Dumb and Dumbererer

Earlier today I was going through my normal routine of preparing the Kids dinner whilst simultaneously teaching the Boy to write and fending off the Girl whilst she attacked me with a toy sword. This type of situation has become deeply ingrained my daily routine, meaning that should I ever be jumped by ninjas in the kitchen I feel I could adequately pacify them and teach them how to do joined up writing. It's a niche skill, I grant you, but it's going on the CV nonetheless.

To add to the never-ending fun-filled, aneurysm-fest that is my early evening, whilst I was doing this the telephone rang. My land line almost never rings, so I ran to the receiver scattering pasta, pencils and children in my wake. When I answered it I heard the phrase that turns my blood to steam.

"Hello, are you the homeowner?"

Now, I've done all those cold call tricks you've read about in the past. I've convinced them to send someone out to my second floor flat to measure up for a conservatory, I've pretended I was at a crime scene, pretended to be dead... all of that. For a while I took to answering the phone with the words "Surveillance Unit" but that just freaked my Mum out. And yes, I've joined the Telephone Preference Service, but they still get through. I reserve a particular hatred for cold calling. I know they're just trying to earn a living, but so are arms dealers and whaling fleets. Plus, I did cold calling for two whole days in my late teens. I worked out that by the time I quit I'd made 170 phone calls and 96 of those had led to my heritage being questioned. By the end of it, I was pretty much agreeing with the rather pointed comments of the poor sods I was calling. In fact it was the only job I've ever had where the Manager suggested I should amphetamines so I would speak faster and get through more calls (true story, folks). So, there you go - I'm allowed to hate them.

Sadly, I'm rather too polite for my own good. I often apologise when people tread on my feet, so I couldn't interrupt as the caller went through the first part of their script.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to sell you anything. We were wondering..."

It was at this point I had a microcosm and handed the phone to the Boy.

"It's for you."

He looked puzzled for a moment but took the receiver and put it to his ear.

"Hello... Yes... Yes..." *Pause* "I've got a wet sock because the Girl dropped her cup on the floor and I trod in it and fell on my bum. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.... I NEED A POO!"

He ran up the stairs, shoving the phone at me as he went past. Funnily enough, there was no one on the other end.

Much as I moan about the Kids, I do love them. Especially when they get rid of cold callers. Even when they throw tantrums they can be quite adorable.

"Dad, the Girl says this is her book, but it's my book."

*Sigh* "Right."

"It's NOT! It's my book!"

"It's not her book! She's lying!"

"I am NOT! I'm SITTING!"

The Boy thought this was hilarious. Right up until the Girl felled him with an uppercut. She doesn't do being laughed at.

Yes, for all the frustrations, my Kids are lovely. My Kids. Other people's Kids, now they're a pain in the arse.

Two doors down there are a family with two young boys. The combined brain power of these two boys is approximately the same as a boiled egg. One of them, the smaller one, spends all day stopping traffic by cycling out into the road in front of cars, punctuating the air with the screaming of tyres and shouting of words that rhyme with "truck" and "schmit". The other one likes to cycle up and down driveways. My driveway. Often when my car is on it. His other hobby is gawping. A few weeks back the Wife and I were loading up the boot of the car to go camping, and the mindless little oaf not only stared at us like the kid in the Deliverance, he actually stood at the boot of the car gawping into it. After a while, negotiating around the bovine-faced, gormless fruit of someone else's loins wears a bit thin. I was quite proud it took more than thirty seconds to move from "Excuse me" to "EXCUSE me" to "Will you just piss off!"

Let me make this clear, these children don't have special educational needs, they're just plain dumb. A couple of nights ago I could hear them playing a game in their back garden. I'm not sure what the rules were, but it involved a lot of counting, over and over, at very high volume.

"One, two, three, four, six, seven. One, two, three, four, six, seven."

I managed ten minutes whilst watering the garden before I started yelling;

"FIVE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, FIVE!"

And who gets the reputation for being weird? Me. That's who.

I haven't always been this patient and forgiving. Shortly after my father died I remember taking my Ma shopping. As we were walking down the stairs from the car park a rotund creature with a ruddy complexion walked into me (I say he walked into me, seeing him coming I tried to get out of his way and somehow he still managed to get me). He looked up at me with the sort of expression you might expect see on a snail, and walked straight into me again. And so I regaled him with;

"Fat and stupid's no way to go through life, kid."

This appeared to have no affect on his demeanour, which was pretty much identical to a blank sheet of A4. Naturally, my Ma gave me a proper telling off. And then started laughing.

I feel bad for being so annoyed by these kids, I do. The worst these kids are guilty of is that they haven't got any moxie. They are very irritating - they're like dealing with a cat that constantly winds through your feet as you walk down the stairs. Actually, scratch that. When I was a teenager a friend of mine had a Labrador, very cheerful, very friendly, dumb as a stone. It had a habit of following me around everywhere, even to the point that when I went to the loo it was lie against the door waiting for me to come out. Unfortunately it wasn't equipped with the brains to get up when I tried to open the door, and since it weighed a metric ton, it was almost impossible to get back out of the loo. Eventually I would be forced to shoulder barge the door, squeeze my arm and head through and shove the door back and forth, all the while with the Labrador looking at me with an expression that simultaneously said; "Why are you doing this to me? I love you!" and "Derrrrrrrrrrrr...."

They're like that. Sorry about the long metaphor. Anyway, my point is, I have had to battle to become the (by comparison) tolerant person I am today. My worst moment of intolerance was when I nearly ran over girl on a pedestrian crossing. Now, that sounds worse than it was, so let me explain.

I was driving merrily along on my way back from work many moons ago and approaching the aforementioned pedestrian crossing. On the pavement were a group of girls sashaying along, as I was about twenty feet from the crossing one of the girls (who resembled my friend's Labrador in both the looks and weight departments) looked at me and very deliberately stepped out in front of me. I pretty much had an MI trying to stop the car, which I did, about a foot away from her. She then turned to her friends and said in the sort of self-righteous, haughty manner only certain ten year old girls can manage;

"See, they have to stop for me."

Before I replied to this I had to wind the window down, which only slightly took the sting out of the  tail when I leaned out and yelled;

"The reason I stopped is because you're so fat you'd write the f**king car off!"

And at that point she burst into tears and ran away. Smooth moves, on my part, I'm sure you'll agree.

This is why I try harder than ever to deal with the sometimes unbelievably vacuous children I meet when I take the Kids to the park. In fact these days I occasionally find myself feeling quite grateful to them. Because every time the Girl puts her shoes on the wrong feet (there's a 50:50 chance and somehow she gets it wrong EVERYTIME) I think; at least she's never picked up a dog turd and tried to eat it.

I've seen that done before.

Madness

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We're milking the Boy!"

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

"He's a cat."

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

"We're drinking his milk."

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

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

"Winced."

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

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

I'm not proud of myself.

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

"It's landing on Mars tomorrow."

"Right-o."

"It's really big."

"How big?"

"About the size of a Mini."

"A mini what?"

"No, it's a car."

"You said it was a robot."

"No, a Mini is a car."

"Why are they landing a car on Mars?"

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

"So it's a really small car?"

"Well... Not any more."

"Like a toy car?"

"No..."

"So why is it called a Mini?"

And then, on seeing my exasperated expression he said;

"You started this."

Park Life

Having spent most of my late teens and twenties in love with cars but without the means to buy one that didn't want to kill me, I also spent a lot of that time lying under cars. Not to say that I'm a skilled mechanic. Far from it. I once jacked a two and a half tonne van up on a scissor jack and, against no odds, it fell on my head once I climbed under it. I've electrocuted myself, driven screws through my hand, rounded every nut I've touched and accidentally drank engine oil (I was not well.) On one distressingly memorable occasion I sat in a puddle of battery acid I hadn't realised I'd spilt. At the risk of being indelicate, sulphuric acid and bum holes should never cross paths. Also, the arse fell out of my jeans which - as far as my Dad was concerned -  was the funniest occurrence in history.

So I didn't hold out much hope this afternoon when I started removing the front wing of my car. I won't bore you with why I had to do this, but assume it was both necessary and unwise and naturally it wasn't long before I was lying under the car try to swear it into working. This sort of thing draws my Kids to me like moths to a flame.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm failing to undo this nut."

"Why are you failing?"

"Because it's cleverer than me."

"Why is it-?"

"Boy, will you just fu-" (Deep breath) "Er... Pass me the spanner next to your foot?"

"What's a spanner?"

"It's the shiny silver thing with a circle at each end."

"Ok."

"...Boy?"

"Yes?"

"Why have you given me a dandelion?"

But he'd gone. Presumably to talk someone into jumping off a ledge. He came back later to annoy me, and when I finally lost my temper he patted me on the head and went away. However, despite my the angry vein on my temple ballooning to unprecedented size,  I somehow won this battle with the car. So I went back inside to crow about it to the Wife.

"Aha! Me big man! Me fix car!"

"You've got a flower behind your ear."

"What?"

"That was me."

the Boy said, without looking up from his book.

To celebrate this success we took the Kids and their scooters for a walk in the park. This seemed to confuse the Girl no end.

"Where's the park?"

"We're in the park."

"Where are the swings?"

"Its not that kind of park.Its a park with a lot of grass, and little gardens."

"Oh." (Pause) "Are we going to the park?"

"We're IN the park, Girl."

"Oh." (Pause) "Where are the swings?"

"Lets go and get ice cream!"

So we went to get ice cream - something I assume only the British do when its ten degrees Celsius and pissing with rain. Whilst the Wife stood in the queue, I showed the Kids around the outside of a stately home, some stables and then, having run out of ideas, the toilet block.

"Why are dogs allowed in the toilets?"

"Well, I guess because a lot of people walk dogs in the park and they can't leave them outside. And some people might have guide dogs."

"What's a guide dog?"

"Well, Girl - it's a dog that helps blind people walk about without bumping into things."

Now there are many replies to this. The one I hadn't expected was

"Boris is a guide cat."

"No he isn't."

"HE IS!"

"Girl, Boris keeps walking into the patio doors. I really hope he isn't a guide cat."

"HE IS!"

Fortunately the Boy saved me with the words

"Ooh! I need a poo!"

And so the three of us found ourselves in the worst public toilets that have ever assaulted the senses of mankind. They were the kind of toilets where you try to get in and out without touching any surface in the place, including the floor. The Boy, for once aware of his surroundings, did his business quickly and we bailed out into the sweet air outside where the Wife was waiting for us. Seeing my expression she said

"You alright?"

"Those were, without doubt, the worst toilets I've ever been in."

The Boy nodded and, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, said

"Yeah, they let girls in there!"

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.

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.