Merry Bloody Christmas

Last month I foolishly turned forty. Forty has a level of gravitas previous decades don't have. People in their thirties go clubbing, people in their forties buy Volvo's  Ignoring the fact that I never liked going clubbing and I've recently found myself eyeing up the latest Volvo with an envious eye, I'm still in denial. Why? Because in ten years time I'll be fifty, and that doesn't bear thinking about.

Hence my recent silence on the blog, because in spite of the Wife organising a surprise party and then whisking me off to Edinburgh* I've been lingering in a month long temper tantrum about it. Fortunately my family can always be relied upon to give me the get up and go to hide under the duvet  and cry.

So, just to cheer everyone up, along comes Christmas. This year we swerved the Christingle service as my skills in juggling burning fruit have not improved since I last spoke to you about this (http://todaymyboysaid.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/christingle.html). It was a close run thing though. I took the Kids along to see the church Christmas tree lights switched on which was just before the Christingle service. We stood around in the dark four half an hour, then an old man dressed as a sex offender dressed as Father Christmas turned up in a tractor (obviously), handed out sweets for ten minutes and then switched the lights on. To get an idea of how impressive this was get up and switch on the light in the room you're in. It wasn't that good.

I was quite keen to scarpa at this point, but in a typically-slightly-dodgy move, the local church had an elf on stand-by - with a box of sweets, trying to lure the Kids into the church. Now, I went to church in the seventies and eighties, and I know what a trail of sweets into the church leads to. So the Kids and I had another role reversal, where they insisted we went into the church, and I told them I didn't want to go. For once, I won. By offering them sweets. 

When we got home the Boy raced upstairs and I went and got the jacket potatoes I'd left cooking from the oven. This, as it always does, set off our smoke alarm - which is set off by steam, but not smoke. So as long as our house catches fire during a flood, we're all good. As I went over to wave a tea-towel under it I heard the Boy yell;

"Sorry! That was me! I farted!"

To which I replied;

"If they're strong enough to set off the smoke alarm, you're moving out."

A few days later, the Wife and I went to the Boy's nativity play. I may have been expecting a bit much, but here's my review.

The acting was appalling, the sub-plot was just tacked on (it started with aliens landing in Bethlehem - which I'm pretty sure didn't happen), the chemistry between the characters was non-existent, the music was badly chosen, there was casual violence (when the Virgin Mary placed the baby Jesus into the manger by throwing Him from the other side of the stage) and the set looked like it had been designed by a five year old. I made this last comment as a joke to my Wife, who smiled thinly until the Head Teacher thanked the 50-something art teacher for "building such a wonderful set single handedly" and I felt a bit guilty. Honestly, it looked like an explosion in an aluminium foil factory. 

The Boy did well though. He managed to keep his fingers out of his nose for the whole thing.

The Girl's performance in her nativity play was a great success in comparison to last year, where her only line was "I NEED A WEE!" This year she got to play a shepherd, so the Wife sent her along with a cuddly sheep toy we had lying around the house.

On that, I'm pretty sure we have a cuddly version of every animal that ever walked, crawled or slithered on it's belly. We've got a cuddly velociraptor, for crying out loud. And it's not like we buy them. People just give them to us. There must be something about my family that says; "Crap attractor."

Anyway... The Girl's nativity play was called "Father Christmas needs a wee" and was, as you can guess, massively traditional. The Girl said her line well, then instantly got bored, dropped the sheep on the floor, kicked it a bit, picked it up and then repeatedly beat herself in the head with it for the next five minutes. Then she got a bit distracted, and her teacher had to go to the front of the stage and tell her to bugger off down the back. Fortunately the Virgin Mary took the attention off the Girl by dropping the baby Jesus on the floor and pushing Him into centre stage with her foot. Baby Jesus eventually exited stage left after a fairly decent pass from the Virgin Mary to one of the three Kings. And since no one lost an eye, I thought it was a great success.

Tonight the Wife and Kids decorated the Christmas tree with chocolates - a tradition from her side of the family. My family ate chocolates. But then we also got up, opened all our presents, had crisps for breakfast and did our best not to talk to each other until Christmas dinner. Then the Queen would come on telly, my dad would shout at her and then fall asleep in front of "The Dirty Dozen". So the Wife's traditions are probably preferable.

The Girl did a sterling job of hanging the chocolates, with the small issue that she put all of them on one branch. The Wife tried to point out the error of her ways, but the Girl said;

"I did that so they don't get lonely."

Awwww, you're thinking. How sweet. Except she's put them all on the bottom of the tree - so she can reach them. I tell you, she's a conniving little sod that Girl. 

Since they'd done such a good job I decided to take a picture of them, which I thought was rather lovely until I looked at the Girl and discovered that to spice up the photo she'd put a toy horse in her mouth.

For Christ's sake.

Have a very merry Christmas, people. Love from Me, The Wife, Boy and Girl. 

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."

Pee Aye Are Tee Why?

I got invited to a house party this weekend. Yes I did. An actual party with people, and music and sambuca. This is a good thing (except for the sambuca, which was very very bad) It's been so long since I've been to a party that if I'd had a child during the last one, that child would have already finished school, fomented a loathing of me, stolen my car, had a spell in prison and written a book about me by now. 

I'm that popular.

Not to say that I haven't been to many parties. Back when I was in the last two years of school I spent so much time at parties I wrecked my exam results with a mixture of hangovers and ignorance. But this was when I was interesting talked about things other than the Kids. That's right, parents. The reason you're not getting invited to parties is not due to the difficultly of finding a baby sitter that isn't a convicted sex offender - it's because people know at some point you'll mention your kids. And from there it's only a matter of seconds before you've got your phone out and you're scrolling through pictures of them saying; "This is him sitting down. This is him standing up. This is him on the toilet. This is him playing with an electrical outlet..." And you'll be saying; "Oh, she's really very clever. I don't want to boast but she'll definitely be a doctor/lawyer/banker/rocket scientist/arms dealer" whilst everyone around you remembers the day they saw your precious little sweetums drinking out of the toilet. Eventually you'll find yourself sitting alone with the dim realisation that you're THAT person at the party. 

"Which one has the kid?"

"See those two people talking?"

"Yeah."

"See the bored one?"
"Yeah?"

"He's the other one."

Anyway, back to me. The friends throwing the party (who, for the sake of anonymity I will refer to as the Smiths) have a son who is friends with the Kids. Consequently we had to indulge in some subterfuge to get away without a drama. Fortunately two things worked to our advantage. Firstly the Boy has become obsessed with the educational benefits of television and has been so distracted he hasn't asked any awkward questions. This has not been without it's pitfalls.

"You can learn a lot from telly."

"Really, Boy. What have you learnt today?"

"Well... Finish Powerball tablets are great for getting rid of stubborn stains."

Secondly, they were having a sleepover at Grandma's. Grandma foolishly turned up a bit early to pick them up and unwisely said "Shall I take them now?" During the time it took her to ask this question the Wife and I had strapped the Kids in the car, shoved her out the door and double locked it.

At four o'clock the next morning the Wife and I were about 80% proof, comprised of a winning mixture of beer, Prosecco, red wine, bourbon and the aforementioned sambuca. I had been told four times by four different people that I looked a bit like Nick Frost (bastards). I had proved once again that when I dance I look like I'm falling downstairs in a set of leg calipers. At one point I had a massive geek out discussion about Japanese cinema and thereby alienated half the people at the party.

"Has he got Kids?"

"Worse. He's comparing Akira Kurasawa's 'Hidden Fortress' with Star Wars."

"Tosser."

 My favourite moment of the evening was when I was reading a note on the toilet door ("This toilet blocks easily. If you're planning something more... solid... please use the upstairs loo") when the Smith Boy ran up to me, yelled

"No poo! No poo!"

And ran away. Random.

Much enjoyment was had, and new friends made - until finally the Wife and I crashed in the Smith Boy's room (I hasten to add, he had been taken to his grandparents by that time). I caught a few fitful hours sleep before being woken up by the uncomfortable sensation of a full bladder and the discovery of a piece of Lego  jammed in my eye. And then the regret. Oh, the regret... The headache was bad enough. The cannonball I had somehow negotiated into my bowel was worse - there was a sense of foreboding about it. Like something awful that would happen out of the blue and all at once. It was bad enough to have it's own theme music. Like Darth Vader.

Some hours later I was in the toilets at the M4 services weeping silently and praying a travelling doctor would find me and administer an epidural. And then the toilet blocked when I flushed it. A battle ensued which I won't describe, but assume it was lengthy and undignified (although successful I should add. I'm not an animal). Heavens knows why by for some reason at bed time that evening I decided to tell the Boy what had happened in the M4 toilets.

"You blocked it?"

"Yeah."

"Wow! Awesome! It must have been huge! Like this big."

And to my distress he held his hands about three feet apart.

Specs

Recently I had the unpleasant experience of having blood come out of my ears whilst watching the television. This occurred during an article about a woman who had set up a support group. Not such a bad thing, you might think. But this was a support group for mothers "traumatised" by the horror of having to drop their children off at nursery. Traumatised. It didn't help that she had the unkempt, crazy haired, boho-"chic" look of a women that knits her own tampons from coconut hair. Worse still, she went on to claim that after dropping her own daughter off at school (I forget the child's name, I suspect it was "Vulva") she was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This caused me to shout unrelentingly at a blankly uncomprehending television until my eyes went blurry and I had to have a lie down. I can't bear melodrama in other people.

Interestingly (well, maybe not) I'm also a hypocrite of epic scale. And prone to significant fits of melodrama. I once commando-crawled out of a bedroom at three in the morning because there was a spider on the ceiling. So when the Wife recently told me that the Boy had to start wearing glasses because he's shorted sighted I handled it in my own idiosyncratic style - denial, grumpy acceptance and then sadness.

As I took the Boy to have his glasses fitted I kept looking at his face conscious that it was the last time I would look at his face without thinking it looked naked without glasses. I felt quite glum about this. When we got home he asked me why I kept looking at him funny, and I didn't know how to answer him. The Boy, being five and subsequently far more emotionally mature than me, took this all in his stride. Assisted by the fact that he was getting Ben 10 glasses and this, in line with his new vocabularic* trend was "Awesome." I have to say, in this respect it is awesome. As I've mentioned before, I had National Health glasses as a child. In the eighties NHS glasses were largely bought by parents that were on the breadline or, in my case, bastards. Where his specs have Ben 10 written on them, mine had "Apply fist". 

My concerns that he'll get bullied have been somewhat alleviated by people pointing out that Harry Potter has made wearing glasses cool. This hadn't occurred to me because the Harry Potter thing has largely passed me by. I put this down to the fact that I've never read the books or seen the films BECAUSE I'M NOT TWELVE.That said, my misgivings were not soothed by

"Boy, you need to put your glasses on."

"But I've worn them once today."

"You have to wear them all the time."

"Whaaaat?"

And to compound matters the next morning (having had to be reminded to put his glasses on) the Boy said

*Sigh* "Oh yeah. I forgot I can't see. That's two things that are wrong with me."

"Two?"

"Yeah. I've got a verrucae."

Bullying aside it turns out I still have a whole new world of worry. The Girl is currently stuffing the Boy into a cardboard box yelling (quite viciously)

"Do you like it in there? DO YOU?"

Not that I'm worried about her state of of mind. I've long since been convinced she's destined to be an international assassin of some renown. I'm worried about the Boy's glasses.

Everyone else has been more than impressed with how cool he looks in his specs. Adults are particularly taken with them - Facebook has been replete with "Likes" since I posted a picture of him grinning away (with food in his teeth). I suppose it's partly because he looks like a Little Professor.

The Boy

Only without the moustache. Or off switch.

This weekend I met up my Brother's family at my Ma's house and my brother was kind enough to complement the Boy on how cool he looked. Sadly this didn't get noticed by the Boy as a moment later my four year old Nephew hit my Brother in the face with a large foam number 7.

"Ow. What number have you got there?

"Arse."

He doesn't talk much, the Nephew. But he's a cracking judge of character.

*Before the comments come rolling in, it is a word, you just haven't heard of it because I made it up.

Cool

Today we went to a park. A very impressive park. The sort of park that, if it had been around when I was a kid would have induced instant and uncontrollable bowel movements. It had rope climbing frames, a pirate ship, a death slide, a splash park and all manner of devices designed to make parents say; "Er... Aren't you a bit small for that." It was trouser-explodingly exciting.

"Awesome!"

The Boy yelled as we went through the gate.

"Yeah! Look, there's a pirate shi-"

"A BIN THAT LOOKS LIKE A ROCKET!!!"

"Yes, but the p-"

"AND ONE THAT LOOKS LIKE A FROG!!! Awesome!"

Awesome, it appears, is the word du jour. Or "cool." Although the Boy's standards are rather low. After the usual ten minutes of clutching his winkle he finally admitted he needed a wee and we dashed to the toilets. Here the Boy had one of his formative moments by using a urinal for the first time. There was an awkward moment when he compared his equipment to the man already peeing

"Daddy..."

*Through clenched teeth* "Say NOTHING."

Then, stupidly I said

"Remember why you're in trouble at school..."

"I didn't look up her skirt! That was Henry! I just touched her!"

*Hurriedly* "On the hand, yes I know. I don't know why I started this..."

I should add, at this point, that the Boy's school is operating a zero tolerance policy. Seems a bit harsh. He's only five. They'll have him in an orange suit breaking rocks in the hard sun. And now I have the Clash in my head. 

Anyway, then he went to work, and as he did, the urinals flushed.

"Awesome! How did they know? Is there a camera?"

Equally, last night he told me

"I'm really cool. I'm like a stunt man."

This, based entirely on the fact that he'd walked up the stairs. He wasn't even on fire when he did it.

Meanwhile the Girl is going through a maternal stage, carrying her baby with her everywhere. Even to the loo. The Boy, sensing a new way to torture his sister, has latched onto this. Hence I walked into the house earlier to hear the Boy clutching his nipple and crying

"What happened?"

"He punched my baby!"

"She pinched my booby!"

I had to admire the word play, even if they made me feel like a Police officer at a domestic. I tried to settle things down but the Boy had aroused the beast that is the Girl's maternal instinct and she kicked him in the face. This, he later told me was

"Not awesome."

In other news, we're having cat troubles. The Cat insists on catching fleas. The fleas, in turn, insist on biting the Boy. The Boy, in turn, insists on being allergic to the bites. As does the Cat. Not ideal, and having treated the Cat with everything short of weapon grade plutonium or a shovel, nothing has worked. This has lead to me having the following conversation with the Boy

"Adam at school says that I've got chicken pox."

"Does he?"

"Yeah. I said 'I haven't got chicken pox, I've got fleas, you idiot.'"

"Oh... brilliant."

So the wife took the Cat to the vet. The vet has decided that the Cat is stressed. Because it has to crap outside. Whilst this may seem stupid to all but the weirdest, most socially inept of cat people, if you think about it there is some sense behind. Think of the tiger, on the verge of extinction. Has to crap outside. The Lynx, once common across Europe - no litter trays. It's why you see so many cats in rehab clinics. The Cat came home, no less stressed. So stressed in fact, this happened.

Keep back. Cat on the edge. Of falling asleep.

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.

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.