Growing

To be honest, the title of this blog isn't strictly accurate any more. When I first started writing about the Kids the Boy had just started talking and the Girl wasn't doing any much other than puking in my shoes. These days they're growing up fast.. Just the other day the Girl ran into the kitchen and told her mum, quite aggressively

"I'm going through the menopause!"

So these days talking with them is less like a verbal boxing match and more like a pincer movement.

"Okay Kids, who can name an animal other than a horse that people can ride?"

"A horse!"

"No, Girl. Other than a horse. A different animal."

"Er... a camel?"

"Good one, Boy. Any others?"

"A horse?"

"No, Boy. We said other than a horse."

"A camel."

"We've said camel, Girl."

"A flower?"

"Flower's aren't animals."

"A car!"

"Nor are cars."

"Oh."

"A horse!"

I like to think that they're deliberately winding me up. Mainly because the alternative is that they're idiots.

Still, every day they become more like their parents (I'm not saying we're idiots. I am. The Wife married me, so she's got her moments, but we're not... never mind.) Much like myself the Boy wants to crack jokes the whole time, and isn't getting any better.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"I don't know."

"Well... he might have been on fire."

"Whu-?"

And the Girl likes telling people off. Which she doesn't get from me...

"Oh god, it stinks in here! Did you do a blow off?"

"Don't say that, Daddy!"

"What?"

"Blow off!"

"You don't want me to say blow off?"

"DON'T!"

"But you said blow off!"

"I DIDN'T! STOP SAYING BLOW OFF!"

"Dad, you better stop saying blow off. She's gone a funny colour."


Meanwhile I'm still failing to grow up. Last week the Wife asked me to get a bin bag with "some toys we've been given" in them. When the Boy opened the bag it contained two Pallitoy original Star Wars action figure vehicles (look, just suck it up. I'm a geek dad. Star Wars features heavily here). One was a Scout Walker complete with the ORIGINAL BOX. The other one was an AT-AT walker. Lets just pause over the majesty of that announcement....

...

No? Right - a story. On Christmas day 1982 I ran downstairs at five in the morning and ran into my living room because I was fully expecting an AT-AT walker that year. I'd been asking for one since I'd first seen The Empire Strikes Back. When I got into the living room I saw a sheet draped over something, and the sheet had a tag with my name on it and when I drew it back it was a f**king BMX.

"We thought you needed to get out more."

My Mum said. My Dad was a bit more blunt.

"You look like a f**king vampire, Boy. Get some sunlight."

I'm not so petty that I've been annoyed about that for the past twenty-one years. Actually, screw it. I'm way petty enough and I am still angry. Or was, until I got an AT-AT walker the other day. It fixed twenty-one years of disappointment for me and I was overjoyed to play with it with the Boy right up until the Girl walked in and yelled;

"ROBOT DOG!"

And basically ruined it for me.

And yet although the Boy has long gangly legs now, and doesn't like cuddles quite as much as he used to. Although the Girl doesn't throw as many tantrums, and has grown from a beautiful toddler to a beautiful little girl - they're little kids. The Girl has been ill again today, and is curled up on the sofa next to me, clutching her toy horse with the Cat curled up next to her. Its a like an advert for better living in my house right now. Except for the smell of sick.






Two dedications today - apologies, but they're important in my world.

Welcome to the world Christopher - it was nice to meet you today.

Get well soon Maria.

That is all. Go and watch The Voice. Or whatever.

Man Up

A friend of mine recently had his first child. In many ways talking to him before his son was born reminded me of my own blissful ignorance before the Boy was born. He was biblically unprepared for the tornado of shit that was about to enter his life. Seriously the man was an omni-shambles.

But the birth of a child changes a man. After a pre-eclampsia scare his wife was whipped into hospital and  after a relatively torrid time their son was born.Two weeks later he returned from paternity leave, bleary eyed and shattered and a completely different man.Later on that day he sent out an email detailing in polite understatement the hell he and his wife had been through, and attached a picture of his son. Now remember, before his son was born he didn't have a clue. In the two weeks that intervened he'd dealt with a traumatic birth, the fact that his son was born with a cleft palate and had to be fed through a tube, being shown by the nurses how to perform CPR on a baby - this on top of the shock of dealing with a new born infant - clothing, feeding, nursing, soothing and everything else. 

The most amazing thing was not the transformation though. The most amazing thing was that he had two pictures of his son. One in which he was asleep, and where the cleft palate didn't show. The other where the boy was looking straight into the camera, and the cleft palate was very clear. My friend decided to send out the second one. Because, he said, he has beautiful eyes.

Isn't that just the best thing ever?

Silky Skills

"Dad, can we play football?"
"Sure."
"I haven't got any football boots. I'll pretend my trainers are football boots."
"I WANT FOOTBALL BOOTS!"
"He's just pretending he has football boots, Girl. "
"I WANT PRETEND FOOTBALL BOOTS!"
"Er... Okay. How about these pretend football boots?"
"THEY'RE MY TRAINERS!!"
"Yes... But you can pretend they're tr-"
"NOOO!!!!"
"Dad, quick, run away!"

*In the garden*

"Right, so kick the ball to me."
"Where's the pitch?"
"What? Well, the garden."
"No, first we need to build a pitch."
"This isn't 'Field of Dreams,' Boy."
"There aren't any goals."
"We're just going to have a kick-a-bout."
*blank look*
"Ok. How about we use the poles between the trellis as a goal?"
"Where's the other goal?"
"We only need one goal."
"But then I won't have anywhere to score a goal."
"We'll both use this goal."
*blank look*
"We're just going to practice kicking the ball."
*blank look*
"I can already kick the ball. Watch."
"No do- Oh, for Christ's sake. Hang on, I'll get it back."

*Later*

"Right. The reason it went over there is because you're kicking the ball with your toe. If you kick with the side of your foot it'll go where you want it. Look, I'll kick it to you."

*Kick*

"It hit the fence."
"Yes, I know that. The ground's uneven. I show you again. Watch."

*Kick*

"Were you trying to hit the fence this time?"
"No. I'll give it another go. We really need to flatten the lawn."
"I'll stand by the fence."
"No, look it'll work this time."

*Kick*

"Crap! Sorry, Boy! Are you okay?"
"That was my FACE!"
"Okay, okay... Look, why don't you try score a goal. I'll stand by the trellis posts and you can kick the ball at me."
"Okay. I'll take a run up."
"Fine.... Er, that'll... Boy, not from the other end of the garden!"

*Run*Kick*Miss*

*Sigh* "Get up, Boy. Try again with a shorter run up."
"Ok."

*Kick*

"How have you done that twice? I'll get it back again."

*Later*

"Oh hello, Girl. Mowing the lawn? That's our goal. Could you mow the lawn over th-"
"No!"
"Well we we're playing foo-"
"No!"
"Kick her in the head, dad!"

*Later - after removing Girl and conceding several goals*

"Ok, your turn to be goalie, Boy. Watch this!"

*Kick*

"You missed."
"Yes, well... Practice makes perfect. How about this one?"

*Kick*

"Ha ha, you're rubbish! Look!"

*Picks up sponge, puts sponge between posts*

"Sponge goalie! Bet you can't beat him!"
"Right!"

*Kick*

"Ha ha ha ha! You're rubbish! You couldn't beat sponge goalie! Where are you going?"
"Inside. Mum's calling me."
"I can't hear her."

The Biz vs The Nuge*

"The trouble with being vegetarian is that you can only eat vegetables."

The Wife rather astutely noted this afternoon. I should point out that she was joking. But the Boy gave her a long, hard look as if to say;

"You're onto something there, mum."

I should also add that we're not vegetarians. Well, we are sort of. Right up until someone offers to cook a Sunday roast. The Boy's musing may have been in part due to his lunch at his my Ma's today. Ma is a creature of habit and has given them. Chicken for dinner since the Boy was weaned. But in the spirit of change today she cooked lamb kebabs for them. As always happens when we cook the Kids something new there was a frisson of anticipation as they approached the table and peered at their plates. Normally you get

"What's that?"

Not sneering, more enquiring. How interesting. Something on my plate I hadn't expected. I shall enquire what it is, and if the answer isn't "chocolate" I shall reject it out of hand, throw myself on the floor and cry until I have snot in my hair.

Bizarrely, this didn't occur. Instead this did.

"Ooh! Look, Girl! Meat lollies!"

"Lollies? I LOVE LOLLIES!"

And thus they both ate not just the kebabs, but all of their dinner. Admittedly the Boy insisted eating his peas with the kebab stick which was like watching glaciation, but still.

They've both been quite philosophical over the weekend. Yesterday we took the Kids to a park so they could meet the kids of the Wife's friends (you might want to read that sentence a couple more times. I've written it twelve different ways and still can't get it to make sense...) This must have been a bit weird for the Wife, seeing all those people you used to sit outside the off-license (for my American chums - Liquor Store) smoking Silk Cut and trying not to go green. And now all with kids, or bumps. When this has happened to me it always makes me feel even more estranged from my old friends. Instead of talking about old times I find myself talking solely about my Kids. The only other time I do this is with total strangers at the school gates. I was thinking about this in the car on the way down when the Boy shook me from my reverie.

"Why do we wear seatbelts?"

Before either of us could answer the Girl jumped with her pearls of wisdom.

"You need to wear a seatbelt if; you're sitting down, or standing up, or of it's raining, or if it's sunny, or if you've blown off..."

She does do some powerful farts, so she's talking sense.

This is all part of the Girl's maternal instinct. She's forever telling the Cat that "It's all right. Don't worry." Which rather misses the point that it's her, and more precisely what she did to him during the "spoon incident" that's making him edgy. Today she was playing with her baby doll which she's inspiringly called "baby" and giving it/her/him cuddles and kisses. Then she threw it on the floor and stamped on its head. Right up until the premeditated murder it was a scene of maternal bliss. Oh, and then she did a magic trick and made herself disappear. Here's a photo to prove it.

If you look carefully you can just about see her

* This has nothing to do with the blog, I've just been listening to Beastie Boys recently.

Gene Genie

Nothing reminds me why my Kids are the way they are than a trip to my mother's house, and today was no different. A case in point

"Got any holidays planned?"

"Yeah, we're going to Legoland."

"Oh. With the Kids?"

"No mum, with a serial killer."

And then I get that look that tells me I'm being rude, and that it wasn't a stupid question. Certainly no more stupid than

"What does your friend Paul do for a living?"

"He's a wind surfing instructor."

"Can he wind surf?"

Now, I shouldn't be telling you this because my Ma reads this blog and the next time I go over to her house (claiming to want to see her but really because she's just bought and iPad) she'll chase me round the kitchen with a broom handle. But the fact of it is that she, as well as all the sundry other members of our family, are to blame for the way my Kids are. Except me. I'm blameless.

Not that my Ma is stupid, far from it. She's er... not sixty anymore... and yet she can use predictive text, she's on Facebook, she's just bought and iPad (I know I've mentioned that, but I'm a bit fixated) and although she says "uploading" when she means "downloading" (which DRIVES ME INSANE) she's very modern and with it. More than me. I use phrases like "with it." Plus, despite coming across as a bit timid, she's rather brave. After all, she moved to the UK when it still had an empire and most people in this country thought bananas were exotic. That doesn't stop her from being crazier than a shit  house rat. Although she can text rather well, this is the kind of text message I get from her

Am I texting in a Spanish accent?

She can be a bit overly concerned by her accent, having been regularly asked if she's German, Portugese, Nigerian (?), French, and - my favourite - Irish. This was by an Irish woman. 

"Ah, you're from Ireland! What part of Ireland are you from, love?"

"Barcelona."

Classic.

But I kind of understand. After all, I am not called David because of her accent. I should preface this story with the fact that the Spanish pronounce "V" the way English speakers pronounce "B". So the story goes she was in the ambulance in labour with me when the paramedic decided to strike up a conversation.

"So have you got a name for the baby?"

"If its a girl, I'll call her Maria. If its a boy I'll call him Dabid."

"Dabid?"

"No... Dabid."

"Is that Spanish?"

"No. Dabid. DA-BID. Like Dabe."

"Dabe?"

"I've changed my mind. I'll call him Boy."

And my Ma is just the tip of the iceberg. The Kid's maternal Grandmother lists "collecting bricks" amongst her hobbies.

So you see, the Kids were screwed from the start. This is why today, when asked who her favourite man was the Girl said

"Boy."

"Oh. Well who's your favourite Daddy?"

"Auntie Jason."

And the Boy steals my iPod and takes videos like this

And to all you neigh sayers (excluding horses, who can't help it) the Boy did take this video. If I'm lying you can keep him. In fact, you can keep him if I'm telling the truth. He keeps blowing up the cat.

RARRR!

In an act of remembrance for Jesus dying on the cross for our sins, we took the Kids over to Nanna and Grandad's and filled them up with chocolate. This, we felt, is what he would have wanted - two kids jacked off their tits on E numbers.

Both of them had been grouchy, partly due to the swathes of vomit that they had produced. Only the night before the Boy had once again hosed three walls and the entire floor with sick. This time we heard the flurry of sheets being thrown back and I made it into his room in time to narrowly avoid being hit in the face.

This had been after an abortive attempt to go out to the coast. We'd managed to secure the Girl's approval only after convincing her we would see some wild horses. Frustratingly, half way there the clutch discombobulated, leaving me in the awkward position of having the limp the car to the garage. Whilst the Girl took this mechanical failure quite personally (and started telling the car off) the Boy assisted me by giving me a running reminder that the car was broken. We did find a garage, however it was part of a showroom of VERY expensive cars.

"Dad, you should buy a new car. Get that one."

He said, and pointed at a Porsche Carrera 4. My refusal was met with with disdain.

So the next morning my feeble attempt to entertain them by shaving failed to impress.

"Are you going to cut yourself?"

"No."

"Cut yourself! Do it!"

"Thanks for the support, Girl."

"Dad, I'm bored."

"Well, Boy - I've put aftershave on. Does it smell nice?"

"It smells of beet root."

"Beet root? Do you think it smells of beet root, Girl."

"No."

"Thank you."

"It smells of ladders."

I'm not sure she was paying me a compliment. It was like when I was cleaning the kitchen windows a few summers ago and a six year old boy yelled; "Nice tits!" at me.

Still, once we got to Nanna and Grandad's they cheered up. Especially when Nanna and Auntie Sarah took them on an Easter egg hunt. Auntie Sarah, being new to the parenting lark handed the Boy a plastic bag to collect eggs in. Fortunately, the Boy is very sensible and so pointed out the danger of this by putting the bag over his head and saying "I can't breathe."

We're all very proud of him.

Later on as the Kids were chewing on the curtains and making noises like a jet engine starting up I got to hold New Baby Niece for a while, which was very lovely.

"She really reminds me of the Girl. I bet she'll turn out just like her."

Saying this turned out to be an error. Auntie Sarah went white.

"I'm not sure I could deal with that."

I sympathise. I'm not sure I can deal with it. The Wife tried to diffuse the situation by showing off the Girl's new counting skills.

"Can you count to ten?"

*Nodding* "Ten..."

"No... Count to ten."

"Six?"

Shouting Soup

About a month ago we bought the Boy a high sleeper bed which is essentially the top part of a bunk bed with a desk underneath. As with all things we've bought for the Kids, like drum kits and foam swords, this hasn't been without repercussions. Such as being woken up at three in the morning by the Boy plaintively yelling

"Help! I need a wee and I can't get down!"

Or when he fell asleep in the car and I had to try to throw him into a bed level with the top of my head.

However, Kids have a way of finding new and interesting ways of making you regret what seemed like a good idea at the time. And so it was last night that I found myself walking into his bedroom at ten at night because he was calling me. As I walked over to the side of his bed I noticed the unmistakeable smell of vomit.

Crap.

"Have you been sick, Boy?"

"Yes."

He said, cheerfully. The Boy has always been an enthusiastic vomiter.

"Ah. Were you sick on your bed?"

"No."

This was when I realised my feet were wet. On switching on the light I discovered exactly what happens when a small boy vomits from a height of six foot onto a wooden floor. It was EVERYWHERE. It covered almost his entire bedroom floor, his bookshelf, desk, toys, the chest of drawers on the other side of the room and, most importantly, me.

"Wow! Look at all that sick, dad! I must be empty!"

Even when I'm on the other side of the house I still get covered in sick.

It took me an hour and a half to clean up. I even had to shower his toys. And all the time I was doing this the Boy regaled me with his pearls of wisdom

"When I was at Grandma's I felt sick but I wasn't sick but then I came home and went to bed and I was sick."

"Yeah, I know."

"Yeah. Cos there's some on your shoulder."

Eventually it all got cleared up, the Boy lay down, said goodnight and started snoring. I have to hand it to him, he always deals with these things really well.

When I got home from work today I found the Girl going a light shade of green and sure enough she blew her groceries all over me within the hour. Seriously, it's ALWAYS me. Like the Boy the Girl is a real solder when she's ill, and the second time she was sick she cleared her throat, had a drink of water and asked me why I didn't wear toenail varnish.

Bless 'em!

A Long Time Ago, In a Galaxy Far, Far Away

When I was about five years old my dad took me to see Star Wars and from that moment on I was just crazy about science-fiction. Admittedly this made me about as attractive as chlamydia during my teens (compounded by having braces, wearing NHS spectacles and then - just because I fancied really screwing up my chances with girls - I became a goth). But it also made me unswervingly optimistic that every new technological advance would improve the world beyond all measure. As I've got older and more jaded I've come to believe that technology largely revolves around filling the following needs;

1. The need to find new and interesting ways to kill each other
2. The need to find quicker ways of accessing hardcore pornography

And thus, the internet was born. Lets face it, for your average 15 year old boy the internet is the equivalent of that burnt out car on the waste land near your house where someone dumped their collection of Swedish pornography. I think this is a bit of a sad thing, partly because of the fun I had stashing porn mags in every drawer in every room of my mate's house. His mum grounded him for about a year. And she sent him to counselling. It was brilliant.

But I mainly think its sad because when I was a Boy, the future seemed so exciting. Now, when I look at my mobile phone, or ipod, or laptop or any other the other gadgets around my house it makes me think how ordinary the future has become. The Boy certainly doesn't have the same amazement with technology as me. When I was a kid colour telly seemed like witchcraft. When I recently got a Google Android phone I ran over to him practically frothing at the mouth yelling;

"Look Boy! I've got the telly ON MY PHONE!!"

*Yawn* "So?"

Over the weekend I tried to introduce the "wow" factor to him by downloading a lightsabre app on my phone. He had great fun swinging it around and I have to say it did work for a couple of minutes right up until he accidentally flung it across the room and hit the Girl in the head. It turned out he was less impressed with the app and more impressed by the impact the phone had made on his sister. The Girl quite liked it. She kept chopping her nan's head off with it. I took it off her in the end because she wasn't playing with it properly. She kept saying

"Shoot! Shoot!"

And she got upset when I shouted in her face that it wasn't a bloody gun it was a bloody lightsabre.

"You're using it wrong! Stop saying shoot! It goes like this; wommmm... wommmm."

"Dad, why are you making the noise? It already makes the noise."

"Shut up, Boy."

Quite frankly, they ruined it for me.

Maybe I feel sad because the Kids ability to use modern technology makes me feel old. I'm forever finding Boy playing with my ipod, or on Backyard Monsters on the Wife's Facebook profile (and frankly, the only reason she hasn't been fraped is because he can't spell yet). Neither of my Kids understand the concept that television isn't all on demand. Television! On demand! I mean, when I was a kid that was second on the wish list, after being able to shoot lightning out of your hands.

"Why can't I watch Mike the Knight?"

"It's not on."

"Make it come on!"

"I can't. When I was a kid..."

And they give you that look that says they're going to humour you. I love being humoured by small children, it really makes me feel like I'm at the top of the evolutionary tree. Even when I do something as simple as switching on the telly the Boy will watch me staring blankly at the eight thousand buttons on the remote control before sighing and saying

"Dad, give me the remote.I haven't got all day."

HE'S. FIVE. YEARS. OLD.

My dad used to joke that he had to get me to programme the video for him. Now we don't even have a video any more. Partly because they don't make them any more, and partly because the Boy kept posting jam sandwiches into ours.