In The Sun

"Dad! Dad!"

"What, Boy?"

"The Girl's throwing food at me!"

"Girl, stop throwing food at the Boy."

"He's in a zoo! I feeding him."

"I'M NOT A MONKEY!"

I don't know why, but my Kids either want to kill each other, or get married. And it changes in the blink of an eye. Over dinner yesterday the pair of them squabbled non stop. Either they were throwing food, tipping drinks on each other or - at one point - knife throwing. It truly was, to steal from Douglas Adams, the Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul.

After dinner the Kids went upstairs and whilst I was fart-arsing around I heard a thud and then the Boy said

"Are you all right, Girl?"

"Fell over."

"Did you fall over the Hoover?"

"Yes." *Starts crying*

"Don't cry! I'll cheer you up, I'll fall over the Hoover too!" *THUD* "Ow!" *Starts crying*

Still, it worked. When I got upstairs the Girl was laughing like a drain. 

The sweetest thing was that the Boy was tired and grumpy, and kept having meltdowns. So much so I had to give him a pep talk.

"Why do you think you're so tired?"

"Can't remember."

"Because you got up at five in the morning for a wee and instead of going back to bed you sat on the landing trying to feed Boris a toy car."

"Oh yeah. I got him to lick it once!"

The next day Nanna and Grandad came over prompting the Boy to mumble "Hello" and the Girl to yell "NO!" whenever anyone spoke to her. Or looked at her. Or weren't dead. Fortunately this passed and she resolved to lie face down on the ground for ten minutes. Along came new niece, and then Cousin. As ever there was a short stand off between the Girl and the Cousin who stared at each other like two gunfighters. The Boy broke the ice, in his own particular style, by punching himself in the face and falling over. We sat in the sunshine, laughing and joking. The Boy made the Girls laugh by trying to feed his bum to the chickens. The Girl complimented Nanna on her nails

"They're pink. I don't like pink."

And then all three Kids jumped on our slide and tried to push each other to their deaths. I cooked dinner for them - for which the Cousin was so grateful shepicked the broccoli off her plate and contemptuously flung it across the table.

After this afternoon I'm the happiest I have been for two weeks. It was an afternoon spent in the warmth of the family and the sun, surrounded by birdsong and laughter. Goodbye Winter. Hello Spring.

Play

Today the Wife and I took the Kids over to the brother-in-law's house for lunch. It was a lovely afternoon, we all coo-ed and ahh-ed over the new niece again. The Boy, the Girl and their other Cousin played nicely, and then not so nicely and then actually quite violently. Particularly when they were all on the trampoline (or "bounce-a-lene" as the Cousin insists on calling it) and the Girl and the Cousin tried to strangle the Boy with his own t-shirt. He didn't seem to mind too much. Either that or he knows better than to argue with two psychotic females.

After dinner the three children decided to put on a concert for the assembled adults, so they ran around collecting every musical instrument they could find (which turns out, was a lot) and set them up in the front room. Everyone was given a ticket (a post-it note), and we were ordered (not told - ordered) into our seats. The Cousin handed me a cushion and told me, rather pointedly 

"You have to use this to shoot any bad guys."

Then she and the Boy organised several "guards" around the stage, as if they were expecting trouble. It was a bit the Rolling Stones at the Isle of White - if you replaced Hells Angels with toddlers. Meanwhile, as a joke, I started shooting the Cousin with the cushion she'd given me. This did not go down well, and after a second time she confiscated the cushion from me

"Not me! You have to shoot bad guys!"

and demonstrated this by shooting her Grandmother. Having performed this execution, the Kids then proceeded with the concert. Now I know two of them were my Kids, and I'm a proud father so I'm a bit biased, but it really was god-awful. The Boy was on keyboards, the Girl (aptly) on drums and the Cousin on vocals. VERY vocals. Mainly what she did was tell us all off. In a weird way it was a bit like a free-form jazz recital I once went to. Then the Boy got up and danced like a robot, the Cousin ran out the room with her arms in the air and the Girl fell over the drums. Finally, the Boy tried to play the Kings of Leon "Sex on Fire"

"I can't find sex on the keyboard. Ess.... Sssss... Sssss..."

And before he asked us which key was sex, we all got up and left. Frankly the whole thing was a debacle. I really should have drunk more.

Big Day

Since its Mothers Day, my Kids came home from school with an assortment of crap that they'd made to show the Wife how much they love her. Nothing says "I love you" like a picture the Boy has drawn of himself playing football in the park and a legend that read

Tomum


lovefrom


BoyandGirl

Not one for spaces, my lad. As well as this, the Girl had made a heart shaped card, with bits of pink paper and glitter stuck to it. This did two things. Firstly it instantly adhered to the passenger seat of the car on the way home. Secondly it prompted everyone I've seen in the past two days to say to me; "You've got glitter on you."  In the same way that when you put TCP on a cut you have to endure six weeks of people sniffing and saying "You cut yourself?" The only person not to say this was the Girl, who alternately said

"You a lady!"

and

"Oooh... you preeeetty..."

in a very creepy way.

On top of it being Mothers Day, its also the nine year anniversary of the first date I had with the Wife and I remember it like it was nine years ago. I turned up in my tiny Nissan Micra, which was sort of like turning up in a pink tu-tu. I knocked on the door to discover her wearing a tracksuit (something I hate only slightly less than flip-flops. Weirdly this was the only time she wore a tracksuit) and had to convince myself not to fake a violent bout of diarrhoea. Fortunately I stayed and we had a romantic drink in a pub called the Pig and Whistle. She talked. A lot. We went back to her place. We discovered that we hated each other's taste in music.It was lovely. And in case you're wondering, no. I didn't put out. As the Girl says; I'm a lady.*

I was talking to the Boy and Girl about this as I drove them over to Grandma's house so I could rid myself of them for a while. They've been a nightmare this weekend

"Boy, this is the seventh time I've told you to put your clothes on! You're driving me insane!!"

(Girl, looking very confused) "You're not in Spain."

(Boy) "Gran comes from Spain."

"Not 'in Spain' - 'insane!' Gordon Bennett!"

"Who's Gordon Ben-?"

"GET IN THE CAR!!!"

Once I'd calmed down I got to talking to them about how I'd never really been happy until I met the Wife, and that she'd turned my life around. 

"I didn't really like myself before I met your Mum."
"I don't like myself."
(Concerned) "Really, Boy? Why not?"
"My winkle gets in the way of things."

I didn't enquire what "things" it was getting in the way of. Mine has never got in the way of anything, except for the occasional cricket ball, or knee. As often happens when the Boy speaks, there was an awkward silence. And as also often happens, this was broken by the Girl who yelled, quite aggressively

"Make a rainbow, daddy! MAKE A RAINBOW!"
"He can't, you berk!"
"Don't call your sister a berk!"
"Why, what does it mean?"

For those of you unaware, "berk" is cockney rhyming slang. The full phrase being "Berkeley Hunt" (I'll allow you to draw your own conclusions as to what it refers to. Safe to say, I didn't explain.

Gotta go, but before I do I feel compelled to mention that a friend of mine is getting married. So, Miss L, soon to be Mrs H - congratulations. I look forward to the day that your first child is born so that I can laugh at you. You've read this blog, its not like I haven't warned you.

*Some, all or none of this is actually true.

Love Me Do

Bing Crosby once told a story of the day his son's hamster died. To help his son come to terms with the demise of his pet he helped him make a beautiful coffin from a shoebox, repleat with satin lining and handles. When it was finally finished they put the hamster into it and, as they were closing the lid the hamster suddenly stirred, stood up and sniffed about. Crosby and his son looked at each other for a long moment until his son said; "Let's bury it anyway."

Now, our Girl loves her cat. I mean, ignoring the time she pushed a spoon up its bum. Aside from that, she's always giving it cuddles and telling it, rather oddly, to "Calm down". Generally when its asleep. Its not like  Boris (our cat) is particularly stressed. Its so laid back its more like a door stop than a cat. Regardless, the Girl loves Boris. Which is why the Wife was somewhat taken aback by the following conversation in the car. 

"Where's Sidney cat? Did he die? Did he?"
"Yes. He died because he was very old."
"Is Boris cat old?"
"No, don't worry. He won't die for a lo-"
(Interrupting) "When he dies can we get a kitten?"

Kids are honest, you see. They say what they think. And it turns out they're heartless little bastards. Earlier this week Uncle Will and Auntie Sarah brought our new niece round in her pram. We were in the back garden and so, not getting a response from our front door, they went to our back garden gate where they encountered the Boy blowing bubbles on the back step. When they asked him to let them in he replied

"When I've finished blowing bubbles."

And very deliberately blew bubbles all over them for five minutes before we realised what was going on and rescued them. This level of "affection" isn't reserved for uncles and aunts. Tonight the Boy said

"I love mum the most."

And followed this up with

"Except for dad. I love him more."

Typically this alienated the pair of us. Part of me wanted to focus all my affection on the Girl which lasted right up until she insisted on dragging me up to the toilet and shoving her knickers in my face saying

"No poo!"

And then, very loudly

"SNIFF MY KNICKERS!"

We have very thin walls in our house. Next door don't get eye contact with us anymore.

Panic

I had to pick the Kids up from school today, which is always a pleasure. That's not sarcasm, I mean it. Its one of the few times my Kids are glad to see me. So after work, I popped round the mother-in-law's for a quick cup of coffee, a conversation about the diet the Wife and I are on and a compliment ("You're not that fat. You don't look that bad") that left quite a lot to be desired... Then off to pick up the Kids.

As ever the Boy came out without a qualm, with a handful of sweets but somehow still choosing to eat his coat. We had our usual conversation on the way to the car;

"What did you do at school today?"
"Can't remember."
"Try."
*Sigh* "Something about numbers. Can I watch things exploding on the computer when we get home?"
"Er... yeah!"

Then off for a bout of driving up and down the road trying to find somewhere to park near the Girl's school whilst dodging humongous 4x4's driven by tiny, tiny women who don't feel that they need to LOOK OUT OF THE BIG WINDOW IN THE FRONT OF THE CAR.

Sorry. That's not relevant, it just really pisses me off.

At the school the Boy rushed off the play on the climbing frame whilst I and every other parent ignored each other by staring at our phones as if we'd had an urgent text message - when in fact I suspect most of them, like me, were trying to get three stars on Angry Birds. I was only roused from my reverie when I heard the Girl yell "Mummy!" (honestly, every bloody time) and run out of the door and head butt me in the crotch.

Once I'd recovered, I turned to the Boy and said "Come one" to discover he wasn't on the climbing frame. I looked around once, then again and, quite frankly, the bottom fell out of my world. He wasn't anywhere in the playground. I checked in the tree house whilst the Girl, having grown bored of me already, tried to escape. Getting properly scared I dragged her out through the gates thinking he might have tried to walk back to the car, but nothing. Then I started seeing the headlines, the press conference where we were begging whoever had him to give him back unharmed. And then the Boy nudged me in the back of the knee and said

"Ha ha! I was hiding!"

I love my son so much I simply can't express it in words, so I expressed it by grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, shaking him and shouting incoherently at him. This continued as I dragged him towards the car.

"You scared the hell out of me! Don't you ever do that again!"
"I was just hiding!"
"You scared mummy, Boy."
"Daddy. I'm daddy. And I'll tell him off thank you."
"Yeah, shut up, Girl."
"Don't you tell her to shut up."
"Yes. Don't tell me to shut up. You scared mummy."
"Actually, shut up, Girl."

Having got him in the car I took a deep breath and calmed down. I apologised to him, started the car and as we pulled away asked the Girl what she'd done at school today.

"I killed Benjamin."

So I lit up the front tyres and left as quick as I could.

I'm Not Eating That

In an impressive feat of greed the Kids ate eleven yoghurts between them at dinner. Now, we don't normally stand for that level of corpulence, but the Wife bought them down the market for the princely sum of twenty five pence. And they would have gone green by tomorrow so it seemed like a good idea. No doubt it will return to haunt us at three in the morning when it all comes hurtling out of them like a jet of cream cheese but that's a risk I'm willing for the Wife to take. Apologies if you're eating by the way.

The Boy has been going through an anti-vegetable phase in the past week. This is a little unusual because in the past I have seen him root through the fridge and pilfer raw broccoli. For a while he was very health conscious and would regularly tell anyone who would listen (and many that wouldn't)

"I have to drink lots of water or my poo will come out all hard."

However last week he switched personalities and turned into one of those balloon-like, moon faced children you sometimes see on "documentaries" called "Ten Stone Todders" or something equally intelligent. On being presented his dinner he scowled at it and we had a conversation during which we somehow reversed our roles.

"I hate vegetables. What's that?"

"Aubergine."

"I don't like it."

"You haven't tried it."

" Why is it black?"

"To annoy you. Just bloody eat it!"

"Don't say bloody. I'll tell mum."

"No, don't!"

This happens on occasion. Today it was like this

"Boy, can you ask mummy to make me a cup of coffee?"

"Mum, dad would like a cup of coffee," (looks meaningfully at me) "PLEASE."

Anyway, a row ensued and to cut a frustratingly long story short, it ended with him sitting behind his bedroom door crying. With no trousers on. Although I have no idea why he took his trousers off. Maybe he was contemplating a dirty protest.

After this colossal row (during which the Girl took my distraction as an opportunity to give herself a mashed potato shampoo) the Boy came round again, and the next day ate everything on his plate. Strangely, it made me want to strangle him slightly more. However, this feeling subsided a short while later when the Girl made her Barbie dance on me whilst I was sitting down and the Wife casually said

"I think she just made Barbie give you a lap dance."

You don't live here. You don't know what it's like.

Proof God Hates Me

Right, here's what happened. This is all true, so you can effectively treat it as my statement if you want. Its all the Girl's fault.

On Saturday I took my two delightful and not-at-all combative  Kids to see my mum. We had a nice day, playing and chatting. If you ignore the fact that the Boy and Girl spent most of the time hitting each other over the head with various  toys and small bits of furniture. After one particularly vicious incident involving the Girl, the Boy's nuts and a foot, I had to give the Girl a proper telling off. As I opened my mouth she looked at me and threw a pre-emptive tantrum. So, I sat on the sofa and picked her up to calm her down. This appeared to have the opposite effect, 'cos she tried to pull my face off. So I put her down again. I learn quick, you see.

Today I went into work and was asked what happened to my face pretty much all day. Initially I told the truth but after a while I grew tired of saying

"My three year old Girl did it."

Because I started to think people were making a judgement about me. Especially when someone very seriously told me that domestic violence was never acceptable, even when perpetrated by toddlers. And then laughed in my face. So I started making things up and when people asked me what happened to my face I would reply  "Frag grenade" or, simply; "Otter."

Turns out this was a mistake when simultaneously two of my colleagues found the same news article. It said that there had been an attempted sex attack in my town and that the suspect would be recognisable because - and I quote; "the victim had scratched his face several times."

Now obviously it wasn't me. But as my colleague pointed out, I didn't have an alibi, I had scratches on my face and - damningly - had changed my story several times.

I'm going to jail. I blame the Girl.

What Goes Around...

Few things bring greater joy in life than a new born baby. Specifically a new born baby that you can give back when it smells. And for the already experienced parent of two kids this joy is only surpassed by the opportunity to pass on your hard earned knowledge. So imagine bliss when the Wife and I took the Boy and Girl to see their day old cousin yesterday. It started so well, with lots of cooing and ahhing and pinching of cheeks before we gleefully told the proud parents how they would NEVER SLEEP AGAIN and had fundamentally RUINED THEIR LIVES.

The Boy was industrial grade underwhelmed, giving his cousin a cursory glance and a brief smile before stating, with some authority

"I think fish are better than babies."

and deciding to engage of his favourite pastime of alternately punching me in the crotch and clutching his winkle. The Girl was more interested, cooing and stroking the baby's face. Every now and then she would point at her and say "baby" to ensure we hadn't missed the reason we were all gathered there. Then she ruined everything by insisting on showing off her gymnastics (or, in everyone else's language; jumping) and narrowly avoided kicking the baby out of her basket.

Eventually we decided to go, as the Boy was due to go for his swimming lesson. It was at this point that the Kids started frothing at the mouth, went feral and disgraced themselves. The Boy immediately announced

"I NEED A POO!"

and locked himself in the toilet. Much pounding on the door and yelling "Hurry up for fu- er... crying out loud" ensued. The Girl tried to open the door by smashing her face against it and finally the Boy threw the door open in disgust. He stood frowning crossly with his hands on his hips, trousers round his ankles and proceeded to publicly and graphically wipe his bum in front of all of us, saying

"I need a clean bum. I'm going swimming. I don't want poo in the pool."

As the Girl attempted to climb up my trousers like the north face of the Eiger the Wife and I attempted to shout the Boy into his shoes. This woke up the baby who, for the first time since we were there, started crying. The Girl, who we had almost ushered out of the door insisted this was a spectator sport, and did an about-face. The Boy threw his shoes in the air in disgust and told us it wasn't fair the Girl got to watch a crying baby and that putting on shoes was "just stupid." He went on to say

"I want to watch almost naked animals."

Which alarmed everyone until he explained it was a cartoon on telly, and not some weird new peccadillo of his. Finally we managed to get the Kids out of the door and as I turned to congratulate my brother-in-law I noted his expression. It was the sort of expression you see in history books. Generally on the faces of new recruits arriving on the Western Front.

An hour of panicked rushing about later I found myself sitting with the Girl on my lap next to the swimming pool where the Boy was having his lesson. I say having a lesson, what he was essentially doing was water-boarding himself. The Girl sat on my lap trying to convince me to steal the towel of a small girl sitting nearby. A friend sitting next to me commented that the Girl was being well behaved and had turned a corner. I was in a bit of a bad mood, and I think I greeted this statement by giving our her the sort of look I'd give if she'd said; "Didn't Hitler have nice eyes?" I was particularly in a bad mood because I don't like being rushed, and the Boy had made me shout him back out of his shoes on arrival. And then shout him out of his clothes. And then into his swim suit. Plus, as ever the pool - which is the size of a postage stamp - was rammed with screaming, dripping wet children and their dim-witted, equally-wet-in-a-different-way parents. All of them bumbling about like lobotomised sheep, oblivious to people trying to get past as they either stared at their phones or shouted at their kids. All this in a room kept inexplicably at the temperature of Fukushima in the Spring. As I sat there, giving serious consideration to an AXE RAMPAGE and ever-so-slightly rocking back and forth like an obsessive compulsive, a memory came to me of a day five years before.

It had been three days after the Boy had been born and the Wife and I, exhausted having not slept since he'd been born, were paid a visit by the Wife's step sister and her ten month old son. For about an hour we sat, rapt in horrified attention as the little boy attempted to total our flat whilst his mum flailed about after him, trying to stop him from eating the soil from the pot plants or head-butting the doors. When she left we both looked at each other and said "What have we done??" before having brief but unpleasant emotional breakdowns. And that, essentially, was what we had inflicted on my brother-in-law and his wife.

So in future I shall think more carefully about handing out parenting advice. My new niece slept peacefully almost the whole time we were there, and was impeccably behaved. Ok, she was bombed out of her mind on pethidine, but we're not allowed to do that to the Kids any more. The doctor told us off last time. My Kids descended into madness the moment we asked them to put their shoes on. I haven't raised my Kids, I've warped them. As adequately proved when the Boy asked;

"When auntie had the baby, did she crack open like an egg? And did uncle have to glue her back together?"

Whilst, in the background, with a lack of irony that only a child or civil servant could muster yelled at the top of her voice

"DAD!! I LOVE WHISPERING!"

And today, when I asked her what she'd done at school she said

"Bogie throwing!"

Which isn't even on their curriculum!

For Eleanor

Bed

Last week we bought the Boy a new bed. It's a very cool bed, sort of like a bunk bed but without the bottom bunk. Needless to say, if I thought it would take my weight I would have swapped with him. The Girl was very jealous. This presented us with a series of dilemmas.

First of all, if you've got two kids, you won't get away with buying one of them something new. The Girl reminded us of this at VERY high volume once we'd set the new bed up. She decided she wanted a new bed. A football bed to be precise. And so, to placate her I drew a football and stuck it to the side of her bed. Bizarrely this seems to have worked. After a brief attempt to throttle Boris the cat she trotted merrily off and went to sleep without a complaint.

Problem number two was that the Boy, whilst more than able to climb the ladder into his bed, couldn't get back down. This led to me being woken at three AM to rescue him because he needed a wee. The Boy appears to have the prostate of an eighty year old, he nips to the loo twice per night on average. I'm nearly forty and I don't need to do that.

I explained to him the next day that it might take a little time for him to grow into the bed so that he's comfortable going up and down the ladder. He mused on this for a moment and then asked the two questions he thought most pertinent.

"Will my bum get bigger when I'm older?"

And, after I confirmed this.

"Does that mean my poo will be even bigger?"

He certainly puts the 'logical' into 'scathalogical'. Finally, tonight I heard him crying after I put him to bed and on entering his room, found him quite inconsolable. Earlier this evening I'd discovered the Girl in a similar condition and established the cause of her distress was that;

"Boris meowed."

So I was expecting a similarly odd rationale for the Boy's tears. I was not disappointed.

"I miss my old bed. It was my friend."

This, I feel, explains a lot. About eighteen months ago the Boy found me wiping tears from my eyes as I chopped onions.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because I'm chopping onions."

"Oh. They're not your friends. They're just onions."

So now I find myself in the weird position of worrying that the Boy's new bed befriends him. Christ, what if it bullies him? The therapy will cost a fortune.

In Other News

Theory: The Girl is not ready to have the rail taken off the side of her bed.

Evidence: Loud crash and crying from upstairs.

Conclusion: Terrible parent.

"Dad, I've got something to tell you..."

I can't say I went on many bad dates during my single years. This is mainly because I didn't go on many dates on account of my looks and my personality. My personality you'll already have a handle on if you've read my previous posts. Sorry about that. As for my looks, imagine Chewbacca with a bad case of radiation poisoning and you'll have a good idea.

So while I didn't go on many bad dates, the ratio was still pretty high. None worse than when I was at university and finally managed to bag a date with the girl who - on three separate occasions - had caused me to walk blissfully into a lamp post. The point it went wrong was over dinner in an Italian restaurant in the Elephant and Castle when she said;

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure. Anything."

"How long have you known you were gay?"

This was not the worst bit. This was simply the preamble to the worst bit. The worst bit was;

"Why did you agree to go on a date with me if you thought I was gay?"

"We're on a date?"

Interestingly, this was not the first time someone thought I was gay. Around about the time I was eighteen, whilst I was slumped in front of the telly one afternoon, my Dad appeared in the doorway. Without ever getting eye contact we had the following conversation;

"Alright, Boy?"

"Meh." (I was, remember, eighteen)

"So... You're not gay are you?"

"Whu-? Er... No."

"Ok."

And he left. I never found out exactly what the cause of this conversation was, funnily enough it didn't come up on his death bed. I do wonder what would have happened if I'd said yes - although I suspect it would have elicited a similar response to if I'd said; "Dad, I'm a serial killer." Or; "Dad, I support Chelsea."

I remembered this the other day when a friend and I discussed how we would feel if our children turned out to be gay. The honest answer is that I wouldn't know unless it happened. In some ways it would be a relief. At least with the Boy. It would avoid the question "Dad, what do you know about girls?" to which the only true answer would be "Nothing." And since I don't have the ability to stop speaking at the right moment, I would probably follow this up with; "I'm still not sure what all the bits do." This, I fear, is likely to estrange my son from me. Ironically, today the Boy said;

"Boys can't marry boys, can they?"

And I found myself fumbling my way through an explanation of civil partnerships. Bafflement ensued and I was only saved when the Girl shouted something that sounded like "Arse soup!" at the top of her voice.

And would it be different if the Girl was gay? Probably not. Difficult to say. I doubt she will be, she doesn't like other girls. In fact, whenever she goes to gymnastics she starts shouting

"I don't LIKE that little girl!"

Which is embarrassing. Not as bad as when she does it to new born babies though as she did on holiday last year as people walked past us, pushing prams.

"I don't LIKE that baby! I don't like its face! GO AWAY BABY!"

The fact is, if either of my children turn out to be gay I'll be as supportive as I can be. However, if they decide to support Chelsea they can piss off.

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.