A tip - dads, dress for summer regardless of weather conditions.

The Wife bounced up and down on the ball until the labour pain got so bad we put the TENS machine on her. This is like one of those abdominal exercise machines that electrocutes you to a six pack. It did feel a bit like pouring salt in the wound - wiring her up to the national grid, but it seemed to work for short while until the gas and air came in and the good times rolled. Well, at least between contractions. The Wife was steady as a rock, calm and collected, focused on the task at hand. She only offered me violence once when she was gesturing for the gas and air and I misread the situation and handed her the cup of ice chips. They promptly flew through the air as she snarled through gritted teeth; "No motherf****r, THAT!" and stabbed a finger at the gas.

Myth 2

Some people (I'm guessing men here) still claim birth is actually painless.

My arse. It wasn't painless for me, let alone the Missus. She was in so much pain she squeezed my hand tight enough to dislocate my finger.

(I realise at this point I'm about to lose the mother's in the audience, but hear me out on this one)

 Now here's a thing - imagine you're in the birthing unit, your wife is in the throes of labour, you're surrounded by women all of whom have had children. There's a slight iciness when you speak or you're spoken to because, on some level you're being blamed for the pain your wife is in. Like (true story here) when your "mates" tell you to meet them in a certain pub before a Charlton match and you turn up wearing your Charlton top to discover its where all the Millwall fans are. Like that, except without flying barstools and a mounted police officer to rescue you. You are, in short, not particularly welcome. Your wife squeezes your hand and dislocates your finger. You yowl in pain. The midwife looks at you and asks you what's wrong and you find yourself - amongst the blood and screams - saying; "I think I've hurt my finger."

For once I chose the wise path and didn't say anything. Not because I'm brave but because I'm a coward. And regardless, I was watching her go through child birth. I had bigger worries.

Whilst we're talking about the pain, I'd like to dispel one other myth though.

Myth 3

Whilst the Wife was pregnant with the Boy a colleague showed me an article in a women's magazine. It was one of those classy, 60p magazines that have headlines on the front cover like "I Was Sold into Slavery By My Mum" or "My Dog Exploded Doing a Wee". I think it was Vogue. In this article it said that it was; "not unheard of for women to orgasm during child birth."

That is likely in the same way that being struck by an asteroid made of jam is likely.

Moving on...

The Boy was a water birth. The best way to imagine this if you're a prospective dad and a film fan is this; watch the scene in Jaws where Quint gets eaten by the shark. But play it backwards at low speed so it takes about three hours.

 The best thing about a water birth is that as a dad you get a role to play. Aside from giving encouragement (don't, in your exuberance, yell "GIVE IT SOME WELLY!!" or people will judge you), you get given a sieve. Yes. A sieve. This was handed to me with the words, "just in case something pops out" to which I rather naively thought; "I'm never going to fit the baby in this."

No. I was on poo duty. However, it is my pleasure to say that the Wife behaved impeccably. Even when she was completely off her tits on the gas and air. Because the thing is, it only works if you breath a bit of gas and then take it out of your mouth to breath some air. My Wife in her befuddled state couldn't understand what the mid-wives and I were saying when we were trying get it off her. I ended up putting my foot on her shoulder so I could pull it out of her mouth. When she wrestled it back off me (she held my head under the water)* she actually knocked out one of her teeth putting it back in her mouth. Since I'm quick on the uptake, I formed the conclusion she rather wanted it back. After that I didn't argue with her and when the mid-wives tried to get me to do it again I simply replied, in a quavering voice; "But I want my child to have a father!"

Myth 4 

Childbirth is awful right? Wrong.

After all this you may be wondering why you'd want to go through it. I'm not a particularly schmaltzy guy (partly because I don't know what it means) but it really is the most amazing thing in the world. And as a bloke you're pretty much a spectator, so you might as well enjoy it because you can bet your arse your other half won't. I got as involved as I could, checking on his progress, cutting the umbilical cord, dressing him for the first time. The only thing I didn't do was look at the placenta. I saw a picture of one once. It looked a bit like something that you used to see eating small towns in B movies.The Girl was born at home, the Wife only bothered waking me up when it was time to call the mid-wife and by the time the gas and air arrived it was too late for it to work. So the Wife gave birth to the Girl with no pain-medication at all. I have never been so proud of and amazed by anyone as I was that day.  I don't think any experience in life can compare with childbirth, and the moment you hold your kid for the first time. Even if they crap on you. Which they might. And then you get to watch them sleep which is one of the most beautiful experiences life can bestow on you,

Myth 5

You'll never sleep properly again.

Actually, that's not a myth. You won't.




* Its possible I made that up.

Boys Versus Girls

This evening when I got the Girl out of the bath (after the normal, ask, ask, ask nicely, threaten, shout extravaganza) she looked me square in the eye and in a no-nonsense tone said;

"Winkle."

What she's pointing out here, in her own individual way, is that boys and girls aren't the same. Now I know you know that (or some of this is going to be a BIG shock) but the Girl is only just getting her head around this. Up until recently she insisted she was a boy, to the point the eyes were poked and faces scratched should anyone be foolish to contradict her. She was quite determined and it lasted about eighteen months. That phase has now almost passed, and now she thinks she's a cat. Its all part of a learning journey for her, and bless her it must be confusing. The Boy still can't always be relied on to get things right

"I've got a dad. He's called mum."

But then thinking that I'm a woman is an ongoing trend with him. I've mentioned before about "worming" Bill (see Ess Eee Ex), or only ever comparing me with female characters in programmes. Even when he's saying something he imagines can't be misconstrued he doesn't quite get it right

"Does your friend Steve make you happy?"

"I er... well... Its not like we take windy walks together, Boy."

"You're weird, dad."

A friend of mine once said that boys are physically exhausting, and girls are mentally exhausting, which I agree with. I also agree with it the other way round. The Boy is equally good at manipulation, the Girl is equally rumbunctious. Since the gender divide is so blurred, and since the Girl has idol worshipped the Boy since she was born its natural that she feels left out of being a boy. To be honest, when they're toddlers the only differences are anatomical. The Girl was born when the Boy was about two, so for two years I'd got used to changing nappies on a boy. Changing nappies on a girl is a whole new experience. Apart from the fact that, as a man, I'm not sure what all the bits are, the cleaning process is considerably different.Which is why she'll say things like

"I've got a winkle on the inside!"

As I say, we've only recently come out of the other side of the Girl thinking she's a boy. However there's a psychological phenomenon known as an "extinction burst" (see, you're learning something!) which means a behaviour shows a dramatic increase shortly before it stops. This explains why we had the comment above tonight, and only yesterday this - which I will leave you on.

"Daddy, what are these things behind my winkle?"

"They're, uh, your nuts, Boy."

"Oh."

The Girl, at this point, looked between her legs, looked baffled and said

"I haven't got any nuts."

"No darling. Girls don't have nuts. Only boys."

"Do you have nuts?"

"Er. Yes."

"Can't I see-"

"NO!"

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.

Ess Eee Ex

I've not had the best day today. The Girl has been in a miserable mood all day, refusing to get out of the car when we got to my mum's house, yelling "No!" in response to everything that was said to her and generally giving me the stink eye the whole day. This came to a head when, whilst I was crouching down sweeping the fireplace, she put a cup of drink in my hood. I don't think she was being mean, I'm pretty sure she mistook me for a table. I didn't notice. I got juiced.

I could deal with all of that though. What was more of a struggle was the conversation with the Boy about girls (on to which I will come later). I'm not squeamish about sex, I should add, I just think its all a bit unhygienic and poorly thought through. I do, however, believe in telling the truth to my Kids and not hiding things from them. Which is why, one bath time when he was four, I had absolutely no idea how to answer

"Daddy... am I sexy?"

I defy you to find that in any parenting text. You see, that's why I'm here. Not to tell you how to deal with it. To tell you to expect it. Now naturally the immediate response is "No", however its not as straight forward as that. Aside from the fact that he doesn't actually know what sexy means, you don't want to hurt his feelings. I simply said "No to me Boy" and left it there. Quite frankly it doesn't do to even think about who would when he was four. So we'll move on from that.

Today's conversation went like this.

"I've got way more boyfriends than girlfriends."
"Er... what?"
"More of my friends are boys than girls. I've got about three girlfriends, but I've got a hundred boyfriends."

A hundred, at this point in his life, is the highest number possible.

"Right. You mean friends that are boys. That's normal, Boy. When I was your age most of my friends were boys."
"Yeah."

And here comes the mistake, dads. This is the point where I sought to amuse myself in the Boy's discomfort, and it backfired.

"But when I grew up I started to have more friends that were girls."
"What?? WHY???"
"Because I like girls. Er.. women. You'll learn when you get older. You'll want to kiss and cuddle them."
"WHAAAAT???? NO WAY! I'm only going to kiss and cuddle boys!"
"Ha ha ha... What?"
"I'm not kissing girls! I'm only going to kiss boys! Well... not kiss them. Maybe just cuddle."

I'm barely experienced enough at heterosexual sex to discuss it with the Kids (much, MUCH later in life) let alone homosexual sex. And yes, I know its not about sex as far as he's concerned. I'm not stupid. But when you have a conversation that goes like this

"Do you like Bill, daddy?"
"Yes. I do."
"Do you love him?"
"No. I like him."
"Do you want to worm him?"
"What does that mean???"

You can't help but worry a bit. And no, I never found out what "worm him" meant. After our conversation in the car I decided to switch subjects. Its best not to have him still talking about sex when he turns up at my mum's. She's still mentally dealing with a  misunderstanding from about a year ago.

"Next time I come to see you, nan, you can blow me."
"Yes, I... WHAT?"
"Like this."

And he blew her a kiss. Seriously thought she was going to have an aneurysm. He doesn't know what he's talking about, you say. He's just a boy, you say. Yeah. Ok. I'll leave the last word, as ever, to the Boy.

"I like Cbeebies. Daddy likes to see boobies!"

Manipulation

Here is the most expensive noise in the world;

"Daaaaaaaaaad. Pleeeeeeease?"

Oh the money, time and patience I've lost over that. I mean, the Kids are quite good at a lot of things; you should see the picture the Boy drew in my birthday card. It was awesome. He drew a knight with a sword. Admittedly the sword looked rather like a penis, but it was really rather good. However, there is no skill they possess in greater or more frustrating abundance than the ability to manipulate you. And its not just "pleasepleaseplease." Oh no, they're far more cunning than that. It ranges from the relatively subtle

"My dinner tank is full, but my sweetie tank is empty."

To an all out broadside

"Look, Boy - nanna and granddad are h-"

"WHERE'S MY PRESENT?"

And its not like they only do it when they want something. Noooooo. Sometimes they're do it to make you go completely out of your mind

"Dad, what's the name of the song I like?"

"Which one? How does it go?"

"Can't remember."

"What are the words?"

"Dunno."

"Are you on a wind up?"

"Yes."

Some time ago I was watching television with the Boy whilst he was carefully rooting around in his nose for something delicious to eat. He was taking his time, to the point I was expecting him to pull Lord Lucan out his hooter, but eventually he latched onto a winner, retrieved it and was about to put it in his mouth when I interceded with "Don't pick your nose and eat it, Boy." He responded by pointing at the television and looking surprised. I looked at the telly. It was showing the credits to a programme. I looked back at the Boy. He had a expression of triumphant satisfaction. The little sod pulled the oldest trick in the book on me at three and a half. And I fell for it. They can even undermine your confidence in making the most straightforward of statements

"Girl, are you being a bit contrary?"

"No!"

"Are you?"

"NO!"

"Ok, then. You're not."

(Boy) "Yes she is!"

The Girl has a ten step routine she goes through every time we go shopping with her. It goes like this

Phase 1: Walking around quite cheerfully.

Phase 2: Walking slowly, frowning.

Phase 3: Refusing to hold your hand any more.

Phase 4: "My feeeet hurt."

Phase 5: "I want to go hoooooooome..."

Phase 6: Sitting down in the aisle.

Phase 7: Ignoring you ignoring her

Phase 8: Lying spread-eagled across the aisle

Phase 9: Kicking people trying to get past her

Phase 10: Screaming like she's being kidnapped when you try to pick her up.

The trick is to get to the checkout before she hits phase six, otherwise you're buggered.

Even the Wife (who, let me tell you, is not one to mess about with) falls foul of this. Imagine you've made lunch, you place a drink in front of your son. He complains its water. You tell him it's not water. He disagrees. You point out it's squash, it's just a bit weak. He disagrees. You tell him to just bloody try it. He disagrees. Finally, you relent and stalk off to make a new drink, at which point he turns to your sister-in-law and says

"See? I told you it was water."

And yet, ridiculously, there are laws against murder. Its best to accept that you can't win all of them. The Boy refuses point blank to eat any food that is hotter than tepid. This has gone on for four years now to the point that we cook his dinner fifteen minutes before dinner time so it has congealed in the manner of his approval by the time it hits the table. At times in the past I've had fights with the Girl that have only ended because I pretended to cry.

I say "pretended"...

I should leave you with this. A couple of months ago I was sitting on the arm of the sofa trying to cajole the Boy into doing his homework about telling the time. It wasn't going well.

"Can you count the numbers on the clock face?"

"No."

"Go on..."

"My tummy hurts."

"No it doesn't. You're just saying that. Get on with it or you won't be able to play later."

His response was unorthodox, unsubtle, and yet remarkably effective.

*Sigh* "One... two..." *Sigh* "Three... four..." (Long pause) "Five... six... ATTACK!"

And he pushed me off the sofa.

Suggestions

Hello everyone. Hope the world is treating you well. I'm looking for some suggestions for topics on the blog, so if there's an aspect of family life or parenting you think I should cover, drop a comment below. You can remain anonymous, and I'll do my best to be funny. Toodles!