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.

Extracurricular

We have enrolled the Boy in football lessons at his school. To clarify for my American readers, when I say football I mean what you call soccer. If I refer to what you call football I normally say "The sport bit between the two hour Pepsi ad." It's not catchy, but it is accurate.

The only downside with the Boy playing football is that because he goes to a faith school everyone has to go in goal. Because Jesus saves you see.

Sorry about that. Won't happen again.

Today I popped along to watch him, which was a bit of a mistake. After only a few minutes it was apparent that he was pretty much oblivious to the game. Not that he was alone in this. Three or four kids were taking it very seriously. However the rest were either running in circles, crying or peeing in the bushes. The Boy seemed completely unaware that the ball had any significance to the match. Certainly he never tried to kick it. In fact he didn't even look at it. To the Boy the game revolved around adjusting his tabard, as if it was an uncomfortable bra or a nice little off the shoulder number. Once, in a moment of inspiration, he laid down across the goal mouth. Unorthodox defending, but it worked because it stopped a goal. Later I asked him if he'd done that because he was in defence.

"No. I was a bit tired."

This despite the fact that he ran once during the entire match. And that was to the toilet. Still, he enjoyed himself and cheered every time a goal was scored.

"Goal! "

"You're not supposed to cheer THEIR goals! "

I hid myself away whilst he was playing, so he would stay focused (some chance).  When the mayhem ended I stepped out from behind a tree and said hello.

"Mum! "

"Christ.  I'm DAD. "

"Did you see me play? I scored a hundred goals. "

Whilst this statement wasn't that amusing in itself, the look on the face of his team mate who had been taking it all very seriously was, to put it mildly, hilarious.

Earlier that morning the Wife and I had taken the Girl to gymnastics. I recommend watching a toddler's gymnastics class because I think it's the closest you'll get to experiencing the end of the world.  They act like I expect people to act when they've been told that an asteroid will hit the Earth. Lots of running and screaming, a bit of vomiting, crying, biting - even the odd stolen kiss or hug. It is the purest form of chaos, with a few ruddy faced women of a certain age trying - and utterly failing - to keep order. Essentially its like descending into madness - particularly when any queuing is involved. The teacher would neatly line all the Kids up,  then turn to get some equipment and the queue would scatter instantly and try to kill each other with hula hoops. Sometimes they would join a different queue, causing complete confusion for the teachers. At one point a little boy subject the Girl to her first french kiss. He didn't even buy her a drink first. Honestly, Kids today. No manners.

The up and the down side of a day like today is that going back to work tomorrow will seem very normal and mundane. Moribund, even. It's good to have a bit of chaos in your life.

Lucky

I'm lucky enough to get home from work early enough to spend a couple of hours with the Kids. I say lucky, this was how my two hours went today.

On walking through the door I said hello to the Girl, who roundly ignored me. The Boy did say hello and then muttered at me from the other side of the house.

"Dad! Dad!" *mumbles*

"What?"

*mumbles*

"WHAT???"

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Who were you talking to? There's no one else in here."

"Er.... Me!" *mumbles then laughs maniacally*

Two minutes through the door and I was ready to go back to work. So I stalked upstairs in a fit of pique. The Girl followed me, jumped up and down on the bed whilst I got change and then, when I tickled her, kicked me firmly in the throat. This was not the first time I had been pole-axed by a three year old Girl, but it was one of the most painful.

Whilst I crawled on the floor gasping for air and clutching my throat the Girl jumped on my back and tried ride me like a horse. It took a few minutes for me to extricate myself from this state of affairs, and I only managed this by pretending to be dead.

I'm not proud of myself.

I went back downstairs, had the usual conversation with the Boy

"How was school?"

"Ooh. Er... Ah. Can't remember."

"What did you do today?"

"Can't remember."

*Sigh* "What's my name?"

"Mummy."

whilst the Wife snuck off to the Boy's open evening (a paltry excuse for abandoning me to the whims of my Kids). I cooked dinner, which for once they ate without the usual food throwing, crying and occasional soiled underwear (the Girl, not me. Well, sometimes me but only six, maybe seven times.)

I passed on giving them a bath, since the day before they'd insisted on having a shower. The net result of this shower was; I got soaked, it used more water than the bath, the Boy blinded himself with shampoo and the Girl would only allow her bum to get wet. As such I moved straight to books and bed time. Now that the Boy is more confident with his reading he likes to read books to the Girl and myself. This does not always go without a hitch. Tonight's moment of crisis was this;

"Hungry fox falls in the box. Look out fox! There's cum on your snout."

Brilliantly I reacted to this by yelling

"Not cum! Cream!"

Which I'm sure you'll agree was exactly the right thing to do. Having negotiated that particular minefield I got the Kids to brush their teeth. Or in the Boy's case his nose. Then off to bed and that was when the Girl slammed the anchors on. First she refused, then started yelling "No" over and over until eventually the Wife had to intercede.

"If you don't go to bed you won't be able to go to Grandma's party tomorrow."

"Don't care."

"Ok... What should I do to tell you off for not going to bed?"

*Thinks for a moment* "Kill Boris?"

I'll be honest, I was on her side there. I hate that cat.

Rules

You can only climb up. You can't climb down again, but you can always climb up.

Similarly, you can take things out of boxes, but can't put them back into boxes.


As long as your head is hidden no one can see you


When Mummy or Daddy take you to their friend's house, you must only play with the single most expensive item in the house, regardless of what it is. If unsure, head for the telly and try to push it over.


When your toys are in a box, you must remove all of them and put them on the floor. If you are told to put them back in, refer to point two.


Every time Mummy or Daddy tread on Lego, they love you a little bit more.


When you hear the word "don't" it actually means; "Wait until I'm not looking. Then go crazy."


Your Mummy is her own Mummy. Also she is your Daddy's Mummy. Also, Daddy is your Mummy's Daddy, and also his own Daddy. This must be true, because they call each other "Mummy and Daddy". Except at night.


Mummy and Daddy give you a bath because they want to you either drown your brother/sister or fart.


If you need the toilet always wait until you are in the bath, in the car, or at the very least as far as humanly possible from a toilet.


If you feel sick, find Daddy. Then be sick on him.


The cat/dog is your slave/patient/dolly. You are free to do what you want to it.


On entering nursery you must cry until Mummy and Daddy can't hear you any more, then play happily for the rest of the day. When your Mummy or Daddy pick you up, scream.


In an emergency, your ride-along toy car also doubles as a toilet.


If you haven't eaten something before, you don't like it.


If you have a runny nose or chocolate/ice cream/milk around your mouth, wait until Mummy or Daddy are dressed for work then pretend you want to cuddle them and wipe your face on them. They will think of you 'fondly' when they find your little present during that important presentation. 

Your nose is a legitimate source of food.


Dear Readers - let me know if you've got any more of these (preferably by the comments box below - you don't have to join anything to comment). I'll make it an expanding list.

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.