Dear Dave
Friday, 29 January 2010
At the school gate
Dear Dave,
Have a good one. You're long overdue a night out. It can't have been easy the last year or two, dealing with Daisy's poor sleep. Thank goodness she's finally settled down and Sam's over the bout of stroppiness he was having before Christmas. Life should get easier every day from here. Another few months and nappies will be behind you; another year and Daisy will be at nursery. After that, it's only a hop, skip and jump to Sam doing chores and Daisy being at school. At some point they might even be able to say 'please' and 'thank you' without being prompted. Hey, mine can all catch their own vomit in a bowl these days, which is a major step forward, I'm sure you'll agree.
Yep, you've done much of the heavy lifting of childcare already. The amount of man-handling you'll have to do will steadily decrease as the weeks go by and you'll be able to sit down and conserve your strength for threats, bribery and shouting. This will be tiring in its own way but nothing compared to the broken sleep and physical exertion of the early days. Get out and celebrate! It's great you've managed to stay in contact with some of your old mates and that they're understanding of your situation. With luck, you might even think of something to talk to them about other than children. Have a good one.
Personally, I'm short on practice of leaving the house at night. Working up the energy to go see Avatar is almost beyond me. As a kid, I dreamed of living within walking distance of a cinema but now I actually do, I can't summon up the motivation to go. It's cold and wet out there. I'd rather curl up in front of the TV.
The downside is that I've ended up sharing a social life with my children, gleaning adult conversation from talking to the parents of their friends. This situation started during the years of eating biscuits at toddler group, continued via countless chats outside the nursery door and now persists through the half hour I spend loitering in the playground each day.
These convenient friendships are fragile, however. I've mentioned before how easy it is to lose acquaintances made at parent and toddler - I'd speak to people every week for months and then they'd simply disappear. At school, it's even stranger than that. Now Fraser's older, his class comes out of school on the other side of the building. I still have to lurk where I've always lurked, waiting for Lewis and Marie, but most of the parents of Fraser's classmates have moved round to the other door. People I spoke to every day for four years, I suddenly hardly see.
Then there are those parents whose children were very friendly with Fraser in Primary 1 but have since drifted off into other social groups (usually because they're icky girls). I've been to these peoples' houses, drunk their coffee and had long chats taking an interest in their lives. Now we just smile unconvincingly at each other in passing as we hurry round to opposite ends of the school. Another few months and their kids will walk home by themselves. The parents will become nothing more than familiar-looking faces at open days and school shows. It's weird.
Of course, Marie starting school has introduced me to a whole new load of people and the parents of Lewis' friends are still hanging around. For the time being, I have plenty of people to talk to in the playground while trying to stave off hypothermia on a snowy Wednesday afternoon. Some I regard as proper friends.
I just wonder what happens when they move round the corner to the other door...
As it is, there are occasionally days when schedules and illnesses combine to leave me standing about without my normal clique. If enough kids are off sick, being collected by their gran or heading to After School Club, then I have to hunt around for company. Of the remaining parents, some don't speak English very well and some of the mums are wary of being spoken to by a strange man. Others I've simply never clicked with, unable to strike up a conversation which goes beyond the weather. Oh, and then there are the dads who have the day off and aren't thrilled to be spending it standing around a playground in subzero temperatures. Talking to them seldom goes well. They tend to view me as a lunatic when they find out I do it every day.
Last time I was stuck for someone to speak to, I was surprisingly glad to spot Trevor hunched by the school gate, looking uncomfortably out of place as he gazed at his own boots. We don't have much in common and having a chat with him can be hard going but we've helped each other through a couple of difficult situations in the past so there's enough mutual respect to bridge any awkward silences.
"Hi, there. How are you?" I said, adjusting my scarf against the chill wind.
Trevor stood there in a khaki t-shirt, seemingly oblivious to the cold. "Can't complain."
There was an awkward silence.
We had at least a couple of minutes until the bell went for the Primary 1s to come out and probably another five for them to actually appear. I tried again. "Is Karen working?"
"No."
I was about to launch into an extensive further series of Yes/No questions, beginning with 'Is she at the shops?' and ending with 'Is she taking another rollerblading class now her instructor's out of traction?'. Then I remembered that I am not my children. "What's she up to then?" I asked.
Trevor shrugged. "Didn't tell me. Said it was my turn to collect Malcolm." His tone told me there was a whole lot more he was keeping to himself. Given the scale of conflict I witnessed between the two of them in public recently, I feared what might have occurred behind closed doors. Rolling pins and machetes were not entirely beyond the realms of possibility. (And that was assuming Trevor had chosen not to defend himself.)
"You guys doing OK?" I said nervously.
"Can't complain," he repeated.
I nodded. If I lived with Scary Karen, I'd be too frightened to complain, too. Nonetheless, Trevor has served in a number of war zones. He's never told me exactly what he did there but he's such a big block of solid muscles they may simply have used him as armour-plating. Certainly, if the bomb ever drops, it's him I'm going to duck behind for cover. This being the case, I thought he might dare to venture something slightly more informative if I pressed him. "Well, if you ever need to talk about..."
"She wants more kids."
This was significantly less pressing than I'd been expecting. "What?" I said (with a touch of deja vu).
"She wants more kids - now William's started at nursery and all."
"He has?" I couldn't quite believe it. Then I did the maths and realised that it's three years since I first met Karen and her two boys.
"Yeah. She's thinking she's going to have to stop with the... er... you know..."
"Dressing him up as Diana Ross?"
"Not that."
"Tying him to railings while she goes and gets a haircut?"
"Yeah, but, er, no. I, er..." He made some suggestive gestures near his chest.
"Oh! Breast-feeding!" I said rather too loudly, like I'd just won at Charades, and doubtless giving some nearby mums even more reason to be wary of me.
"Yeah. That."
"Oh, right."
There was more awkward silence, punctuated by the school bell.
"Isn't she a little old for...?"
Trevor winced and glanced over his shoulder. "Keep it down - someone might hear. You don't want Karen finding out. She might go for you next time." He pulled up his t-shirt and pointed to one of his iron-hard pectorals. Despite all the hair, an area of fresh scars was clearly visible. There was a pattern too them. I made out bushy eyebrows, a bulbous nose and a hideous grin. I stared, hardly noticing that every other parent in the vicinity had begun cautiously backing away from us.
"She threw a gnome at you, didn't she?"
"One of her favourites."
Karen's collection of garden gnomes is almost legendary. The live web cam feed of the dozens in her front hall now gets several thousand hits a day. You might wonder why, but watch it long enough and you'll swear the little blighters are moving. Conspiracy theorists can't get enough.
I baulked at the thought of the level of rage that would be required to bring her to harm one her darlings. "Oh, goodness."
Trevor nodded. "She thinks she still has what it takes and she won't hear otherwise. Says she misses having little ones around. Not to mention, she reckons I'm doing such a good job with Malkey and Will, she thinks I could do with some of my own... Not that I don't think of them as my own." He looked over his shoulder again. "I didn't say that. That's how she put it. 'Some of my own,' she said. They were her words."
I was focused on one word in particular. "Some?"
"There's a history of triplets in her family."
"Oh..." Our gazes met and the brief moment of wide-eyed terror we shared conveyed as much as several hours of discussion. There was no need to say anything else on that particular topic. We stood there for a while and I bobbed up and down in an effort to keep warm. The Primary 1s still didn't appear. Time dragged on.
Eventually, I couldn't help opening my mouth. "So you don't want more kids?" I said.
"I don't know that now's a good time."
"When is a good time to have your life turned upside down?"
"I 'spose," said Trevor, rubbing his chin, but he didn't seem convinced.
Finally, the school door opened and children started running out. Marie skipped over in her luminous pink coat and gave me a hug, inadvertently whacking me in a private area with her lunchbox.
"You never know," I squeaked, "the next one might be a girl."
Trevor looked at my grinning limpet with pigtails and sparkly shoes. He went pale.
Then I was dragged off to play What's the Time, Mr Wolf? and before I managed to escape, he was gone. In his place was a different set of acquaintances, already arriving for the second bell and the release of the next batch of children. I smiled unconvincingly at the ones passing by on their way round the corner, then I went to rummage about in the remains of Marie's lunch to see if she had any food leftover. I managed to bag half a tub of chopped apple. I sat quietly eating it on a bench until Lewis appeared.
I guess I could have found someone different to talk to but, well, I'd had quite enough adult conversation for one day. I just wanted to get home to the TV...
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
PS Have a great time! (Maybe you could go see Avatar for me?)
Have a good one. You're long overdue a night out. It can't have been easy the last year or two, dealing with Daisy's poor sleep. Thank goodness she's finally settled down and Sam's over the bout of stroppiness he was having before Christmas. Life should get easier every day from here. Another few months and nappies will be behind you; another year and Daisy will be at nursery. After that, it's only a hop, skip and jump to Sam doing chores and Daisy being at school. At some point they might even be able to say 'please' and 'thank you' without being prompted. Hey, mine can all catch their own vomit in a bowl these days, which is a major step forward, I'm sure you'll agree.
Yep, you've done much of the heavy lifting of childcare already. The amount of man-handling you'll have to do will steadily decrease as the weeks go by and you'll be able to sit down and conserve your strength for threats, bribery and shouting. This will be tiring in its own way but nothing compared to the broken sleep and physical exertion of the early days. Get out and celebrate! It's great you've managed to stay in contact with some of your old mates and that they're understanding of your situation. With luck, you might even think of something to talk to them about other than children. Have a good one.
Personally, I'm short on practice of leaving the house at night. Working up the energy to go see Avatar is almost beyond me. As a kid, I dreamed of living within walking distance of a cinema but now I actually do, I can't summon up the motivation to go. It's cold and wet out there. I'd rather curl up in front of the TV.
The downside is that I've ended up sharing a social life with my children, gleaning adult conversation from talking to the parents of their friends. This situation started during the years of eating biscuits at toddler group, continued via countless chats outside the nursery door and now persists through the half hour I spend loitering in the playground each day.
These convenient friendships are fragile, however. I've mentioned before how easy it is to lose acquaintances made at parent and toddler - I'd speak to people every week for months and then they'd simply disappear. At school, it's even stranger than that. Now Fraser's older, his class comes out of school on the other side of the building. I still have to lurk where I've always lurked, waiting for Lewis and Marie, but most of the parents of Fraser's classmates have moved round to the other door. People I spoke to every day for four years, I suddenly hardly see.
Then there are those parents whose children were very friendly with Fraser in Primary 1 but have since drifted off into other social groups (usually because they're icky girls). I've been to these peoples' houses, drunk their coffee and had long chats taking an interest in their lives. Now we just smile unconvincingly at each other in passing as we hurry round to opposite ends of the school. Another few months and their kids will walk home by themselves. The parents will become nothing more than familiar-looking faces at open days and school shows. It's weird.
Of course, Marie starting school has introduced me to a whole new load of people and the parents of Lewis' friends are still hanging around. For the time being, I have plenty of people to talk to in the playground while trying to stave off hypothermia on a snowy Wednesday afternoon. Some I regard as proper friends.
I just wonder what happens when they move round the corner to the other door...
As it is, there are occasionally days when schedules and illnesses combine to leave me standing about without my normal clique. If enough kids are off sick, being collected by their gran or heading to After School Club, then I have to hunt around for company. Of the remaining parents, some don't speak English very well and some of the mums are wary of being spoken to by a strange man. Others I've simply never clicked with, unable to strike up a conversation which goes beyond the weather. Oh, and then there are the dads who have the day off and aren't thrilled to be spending it standing around a playground in subzero temperatures. Talking to them seldom goes well. They tend to view me as a lunatic when they find out I do it every day.
Last time I was stuck for someone to speak to, I was surprisingly glad to spot Trevor hunched by the school gate, looking uncomfortably out of place as he gazed at his own boots. We don't have much in common and having a chat with him can be hard going but we've helped each other through a couple of difficult situations in the past so there's enough mutual respect to bridge any awkward silences.
"Hi, there. How are you?" I said, adjusting my scarf against the chill wind.
Trevor stood there in a khaki t-shirt, seemingly oblivious to the cold. "Can't complain."
There was an awkward silence.
We had at least a couple of minutes until the bell went for the Primary 1s to come out and probably another five for them to actually appear. I tried again. "Is Karen working?"
"No."
I was about to launch into an extensive further series of Yes/No questions, beginning with 'Is she at the shops?' and ending with 'Is she taking another rollerblading class now her instructor's out of traction?'. Then I remembered that I am not my children. "What's she up to then?" I asked.
Trevor shrugged. "Didn't tell me. Said it was my turn to collect Malcolm." His tone told me there was a whole lot more he was keeping to himself. Given the scale of conflict I witnessed between the two of them in public recently, I feared what might have occurred behind closed doors. Rolling pins and machetes were not entirely beyond the realms of possibility. (And that was assuming Trevor had chosen not to defend himself.)
"You guys doing OK?" I said nervously.
"Can't complain," he repeated.
I nodded. If I lived with Scary Karen, I'd be too frightened to complain, too. Nonetheless, Trevor has served in a number of war zones. He's never told me exactly what he did there but he's such a big block of solid muscles they may simply have used him as armour-plating. Certainly, if the bomb ever drops, it's him I'm going to duck behind for cover. This being the case, I thought he might dare to venture something slightly more informative if I pressed him. "Well, if you ever need to talk about..."
"She wants more kids."
This was significantly less pressing than I'd been expecting. "What?" I said (with a touch of deja vu).
"She wants more kids - now William's started at nursery and all."
"He has?" I couldn't quite believe it. Then I did the maths and realised that it's three years since I first met Karen and her two boys.
"Yeah. She's thinking she's going to have to stop with the... er... you know..."
"Dressing him up as Diana Ross?"
"Not that."
"Tying him to railings while she goes and gets a haircut?"
"Yeah, but, er, no. I, er..." He made some suggestive gestures near his chest.
"Oh! Breast-feeding!" I said rather too loudly, like I'd just won at Charades, and doubtless giving some nearby mums even more reason to be wary of me.
"Yeah. That."
"Oh, right."
There was more awkward silence, punctuated by the school bell.
"Isn't she a little old for...?"
Trevor winced and glanced over his shoulder. "Keep it down - someone might hear. You don't want Karen finding out. She might go for you next time." He pulled up his t-shirt and pointed to one of his iron-hard pectorals. Despite all the hair, an area of fresh scars was clearly visible. There was a pattern too them. I made out bushy eyebrows, a bulbous nose and a hideous grin. I stared, hardly noticing that every other parent in the vicinity had begun cautiously backing away from us.
"She threw a gnome at you, didn't she?"
"One of her favourites."
Karen's collection of garden gnomes is almost legendary. The live web cam feed of the dozens in her front hall now gets several thousand hits a day. You might wonder why, but watch it long enough and you'll swear the little blighters are moving. Conspiracy theorists can't get enough.
I baulked at the thought of the level of rage that would be required to bring her to harm one her darlings. "Oh, goodness."
Trevor nodded. "She thinks she still has what it takes and she won't hear otherwise. Says she misses having little ones around. Not to mention, she reckons I'm doing such a good job with Malkey and Will, she thinks I could do with some of my own... Not that I don't think of them as my own." He looked over his shoulder again. "I didn't say that. That's how she put it. 'Some of my own,' she said. They were her words."
I was focused on one word in particular. "Some?"
"There's a history of triplets in her family."
"Oh..." Our gazes met and the brief moment of wide-eyed terror we shared conveyed as much as several hours of discussion. There was no need to say anything else on that particular topic. We stood there for a while and I bobbed up and down in an effort to keep warm. The Primary 1s still didn't appear. Time dragged on.
Eventually, I couldn't help opening my mouth. "So you don't want more kids?" I said.
"I don't know that now's a good time."
"When is a good time to have your life turned upside down?"
"I 'spose," said Trevor, rubbing his chin, but he didn't seem convinced.
Finally, the school door opened and children started running out. Marie skipped over in her luminous pink coat and gave me a hug, inadvertently whacking me in a private area with her lunchbox.
"You never know," I squeaked, "the next one might be a girl."
Trevor looked at my grinning limpet with pigtails and sparkly shoes. He went pale.
Then I was dragged off to play What's the Time, Mr Wolf? and before I managed to escape, he was gone. In his place was a different set of acquaintances, already arriving for the second bell and the release of the next batch of children. I smiled unconvincingly at the ones passing by on their way round the corner, then I went to rummage about in the remains of Marie's lunch to see if she had any food leftover. I managed to bag half a tub of chopped apple. I sat quietly eating it on a bench until Lewis appeared.
I guess I could have found someone different to talk to but, well, I'd had quite enough adult conversation for one day. I just wanted to get home to the TV...
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
PS Have a great time! (Maybe you could go see Avatar for me?)
Labels: housedad, Scary Karen, school
Thoughts? Responses? Got a funny story about your children? Add your comment here. 7:50 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Jumble sale
Dear Dave,The jumble sale was in full swing. Dozens of people were milling past the stalls laid out round the edges of the Millennium Centre's main hall and dozens more were sitting at the tables in the middle, sampling the tea and scones. Everywhere was noise and bustle in a world of bric-a-brac, cakes and craft items. Thankfully the fire-breather had had to cancel, though. Kids were being entertained by the local community police officer and his racially-diverse, drug-free, stranger-fearing sock puppets instead. It wasn't quite the same but at least there were fewer health-and-safety issues.
Mike was there, wearing his dog-collar and representing the church. "How did you persuade the children to part with all that?" he said, pointing to the vast collection of toys, books, tapes and clothing on the trestle in front of me.
"In the end, I told them they wouldn't get any Christmas presents unless they had a clear out of their stuff."
"A combination of threats and bribery? Hmmm, I'll have to start trying that on the church elders."
"I take it they're still not up for buying an overhead projector?"
He grimaced. "They want to hold on to the money for a rainy day."
"To be fair, the church roof does leak a little so I can see where they're coming from."
"Once the roof is fixed, the steeple will start falling down. Then the heating will break. After that the wiring will need replaced. By the time that's approved, the roof will be leaking again." He shook his head in exasperation. "There's always rain. Sometimes we need to concentrate on where the boat is going not just on stopping it from sinking."
"I'm with you," I said, shrugging. "If the elders are anything like my kids, though, don't rely too hard on coercion. Fraser figured that computer games don't take up a lot of space so he wouldn't have to get rid of much to make room, and Lewis claimed he didn't want any Christmas presents anyway. Marie transferred ownership of all her possessions to her favourite doll and then started thinking of things to go on her list for Santa. I had to work rather hard to convince them they were in serious danger of missing out. There's probably a sermon in that."
"There's a sermon in almost everything."
"I suppose..." I realised the morning was half over and I hadn't sold very much. I picked up the first thing which came to hand. "Want to buy a xylophone?"
"No."
"Hey, grandchild on the way. You should stock up on toys and Teletubbies videos now. Speaking of which..." I reached towards the collection of tapes at the end of the stall but Mike waved his hand to stop me.
"Not a chance."
"How about...?"
"No." He was polite but firm.
I gave up. "Some use you are. You'd better help me round to the charity shop later with whatever's left over, that's all I can say."
"That can be arranged." He paused long enough to put me off my guard and then added, "How's life?"
I wasn't fooled by his offhand manner. He was checking up on me again. "You mean, 'how's life now that Marie's at school?'"
"I mean, 'how's life?'. If Marie being at school is on your mind, then..." He let the words trail off and waited for me to respond. As always, I found myself telling him what he wanted to know. I think it must be some special sage-like interrogation technique they teach at minister school.
"I'm still adjusting," I said. "It doesn't really feel like it's happened yet. I've helped out on a couple of school trips and the kids have had some days off sick and now they're on holiday for a week. So far, my extra freedom hasn't amounted to much - I've had a few hours of rest and done some cleaning. Maybe in a month or so things will have settled down and I'll have time to devote to the huge list of projects I thought I might be able to get round to once Marie started full-time."
"Sounds like bailing when you should be steering. Want to become a church elder?"
I snorted. "Yeah, funny."
"Serious question actually."
"Oh, er..." I was taken aback and, while he had me staggered, he pressed home the advantage.
"Think about it. First things first, anyway: There's a family service coming up next month - I'd like it if you and Sarah and the kids could help lead it. Read the readings, make up a prayer, look young. That'll do to begin with."
"So let me get this straight," I said, my brow furrowing as I tried to gather my wits, "you're warning me not to hastily commit myself to whatever comes along while simultaneously giving me other things to do?"
"You don't have to do them."
I rubbed my forehead as I felt another migraine coming on. "Is this some kind of test?"
"Not intentionally."
"What does that mean?"
Mike grinned. "It means I could do with some help and ministers can be just as human and illogical as everyone else."
"Oh, right. There's definitely a sermon in that."
"Very true."
At that moment, I was distracted by the boys running over.
"Can we have another go on the tombola?" asked Fraser.
"Yes," chipped in Lewis. "We've won three prizes already!"
I perused the winnings they were waving around. They had two tins of mushy peas and a colouring set, all of which I'd handed in to the tombola in the first place. The peas had been in the hamper which Marie won in the nursery Christmas raffle. I'd been very much hoping to never see them again.
"What prizes are left?" I asked.
"Soap!" said Lewis, hopping from one foot to the other.
"There's an elephant statue as well," said Fraser, "and a book about fairies."
I wasn't convinced. "Do you really want an elephant statue or a book about fairies?"
"No, but Marie might. It's only a pound for five tickets."
Lewis hopped even harder. "And the soap's green!"
"Well, that makes all the difference..." Personally, I didn't feel the brief excitement of unfolding a handful of tickets was worth the financial outlay if the best loot on offer was unusually-coloured hygiene products. Nonetheless, it was an opportunity to vainly attempt to teach them the value of money. "You're welcome to have a go but I'm not giving you the cash. You'll have to pay with your own."
They were delighted and immediately went off to blow an entire week's pocket money on a quick thrill and the chance of soap.
I maybe need to work on my fiscal prudence lessons.
Scary Karen shouted over from where she was helping serve the refreshments. "Tell Trevor we need more hot water."
Trevor was only a few feet away from her, standing on a step-ladder to re-attach some bunting to one of the ceiling beams. "He's just there," I shouted back, thinking she hadn't seen him.
"Well, tell him we need more hot water."
"But..." I began to argue, then withered under the full force of one of her glares. She was busy and stressed and I didn't want to take the brunt of it. "Er... OK."
I walked over to the foot of the ladder and spoke to her boyfriend. "Karen says she needs more hot water for the teas."
He took out the tack he'd been holding between his lips. "Tell her I'll get to it in a minute."
"I, er..." I said, beginning to explain that Karen was almost next to him, but then I realised he already knew that. With horror, it dawned on me that they were having a quarrel and that somehow I'd become part of it. I turned to Karen. "Trevor says he'll get to it in a minute."
"Tell him to hurry up. We're almost out."
I turned back to Trevor, becoming acutely aware for the first time in a while that he's short, squat, made of bricks and has tattoos of automatic weapons. "Karen says they're almost out."
"And that he's to get a flaming move on," added Karen sharply.
"She'd also like me to stress that it's quite urgent."
Trevor grunted as he stretched up and hammered in tacks with his bare knuckles. "Tell her I'll be done when I'm done. If that's not good enough, she'll have to get it herself."
"Er..." I really didn't fancy telling that to Scary Karen.
Luckily, she didn't wait for me to relay the message. "Tell him to get down off that flaming ladder and get into the kitchen before I get you to give him a piece of my mind."
I began backing away. "How about I just go and get the water and..."
"Right," said Trevor, the step-ladder wobbling with irritation, "tell her to tell you to let me get on with the job she already told some other person to tell me to do."
Karen slammed down a cup in rage. "That does it, nobody tells you to talk to me like that. Tell him I don't want to talk to you anymore and I don't want you to tell me what he tells you to tell me about that. He'll just have to find someone else to tell. I'm going to get the hot water myself." She stormed off.
Everyone in the surrounding area had gone quiet and it was a few moments before the clink of tea spoons and the murmur of chatter returned. I took a couple of deep breaths and checked I still had all my limbs. "She's not in the best of moods today," I muttered to myself.
"Tell me about it," said a voice above my head through a mouthful of tacks...
I went back to my stall. Sarah and Marie were there. Marie had a butterfly painted on her face and Sarah had a bag of books and clothing.
"What was that about?" she asked.
"I have no idea and, right now, I don't dare ask. Did you find anything interesting?"
"This and that. It's mainly for the kids. Marie had a go at guessing the name of the teddy bear."
I looked over to the table where Karen's friend Tess was being dwarfed by a virtually life-size cuddly polar bear. People were guessing the thing's name for fifty pence a shot. At the end of the day, the person closest to the correct answer would get to carry home half a ton of Arctic-themed stuffing.
"I hope Marie chose something unlikely. We'd need to build an extension just for the bear."
"Yap-Wap. I think we're safe."
"Good."
The boys returned with some green soap and a book about fairies. Lewis was pretty pleased with the soap and was happily wittering away about where best to put it on display in his room. Fraser, meanwhile, seemed disappointed he hadn't won anything better. I suggested he put the book on the stall and try to sell it.
He did...
...and Marie immediately insisted on buying it. Then we all went for a cup of tea and a scone.
There's maybe a sermon in that too.
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
Labels: Scary Karen, stuff
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Sunday, 21 June 2009
Taking my elbow off the brakes
Dear Dave,Ah, the perfect Father's Day:
A long lie, a cooked breakfast and an afternoon spent dozing in front of the British Grand Prix. Then some quality time with the Xbox, followed by a couple of beers and a film featuring explosions, giant robots and Megan Fox. Meanwhile, the children tip-toe around quietly, being polite to each other and clearing up after themselves.
This is the life...
Not my life, unfortunately, but, hey, I can dream. Marie's attending a birthday party and so I'm writing this surrounded by yelling three-year-olds at the softplay.
Great.
Still, at least there's cake and these days I don't usually have to go into the ball swamp myself. I can shove Marie through the entrance of the giant maze of ramps and netting, and then retreat to a safe distance. I can drink a cup of coffee and make use of the free wi-fi while remaining oblivious to her dare-devil antics dancing on tottering piles of squishy shapes.
It might be worth checking on her later but there are plenty of adults about. After years of crawling through large PVC pipes to rescue her from foam-filled disaster, I'm more than happy to stay in the viewing area and let her fend for herself for a while.
Besides, the bruises haven't entirely faded from last time I was here, a fortnight ago.
It was the turn of Scary Karen's younger son, William, to have a party. With him and his brother in the softplay, I thought I should keep a closer eye on proceedings than normal. (They're the only pre-schoolers I know who've been banned from gymnastics classes for bringing power tools.) They were the least of my worries, though. I'd just followed Marie up to the top of the apparatus when Karen got carried away doing a Tarzan impression. Letting rip with a ululating cry, she swung across the cargo net on a rope and then let out a shriek as she went flying and body slammed me. I yelled and we both fell backwards and went head-first down an enormous slide in a tangle of limbs and cleavage. She was on top. I think I may have screamed.
The rest I've blanked from my mind. The next thing I remember is staring up at a circle of wide-eyed toddlers and then crawling away to the café, whimpering quietly to myself...
On the whole, it was not a pleasant experience. Oddly, however, it was less sore than the only time I've been down that slide voluntarily:
When Fraser was small, I encouraged him to have a go, only to realise as he disappeared that this meant he was at the bottom and I was still at the top. We were a couple of minutes of clambering apart. There was no telling what trouble he might get himself into in that time. To catch up with him quickly, I had no choice but to follow him down the chute. Undaunted, I launched myself in. After all, how bad could it be?
Within half a second of beginning my descent, I regretted my decision. I was hurtling to my demise in a highly-polished, neon red tunnel of doom, and I didn't even have headroom to sit up and see where I was going. In an instinctive bout of self-preservation, I stuck out my arms to slow myself down.
My speed barely altered and I had to spend the rest of the afternoon with my elbows dipped in a couple of Slush Puppies to soothe the friction burns they suffered.
Ow. Fear, and a need for control, brought me pain. I'm not doing that again.
Although...
I can't recall ever having seen this happen to a child. They just whoosh down. More than that, it doesn't matter whether they come out laughing or crying, they're back for another go within minutes.
There's probably a metaphor for life, parenthood, faith, marriage and/or bull riding there if you can be bothered to look for it.
Hmmm.... Bearing this in mind, maybe I've been a bit hasty. Maybe I should stretch my boundaries a little and live life more to the full... I think I'll go have another shot on that slide while Marie is still small enough for me to sneak into the softplay on the pretense of looking after her. Who knows? It might be fun.
If you hear a distant, terrified scream, you'll know it's me. Hopefully, this time, it'll be due to the slide and not Karen...
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
PS Happy Father's Day! Here's wishing you more than a mildly insulting card and a badge which reads, 'Best Dad Ever!'. Put your feet up. You deserve it.
Labels: father's day, housedad, Scary Karen
Thoughts? Responses? Got a funny story about your children? Add your comment here. 9:20 AM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Number 200
Dear Dave,"Oooh!" said Scary Karen, squeezing past me on her way down the narrow stairs. "This reminds me of the time I got trapped in a lift with three bodybuilders and Sean Connery."
"Ungnh..." I grunted, caught between her ample form and the bed-settee which was wedged on the half-landing.
"Course, that took three weeks of planning."
"Ah, hngh..." I nodded, unsure whether this revelation or my actual predicament was the more likely to cause me nightmares. It was a close call. I tried to forget both and concentrated on not blacking out from lack of oxygen.
"We're going to have to back up," said Mike from behind the settee somewhere, "then tip it sideways so we can get round the banister."
"Right you are," said Trevor and started to shove up from below.
"Let me out of the way first!" shrieked Rob as the sofa pinned him to a wall.
"And me," I added. At least that's what I tried to say. It came out more like, "Ungheeee!" and trailed off into a whimper.
"Don't know your own strength, do you, my little honey-munchkin?" said Karen, finally compressing me enough to squash by and emerge next to Trevor with an audible pop. She grasped one of his bulging biceps appreciatively and tickled him under the beard.
"Not now, love," said Trevor. He was supporting most of the weight of the bed-settee. He was also, apparently, ticklish. My whole world started to wobble and shake.
"And why's that?" Karen said. "You're the one showing off your muscles." She started to snog him very loudly.
"Big sofa..." I gasped. "About... wheeze... to kill us all..."
"Couldn't you have found someone else to help?" muttered Rob under his breath, still trapped.
"You're the one who was too much of a cheapskate to hire removal people but then decided to move midweek so all your other mates had the handy excuse of being at work to avoid helping."
My words were mostly drowned out, however, by the sink-plunging noises coming from Karen and Trevor.
"Can't hear you," said Rob.
"Never mind," I said. "Almost done now."
It was true. Our various children had been farmed out to friends and relatives and we'd spent a couple of hours loading the contents of Rob's flat into a van. We'd then popped round quickly to my place merely to pick up my surplus bed-settee on the way to his new house. Since he was about to have plenty of extra space and I said he could have the sofa for free, he was more than willing to take it. Getting it downstairs to the front door from our lounge was proving trickier than I'd imagined, though.
"Where's Steve?" croaked Rob. "Has he sloped off again."
"He's not with me," grunted Mike's disembodied voice.
"Haven't seen him," I said.
Then, seemingly on cue, Useless Dad emerged from the direction of the kitchen, cheerily waving a mug around. "Cup of tea, any...?" he began and then noticed Karen and Trevor. He stopped and stared at them for a moment and then backed away hastily.
Luckily, it was enough to distract Karen from sucking Trevor's whiskers off. "Milk and four sugars for me! I'll lend a hand." She gave Trevor's backside a firm fondle and then followed Steve.
There was a muffled squeal of fright from the kitchen but I ignored it as the rest of us turned our full attention to the sofa. There was a great deal of huffing and shoving and turning and then somehow we were in the narrow hall and out the door with only minor strains and bruises. Trevor unlocked the rented van and we loaded up.
The bed-settee didn't fit.
Rob swore. "It's almost in. Maybe if we move some of the other stuff around..."
"Not worth it," said Mike. "We'd have to completely unload. We'd be as well taking what we've got to the house and then coming back."
"I suppose," said Rob, shrugging. "Let's get the sofa inside."
I shook my head. "There's no room on the ground floor. We'd need to get it up the stairs again."
No one liked the sound of that.
"We could just put some bin-liners over it or something and leave it in the driveway," said Rob.
I disagreed. "This is the centre of Edinburgh. If we leave it out here, someone will try to make off with it. I put a broken 28-inch telly out for the council to collect once. No way one person on their own could get far with it. Still disappeared within half an hour and that was in the middle of the night."
Steve and Karen brought the tea out as we discussed options. I took a sip of mine and nearly gagged. "I think I got yours, Karen."
Steve signed frantically behind her back, making it clear I was somehow in dangerous territory.
"I put four sugars in all of them," said Karen, "to boost your energy. Bit of sugar keeps you going." She winked at Trevor. "I gave you seven..."
"I..." I started to reply but Steve's flapping only increased. I noticed that his mug had an entire stick of shortbread poking out of it and realised he'd already had this argument and lost big time. "Er... How thoughtful..." I mumbled and sipped at the brew, feeling my teeth dissolve as I did so.
Eventually we decided that Rob and Karen would go in the van with Trevor, Mike would follow along behind in his car and I would remain to guard the sofa. I did suggest it might be a better use of resources if I helped with the heavy lifting and Mike or Karen stayed with the bed-settee. Mike had arranged to visit a church member who lived out in Rob's direction, though, and didn't have time for toing-and-froing. Karen, meanwhile, beat me in an arm wrestle.
I put on my coat, sat in the driveway and waved them off. Steve brought us both out a second mug of tea that was somewhat more drinkable, and kept me company. He couldn't stay long because he wanted to get to work in time to go for lunch.
I popped inside to find some biscuits. "How are things going in the consultancy business?" I asked when I returned with some chocolate digestives.
"Very well. Very well. There are plenty of firms desperate to cut costs right now."
"By hiring you at great expense to tell them to stop stocking free sanitary towels in the women's toilets?"
"Indeed," he said, entirely seriously.
I sighed and decided I really didn't want to know any more. "And what about your nanny situation?" I said, changing topic. "Fiona's bump looked the size of Switzerland this morning. Can't be long before she heads off on maternity leave. What are you going to do?"
"It's all under control. One of the other nannies we interviewed last year is only on a short-term contract and can take over when Fiona leaves in the middle of next month."
"Oh... That's good..." I tried to sound upbeat but Fiona had been chosen mainly by default on the basis that the others were unsuitable or positively certifiable.
"Yes, I called him myself. He was very enthusiastic."
I did a double-take. "The manny?" I was confused. The guy was a great choice but Steve had been utterly opposed to employing a man during the previous selection process. Nothing I, or his wife, Deborah, could say had been able to change his mind.
Steve mistook the reasons for my scepticism. "Come now, you of all people should know that men can look after children just as well as women. Ewan's extremely well qualified and the children really took to him. Of course, Deborah wasn't so sure but I managed to talk her round. He'll be a real asset to the household."
"Totally," I managed to mutter and then there was quiet as we drank our tea and I resisted the urge to slap him by texting Deborah to congratulate her on her exceptional powers of manipulation.
Time passed.
"Rather cold out here, isn't it?" said Steve after a while.
I nodded. "Uh-huh."
Then the first flakes of snow started to fall.
* * *
Trevor, Rob and Karen returned with the van, skidding up at the end of the drive with a screech of passengers.
I went out of the house with an umbrella to meet them. "That was quick."
"Karen gave Trevor a second cuppa at our place," replied Rob, staggering from the van. "Meant he unloaded the stuff pretty sharpish but I think it would be better if you drove until the sugar high wears off."
"Might be for the best," I said as we watched Trevor heft the settee into the van by himself then flex his muscles for our admiration.
We climbed in after the sofa and set about removing the protective bin-liners without dropping too much snow down behind the cushions. Rob chuckled. "I was expecting to find you and Steve still sitting in the driveway, frozen solid, with icicles dangling from your noses."
"Sorry to disappoint you. He 'remembered' an urgent memo he had to write the moment things turned wintry and I'm not entirely daft. I wasn't going to freeze to death protecting what is now, officially, your sofa. I went inside, turned on the heating and glanced out the window occasionally."
"Fair enough."
"Oy," called Karen. "Is that thing tied down?"
Rob shrugged. "Sort of."
"Me and Trevor can ride in the back and keep an eye on it if you want."
I'd have been nervous about driving the van under normal circumstances, and the Arctic conditions only made matters worse. The thought of Karen and Trevor alone in the back with excess energy and a bed-settee didn't exactly improve my state of mind.
"That's OK," said Rob, thankfully coming to the same conclusion. "Appreciate all the help but we can take it from here. You guys can head home."
Karen looked slightly disappointed but then I added, "Aren't your kids going to be at your mum's for another couple of hours? You could get some stuff done round the flat or..."
Before I could finish, Karen screamed as Trevor hefted her up in a fireman's lift and jogged off down the road amidst a mix of shrieks and giggles.
"Er, yes, or I suppose you could do that..." I trailed off.
Rob and I looked at each other. "Time to go?" he said hurriedly.
"Definitely," I replied.
* * *
The journey to the outskirts of town was slow and the return trip to the van hire place was even slower, traffic crawling along in the light flurries of snow that count as a blizzard round here. Rob came back with me, just to make sure if I skidded off the road and lay dying in a ditch, that I wouldn't be lonely. We didn't talk much. I concentrated on the way ahead, he fiddled incessantly with the radio.
It was a relief to finally arrive.
"Might as well see you home," said Rob, once we'd handed in the keys.
"I'm 35, it's snowing and you've got unpacking to be doing. You don't need to walk me the couple of streets to my door."
"Humour me," he said, slinging a hold-all over his shoulder and setting off into the wind and a stinging barrage of sleet.
"What's in the bag?" I called after him.
"It's a surprise."
He didn't give me any further hints and, hunched over, we struggled onwards, icy rain attempting to rip our faces off. We did nothing but grunt and grumble for several minutes before tumbling in through my front door. I dripped over the carpet and put the kettle on. "It's not some old tat you found at the bottom of a cupboard that you're trying to palm off on me is it?"
"Nope."
"What is it then?"
Rob looked a little embarrassed. "Living across town is going to make meeting up harder - what with both of us having kids now, and all. I was thinking we should try and organise some regular online gaming to keep in touch. We can still shoot each other and chat and drink beer but we won't have to be in the same room."
I shook my head. "Nice idea but you have a PS3 and I have an Xbox - we're on opposite sides of the gaming divide."
"Er, you know how I never got round to buying you a gift for being my best man?"
"It had crossed my mind," I said but I was suddenly too excited to sound appropriately annoyed.
He handed me the bag. "They had a real bargain in the window of the secondhand place when I went past the other day. Happy belated wedding-help thank you!"
I unzipped the bag with shaking fingers, hardly daring to hope what might be inside. It was...
I stared at the contents in disbelief.
"It's a PlayStation 3," said Rob helpfully.
"Er, yeah," I said, "but why's it orange?"
"The casing's battered. Some genius tried to touch it up with an airbrush and give it a face-lift in the process. Still works, though. Well, it would, if it had a controller and cables."
"This gets better."
Rob had obviously expected this reaction and practised on his sales pitch. "I thought if anyone was likely to have the right wires lying around, it would be you."
I took a closer looker. "Maybe... The AV cable from my PS2 might work and the power cord from a desktop."
"And you'd be wanting to buy one of the newer controllers that has rumble anyway."
"True." I checked my watch. "I've just enough time to get to GAME and back before I have to collect Marie and then go along to school for the boys..." I put the console safely on the kitchen table, flung on a second scarf and ushered Rob towards the snowstorm, the thought of hot drinks forgotten.
"Come on, admit it, you're pleased," said Rob as we headed out the door.
"Oh, all right. If it works, I'm delighted. Thanks very much. It'll be a pleasure filling you full of lead, even if it's from a distance."
"Excellent," he shouted over the wind. "How about Wednesday nights?"
"Sounds good. Now, you really need to get home and help Kate with the unpacking."
"I suppose."
We parted company at the gate, shaking hands in an almost formal goodbye. It was weird. He's only moved out near the zoo but, all at once, it felt like a huge distance. Getting together will be much more of an effort from now on. As we trudged off along the pavement in opposite directions, I was briefly sad.
Then I remembered that he'll still be working quite close - once Marie starts school full-time in September, I'll be free to meet him for lunch whenever. I took some comfort from this...
Also, I had a PS3!
Despite a small sense of loss and the imminent threat of my ears falling off from the cold, it was hard not to grin...
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
Labels: blokesnight, Scary Karen, Useless Dad
Thoughts? Responses? Got a funny story about your children? Add your comment here. 11:00 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
Black holes and birthday parties
Dear Dave,"You're late," I said, opening the door and letting Mostly Useless Dad, Steve, into the house.
"Sorry," he replied with a big grin on his face, not seeming sorry at all. "Alistair wanted to talk and I couldn't get away."
I didn't have time to ask who Alistair was or why Steve was wearing a suit. He'd told me he needed me to look after his children because he 'had some things to do'. I'd simply assumed a trip to the shops and a little light DIY. I certainly hadn't expected him to be gone so long.
"You only left one nappy," I said as four-year-old Ophelia ran into the hall to hug him and Josquin (who's almost two now) toddled along behind.
He gave them both a somewhat distracted pat on the head. "You have plenty," he said over their clamouring squeals of 'Daddy!'.
"No, we don't. Marie's four! She hasn't worn nappies for a year and a half."
"Really? She's four?"
I pointed to the big, pink poster above the kitchen door. It read, 'Happy 4th Birthday, Marie!'.
"Yes," I said. "No nappies. I had to sit Josquin in the bath for ten minutes while Sarah nipped along the road and borrowed a couple from neighbours."
"Borrowed!? They want them back?"
"Of course they don't want them back. I mean..." I noticed he was smirking. I suddenly realised that, for a change, he wasn't being completely clueless. "Hang on, that was a joke, wasn't it?" He was in an awfully good mood. "Where have you been? Your mobile was off. I... Never mind. We don't have time right now. Tell me on the way."
In return for looking after his kids all morning, he was giving me a lift to Marie's birthday party. Since there weren't enough seats in the car, Sarah had taken our children on the bus. I, meanwhile, was in charge of the stuff: sandwiches, paper plates, little bottles of juice for the kids, plastic cups and cartons of juice for the adults, cake, candles, matches, knife, chocolate buttons, wipes, CD player, CDs, parcel to be passed, cocktail sausages, crisps, more crisps, a vast assortment of tack to put in party bags, party bags, balloons, grapes, chopped carrot, more chocolate, prizes and two handheld games consoles (to keep the boys quiet).
Steve strapped Josquin and Ophelia in while I loaded my two large laundry tubs of party supplies into the boot. The car noticeably sagged as I did so. I ran back to the house to check I hadn't forgotten anything, then locked up and hurried to climb into the passenger seat. I slammed the door and we were away.
We were hugely behind schedule and I was hoping for a screech of tyres and the smell of burning rubber. Sensibly, however, Steve pulled cautiously away from the kerb and headed off slowly, looking for a place to turn round.
Some loud, piercing birdsong erupted from my pocket.
Steve swerved slightly. "What the...?"
"It's my phone, sorry," I apologised. "It has to be loud enough for me to hear over three children and traffic." I had a text message. It was from Scary Karen. She was worried about the Large Hadron Collider again.
"Anything important?"
"Karen thinks one of her children may have swallowed a miniature black hole," I said, scrolling through the message. "She wants to know whether she should call CERN."
"Er... Is that possible?"
"Not really but I already tried explaining the physics to her the other day when she thought she'd got one trapped in the oven. I think I may have gone a little too technical with my explanation of singularities, gravity wells and event horizons because she still wouldn't go near the kitchen. Her family had to live on Pot Noodles for three days until I told her that half an hour on Gas Mark 3 would make the thing safe."
"Uh-huh," said Steve, laughing nervously, unsure exactly how much to believe.
I suspected his knowledge of physics wasn't large. As a quick test, I asked him the standard question, "If you stood on the moon and let go of a pen, would it float where it was, float off or fall to the moon's surface?"
"What? Er... Float off?" he said, frowning and clearly unsure.
I gave him a second chance. "Then why didn't the Apollo astronauts fly away whenever they tried to walk anywhere?"
"Oh," he said, his confidence returning. "They were wearing heavy boots. Everyone knows that." He grinned at me like I was an idiot for asking him something so obvious.
"Hmmm... Yes..." I said, refraining from screaming at him because I knew he was a lost cause. "Your oven is larger than Karen's. You'll need to put it on for an hour if you ever have any concerns."
Steve nodded seriously. "That's good to know."
I texted Karen back, telling her there was nothing to worry about but that I'd check both her boys out at the party to make sure. Then I remembered what I'd really been meaning to ask Steve.
"So... Where were you on a Saturday morning that required a suit and no children?" This simply wasn't normal housedad behaviour.
"I bumped into an old school friend in town a month ago. Hadn't seen each other for ages and arranged to play golf. We got on rather well. Turns out he runs his own business consultancy firm and they're looking for someone new. He offered me an interview."
I was incredulous. "On a Saturday?"
"He's been busy with clients all week. You know how it is - sometimes the work has to be done and everything else takes a backseat."
"We're in the backseat, Daddy!" called Ophelia from behind us.
"That's not what I meant, dear," said Steve, even though, in some sense, it very much was.
"How did it go?" I asked.
"I don't have anything in writing yet but he's as good as given it to me. He wants me to go back on Wednesday and meet the rest of the team. Can you take Josquin over lunch?"
He was probably expecting some form of congratulation but all I could manage was, "Does Deborah know?" I found it hard to imagine she was thrilled. (Deborah's not a fan of putting the kids in childcare but, with her interior design business doing so well, she's not likely to want to go back to being a housemum, either.)
"Haven't had a chance to tell her," said Steve. "She's away at some conference or other. That's why I needed you to watch the children."
"She knew about the interview, though, right?"
Steve looked shifty.
I held my head in my hands. "You took a job that Deborah didn't even know you'd applied for?"
"Well, as I said, I don't have anything in writing yet but..."
"You're a dead man." I felt like a Jedi Master returning home to find my young padawan using the Force to propel cute puppies into space. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and yell, "Have I taught you nothing?"
He was still driving, though, so I decided against it. I merely sighed deeply. It appears that despite his child-wrangling skills having improved greatly in the year since he was made redundant, he really hasn't come to terms with parenthood. He's still a middle-manager in slightly soiled housedad clothing. Put him back in a suit and nothing's changed.
"So, can you take Josquin on Wednesday?" asked Useless Dad.
"I suppose..." I muttered. "But don't think I'm going to take him fifty hours a week so you can pretend to the wife you're carting him to the zoo every day when you're really sloping off to further your career."
As we pulled up at the party venue, Steve looked faintly disappointed.
We were late. I unloaded the stuff and hurried into the building while Steve followed behind with his kids. Sarah gave me a look as we arrived but I merely shrugged and rolled my eyes and shook my head in the direction of Useless Dad and then set to work helping supervise children. We'd booked the use of a small soft-play for an hour. It was a maelstrom of plastic slides, brightly coloured balls and little girls wearing sparkly clothing.
Marie was unwrapping her presents and stacking them on a table by the door. Various parents at nursery had come up to her over the previous week and asked her what kind of things she liked. On every occasion, she had replied, "Pink things." As a result, the pile of gifts was a eclectic mix of fairy costumes, dolls, craft sets and clothing. It was, however, almost uniformly the colour of candy-floss. Marie was delighted. She squealed with pleasure every time she opened a parcel.
This was quite a contrast from Fraser's fourth birthday party. We had to stop him halfway through his presents because of the constant stream of complaining. "I don't like Power Rangers... What's this? I'm not going to play with that... Oh, it's only a jigsaw... Lewis can have these... This is OK but we've got two already... We can sell that..." Lewis was the same. They've had to open their parcels at home ever since...
Marie's friends were having fun in the soft-play. Several parents had stuck around to help out and chat, which was good - it's always useful to have a few extra pairs of hands available to deal with accidents and toilet runs.
The boys grabbed their computer games from me and disappeared up a corner to play. We didn't let them in the soft-play because they're so big now. They'd have squashed Marie's petite associates or, worse, tried to take charge of them. Fraser attempted that at Lewis' party a couple of years ago and the younger children didn't take kindly to being told what to do, ambushing him in the ball-swamp and then sitting on him. It didn't go well.
The hour passed quickly and with little incident. Scary Karen brought her kids over to me and I looked down their throats and gently prodded their tummies before giving them a clean bill of health. Karen didn't seem convinced, so I took a set of magnets that Marie had been given and waved the things around a bit, looked at my watch carefully and scribbled down some calculations. Then I checked her boys' balance by getting them to stand on one leg and hop. I reassured Karen again after that and she was a lot happier. She gave Marie her present.
It was a pink, sparkly garden gnome princess (complete with pink, sparkly beard).
Marie was genuinely ecstatic.
When our session was up in the soft-play, we got to go through to a side room for food and games. While Sarah oversaw Pass the Parcel, Karen and Steve helped me hurriedly fling plates and refreshments and party blowers onto the tables. Then we had half an hour of relative peace during which exhausted children ignored the sandwiches and concentrated on eating chocolate.
Just as the sugar started to kick in, parents began turning up to collect their offspring. We did the cake and finished off with a quick game of Musical Statues while I and my helpers shoveled debris into bin bags. Marie handed party bags around and we were out the door barely in time for the staff to clean up for the next booking. It was all a mad rush in the end. Somehow we blinked and found ourselves in the car park, thankfully waving goodbye to a horde of tired, crotchety, buzzed children.
We could breathe again.
"Ready to go?" asked Steve.
I bundled the stuff into his car but it was Sarah's turn to get a lift. Marie wanted to go with her and, fortunately, I'd brought a spare booster seat to cope with the situation. A great deal of strapping and buckling ensued. I gently broke the news to the boys that we were going to walk home in order to make sure they got some exercise. They weren't happy. I phased out their whinging, though - Steve was looking pensive.
"You're not going to tell Deborah, are you?" he said.
It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. A couple of hours of children's party had taken its toll.
I shook my head. "I don't need to. You have a daughter who's nearly five. Deborah will know everything within ten minutes of arriving home. You'd be best getting your version in first."
Fear crossed Steve's face as he considered all the things that Ophelia could both understand and say and thus use to incriminate him. It was a lot of things. Strangely, the possibility of independent and reasoned thought by his kids didn't seem to have occurred to him before. "Oh."
"Children are people, too," I said. Then I got another text. It was Karen wanting to know what noises would precede the world being eaten by a black hole, so she'd hear it coming and have a bit of warning to put on clean underwear.
Trying not to ponder that too carefully (for oh so many reasons), I waved Steve and the others goodbye and set off down the road, dragging the boys behind me.
I was very much looking forward to getting home and having a lie down.
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
Labels: Scary Karen, science, Useless Dad
Thoughts? Responses? Got a funny story about your children? Add your comment here. 9:30 AM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Scary Karen's lair
Dear Dave,I was procrastinating.
"OK," I said, checking through the backpack on the kitchen table one more time. "Change of clothes for Marie, packet of wipes, packet of biscuits, box of plasters, raincoats, beaker of water, pen, notebook, sick bag, tissues..." Was I forgetting something?
My teenage nephew Ned helpfully gave some suggestions. "...Sword that glows when goblins are about, mithril armour and bottle of starlight?"
"Yeah, yeah, very funny," I said, trying not to lose my concentration.
"'S'like you think you're heading into Mordor or something."
"I knew what you meant. We had The Lord of the Rings in my day, too. Even if the film was a cartoon, went all trippy when a fight broke out and ended halfway through the story."
"You what?"
"Never mind," I muttered. "Let's just say it was a disappointment. At least I was able to read the book."
"I can read," Ned said indignantly.
"So you claim."
"Whatever," he said, not rising to it. "It's a lot of stuff."
"This is the stuff I normally take with me when I go round someone's house with Marie," I said, zipping up the backpack and moving it to the side. "This..." I reached under the table and brought out a hold-all. "...is what I take when I'm expecting trouble. Let's see - rubber gloves, change of clothes for myself, cleaning fluid, cuddly toy, extra pack of biscuits, wellies, soft cushion, emergency contact numbers, thermal blanket, cotton-wool, Kendal Mint Cake, compass..."
"You're only going round her house," said Ned.
"This is Scary Karen we're talking about. It's best to be prepared."
"Yeah, but..."
"You haven't met her," I interrupted. "You don't know what she's like."
"Yeah, but..."
I needed to make him understand. "You know that video on YouTube of the crazy woman dressed as Wonder Woman hunting down anti-social teenagers with a pair of carving forks?"
His eyes widened. "You're having me on. That's not really her."
"No, it's not," I said. "Karen's not that old or restrained. That's her mum."
"Wuh?" He looked nervous. "Does her mum live round here?"
"Luckily for you, no."
"Uh-huh." He handed me a small bundle from the table. "Don't forget your bandages."
"Cheers." I packed them in the hold-all. "Right. I think that's everything. Are you sure you can handle this?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Fraser and Lewis are playing computer games. They'll almost certainly still be playing the same games when I get back. They may not even notice I'm gone. If there's a problem, I'll only be a couple of streets away. I can be back in five minutes."
Ned shrugged. "OK."
I wasn't hugely reassured. "The correct response is, 'That's good to know but don't worry, we'll be fine.'"
"Oh, OK," he said.
I waited a second for him to say back to me what I needed to hear but he didn't. I began to question the wisdom of leaving him in charge of the boys for a couple of hours. He was old enough and probably capable and the boys don't need much looking after but, well... Was that going to be convincing testimony if I had to explain in court why I'd come home to find two fire-engines, a SWAT team, mountain rescue and Super Nanny circled round the house?
I stuck my head into the lounge. Fraser and Lewis didn't look up from the screen.
"OK, boys, I'm going out with Marie. Ned's in charge. No fighting, no playing with matches and no falling down the stairs. If there's trouble, my mobile number is in the phone."
"What's a mobile?" asked Lewis
"I don't know how to work the phone," said Fraser. He gave the impression that the very thought of doing so filled him with distaste.
I was running late and getting flustered because I didn't want to keep Scary Karen waiting. Nonetheless, being able to use the phone is an important life skill that an eight-year-old should really know, even if the things are ten times more complicated than when I was eight. (Do you remember when 'dialling' actually involved a dial?) I taught Fraser the basics of telephone operation.
I may regret this in a few years.
I left the boys to it and went to find Marie. She was still sitting on the toilet, singing, as she had been the whole time. I got her to get off and wash her hands. While she was doing that, I made one last check that I had everything with me.
"Have you got my mobile number?" I asked Ned.
"Think so," he said.
"OK," I said and pressed a couple of buttons on my handset.
Moments later, Ned's phone rang. "Yeah?" he said, answering it.
"'Think so' isn't good enough," I snapped. The statement went in one ear and was prevented from going straight out the other as, by the power of modern telecommunications, it collided with itself coming in the other direction. "Now you've definitely got my number." I hung up, gathered my things and dragged Marie out the door. "See you later."
"Yeah, see you," he said.
We were on our way.
Normally it wouldn't take us long to travel a couple of streets but Marie was having one of those days. We got to the end of the drive and she needed the toilet. We went back. She did her thing. We left again. She wanted to go to the swing park. We argued. She tripped over and scraped her knee. I cleaned her up with the water and cotton-wool and applied a plaster. We went a hundred yards. She walked into a wheelie bin...
By the time we reached the door of Scary Karen's building, Marie looked like Mr Bump with long hair and a foul temper. I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer. We were half an hour late.
There was a pause, the intercom crackled and the lock clacked open to let us in. We proceeded into the stairwell. Karen lives in a complex of flats built in the seventies. It's not swish but the place is sturdily built, functional and well-maintained. It will probably out-last the swathe of developments of two and three bedroom 'luxury' apartments that have sprung up around it. The walls were white and there were heavy-duty brown carpet tiles on the floor. There was a slight air of leisure centre about the decor.
Apart from the gnomes.
Spaced a few feet apart, garden gnomes stood to attention on either side of the corridor. Some had fishing rods, others were gardening, one appeared to be doing his tax return. For about a minute, it was the most garden gnomes I had ever seen.
Even Marie was stunned into silence by the sight of them.
We went up the stairs to the third floor. There were more gnomes all the way and they got closer together as we went until we reached Karen's door and found it flanked by a score of the little blighters. I wasn't surprised to see that the landing further along was devoid of miniature ceramic men with pointy beards. It was entirely gnome-free. I sighed and knocked on Karen's door.
It swung open but no one was there. From the gloom, there was a muffled shout that sounded like an invitation to enter. A strange aroma reminiscent of raspberries and bleach wafted out to greet us. I hesitated.
Then I noticed that Marie had picked up one of the gnomes and was shaking it to see if the bell on the end of its brightly coloured hat made any noise. I was quite glad it didn't. She reluctantly let me take it from her so I could put it back safely. "Time to play with Malcolm," I said, trying to coax her over the threshold. "Won't it be nice to see him? You haven't seen any of your nursery friends for a while."
"I don't like him," said Marie. "He's not my friend."
"Everyone's friends at nursery," I said, hoping to use her institutional indoctrination to my advantage.
She's too much of an independent thinker for that, however. "This isn't nursery," she said.
"True." I tried a different tack. "There'll be doughnuts."
"OK..." she said and led the way inside. "But I won't play with him," she added over her shoulder, just to make sure I knew where we stood.
I shook my head, followed her in and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Slowly, the hallway came into focus and I found a hundred pairs of eyes staring back at me. The minute was up. The record for the most garden gnomes I had ever seen had been supremely broken.
"Look!" said Marie, pointing. "Little men with beards."
"Yes. They're gnomes," I said. Either Karen collected them, made them or had severely messed up on an internet order from B&Q, putting in her credit card number rather than the desired quantity. I had visions of a pile of gnomes out the back that reached to the moon. I wondered if it was time to leave already.
The door thudded closed behind me.
I jumped. Karen had come out of the kitchen and shut it. "Do you like them?" she asked. "The gnomes..." she clarified, when I looked bewildered.
"Very... impressive," I squeaked. Marie clung to my leg.
"William's having a nap. Malcolm's in the front room with Trevor. You go on through. Want a cuppa?"
"Coffee," I said. "If that's OK?"
"Right you are," she said and disappeared back into the kitchen. She seemed to be in a good mood and to be unconcerned we were late. I breathed slightly more freely and prised myself out of Marie's grasp.
We went through to the front room. It had plenty of high shelves. A few had photos on. Most were loaded with gnomes.
Karen's three-year-old, Malcolm, was on the floor, playing with a heap of Action Man gear. Marie ignored him and went over to investigate a toy garage.
"Hello there. How you keeping?" asked Karen's burly boy-friend, Trevor, getting up from his seat.
It was a while since I'd seen him but he hadn't changed much. This maybe had something to do with the fact he's totally bald and covered in tattoos - there really aren't many options for a make-over. He was growing a beard, though. It was already fairly long but he'd trimmed it in a peculiarly pointy fashion.
Trevor is quite stout. A pictured popped into my head of him in a brightly coloured hat with a bell on the end. Suddenly scared, I went to shake his hand but only caused him to fumble the fishing rod he was holding.
"I'm fine," I said, squeaking once again. "Yourself?"
"Not so bad," he said, picking up the rod and stowing it back in a cardboard box behind the sofa. "Unpacking."
"You've moved in?"
"Yeah."
"That's good."
"Mmmm," he said.
I realised I was going to have to make most of the conversational running but I wasn't really feeling up to it. "You and Karen getting along well then?"
"Like a house on fire."
"Excellent." I was genuinely pleased for them. "How's everything else?"
"Can't complain."
"Good... Erm..."
It was like being back home talking to Ned. We sat in silence for a bit and then Karen arrived with the drinks and the box of doughnuts she owed me. She talked for all three of us. I learnt about a conspiracy to control our thoughts using toothpaste, the minke whale's breeding habits, her varicose vein (yes, that one), the engraved carving forks she'd had made for her mum, the cleaning power of raspberries and the pictures she'd sent to Prince Charles before she'd met Trevor. I also learnt the names of all the gnomes...
Finally, she was done. She cleared up the snacks and took them through to the kitchen. The moment she was gone, Malcolm stomped over to Marie and grabbed a car from her hand.
"Oi! Give that back!" said Trevor.
Malcolm threw himself to the floor and started to scream.
Trevor stared at him, totally dumbfounded. "Er..." He was clearly deeply unsettled by the turn of events. "I'll go get Karen," he said, getting up hurriedly.
"Don't worry," I said, waving him to sit down again. "Ignore him and he'll give up soon enough." I thought back over my experiences with my own children and decided to qualify the assertion. "Probably. Sometimes it can take twenty minutes... or an hour... or, er, two..." I trailed off.
Trevor looked very tense.
"Is everything really going OK?" I asked.
"Karen's a fine woman," he said. "A very fine woman." He drifted away for a moment, lost in thoughts I didn't dare contemplate myself in case I had to beat them off with a stick. "She's good to me. We have a laugh. It's... It's not her. It's the kids. I can't handle them."
This was worrying. If Trevor was longing to be part of a couple rather than a family, life was going to get miserable for him and Karen pretty quickly. "Oh," I said, unsure what else to say. I must have backed it up with a horrified expression, though, because Trevor went on hastily.
"Don't get me wrong - I like 'em. They're fun and all. It's that I can't make them do what I say. Karen goes out and they're all over the shop, hollering and making a mess. I can't make them happy." He leant forward and whispered, looking shiftily from side to side to make sure Karen hadn't sneaked back into the room. "They even move the gnomes..."
I tried to appear suitably concerned about the possible consequences of shuffled garden ornaments but I was secretly relieved. Trevor was merely feeling under-trained and overwhelmed. That was fixable. "Don't be afraid of upsetting them," I said.
"All I seem to do is upset them." To back Trevor up, Malcolm re-doubled his screaming.
"Nope," I said. "They're kicking up a fuss to test you out. They won't be upset until you stop giving them what they want. Unfortunately, unless you stop giving them what they want, they'll keep making a fuss. That's fine for an occasional afternoon like you've had to deal with up until now but you can't live that way. It's not good for anyone."
Trevor was confused.
"Look at it like this," I said. "I've left my nephew keeping an eye on my boys. He's babysitting - it's his job to keep them quiet and amused for a couple of hours. I've left everything from Pokémon DVDs to sweets at his disposal. When I get back, they will love him and want to spend the rest of the day with him playing computer games. They won't be too pleased when I tell them I'm taking them to the park. They will complain. One or other of them may cry."
"Even though they're your kids?" asked Trevor, surprised.
"Pretty much because they're my kids. I'm their dad. Yeah, there are times when I have to keep them quiet or amused but it's my job to make sure they get plenty of fresh air and exercise, that they eat healthy food, they do what they're told, they're polite, they know right from wrong, their hair is brushed, they have a grasp of road safety, they wash their hands and they're not up past bedtime. That's bound to lead to conflict of some form approximately every other minute."
The knowledge that conflict in itself wasn't failure cheered Trevor up and worried him in equal measure. "I still don't know what to do with them," he said.
I shrugged. "Why should you? You haven't had practice. Do your best. Things will get messy sometimes but you can't make a family without... er... breaking gnomes. Anyway, Karen thinks you can handle the children."
"Why do you say that?"
"If she didn't," I said, "she'd have been back through here as soon as the screaming started."
"Hadn't thought of it like that," said Trevor, the glimmer of hope in his eyes. To underline my point, Malcolm had got bored and gone back to playing with his Action Man.
Peace restored, I reached for the last doughnut. Technically it was Marie's but she hadn't shown any interest and I'd used up a lot of nervous energy that needed replaced. The icing and sprinkles were calling to me. As I lifted the sugary goodness towards my lips, however, I glanced up and nearly choked.
The gnomes were watching me.
Some of them had axes.
My addled brain simply wasn't up to the resulting visions. "Marie!" I called. "Do you want another doughnut?"
She ran over and took it from me. "Thanks! Can I have some more milk?"
"No problem." I took her cup through to the kitchen.
Karen was washing up. "Is Malcolm all right?"
"Oh, he just threw a wobbly when Trevor told him off for snatching. No disaster."
Karen was concerned. "And Trevor coped with that, did he?"
"Fine," I said, trying to sound convincing. "Can Marie have some more milk?"
She pointed me in the direction of the fridge. "He's been finding it difficult, the poor lamb," said Karen. "It's hard work becoming a dad just like that. Maybe I could send him round to yours for tips."
"Er, maybe," I said. Ned seems to be spending a large part of the summer at my house and Mostly Useless Dad and his kids are still regular visitors. I could barely imagine the bulk quantities of biscuits I would need to buy if Trevor and children started showing up as well. I attempted to shift responsibility elsewhere. "It's reassurance you appreciate the effort he's putting in that he needs more than anything else."
"You think so?"
"It's certainly a consideration," I said and hunted around in the fridge for some milk.
It was next to a gnome.
I began to calculate how soon I could run home without appearing rude. I reckoned I had another half an hour. I carried Marie's milk back through and played with the children. Trevor joined in. We made a tent using the thermal blanket and the kids took it in turns to sit on the soft cushion while the other one wore wellies and wrapped the cuddly toy in bandages. I ate some Kendal Mint Cake to keep my strength up.
"Can we go now?" said Marie after a while.
It was a good excuse to leave. We packed our stuff, said our good-byes and went out the door. Karen gave me a hug and a gnome riding on a snail. I'm not sure which was more scary. In my altered mental state, I may have made some rash promise to have them all round to tea sometime. I can't remember. We hurried past the ceramic sentries and out into the sunshine.
We'd survived. We practically skipped home.
When we arrived, everything was mysteriously quiet. Marie settled down to spend a quarter of an hour washing her hands and I went up to the lounge. The boys hadn't moved. Ned was sitting playing my PSP.
"Everything OK?" I asked.
There was no reply.
"I'll make lunch then," I said.
There was still no acknowledgement of my existence.
"Boiled cabbage for everyone. Is that OK?"
"Very, very, very, very, very, very, very funny, Daddy," said Lewis, without taking his eye off the screen.
"Uh? What was that?" said Fraser, pausing his game. "Uh? Uh?"
"I'm going to make lunch and then we're going to the park."
"Awww. Do we have to?" said Fraser.
"I want to stay here with Ned," said Lewis.
"I do too," said Fraser, close to tears
I shook my head. "Ned's coming as well."
"Wuh?" said Ned,
"I'm not leaving you here on your own for an hour - you'll watch an 18 video while drinking my beer and calling a premium rate number in Australia. You can come with us or go home."
There was much wailing from the three of them but I ignored it and was halfway to the kitchen before they had a chance to really get going. I knew they wouldn't be upset for long and I wasn't prepared to argue with them - they needed some fresh air and exercise. Besides, it was time for lunch.
Well, almost. First, I had to find a suitable location for my new gnome...
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
Labels: Ned, Scary Karen
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Wednesday, 18 June 2008
Nursery sports day
Dear Dave,Have you had your nursery sports day yet? If not, I should fill you in on what they're like, seeing as this is your first year and everything. Ours was yesterday and involved all the parents heading along to the local park and watching their offspring run backwards and forwards for a couple of hours. It made a nice change from having to run backwards and forwards myself while being watched by my offspring which is the way life seems to work most of the time.
Fortunately, conditions were ideal - it was reasonably warm but not sunny enough to turn all the children into lobsters. I handed Marie over to Miss Nolan and went to sit down on the grass. Two hours struck me as rather a while to have three-year-olds running about. Despite it being the fourth or fifth nursery sports that I'd attended, I couldn't remember what filled the time. I had a nagging suspicion that I'd forgotten something.
The kids were divided into three teams, arranged into lines and made to wear bibs in their team colour.
You cannot imagine how long this took.
Small children wandered about, stood in the wrong place, forgot their own names, tangled themselves up in brightly coloured, elasticated cloth and then fell over. The teachers patiently put them right but it was a lengthy process before they were finally able to start. The first race entailed the child at the front of their team line throwing a beanbag into a bucket, running to a cone, running back again, picking up the beanbag and handing it to the next child. They were all given the instructions, told to try hard and then they were off!
Er...
That's to say, all three lead children looked blankly at their beanbags and had to be told the instructions again. Then they took a few attempts to hit the target and had to be gently guided towards the correct cone (i.e. the one straight in front of them in their team colour) before running back and failing to give the beanbag to the next team member. Of course, even once the following three had their beanbags, they still needed the instructions given to them again...
It was slow going but then who knows what they'd have been like if they hadn't practised every morning for the past fortnight? I realised that it was a good book that I'd forgotten to bring.
Any form of actual competition was out the window. The teams weren't racing against each other so much as facing the challenge together. I recall that this felt odd at the first nursery sports I went to. The sports days of my youth had cheering parents, thunderous clapping and ribbons for a podium finish. Then again, they weren't much fun for those who couldn't run very well. It's better the modern way where the kids all get a shot, they don't get compared with others and they're encouraged merely for taking part. They're more likely to see sport as enjoyable when they're older. (Just as long as they aren't encouraged to think they're excellent athletes simply because they didn't get lost dawdling twenty feet to a cone and back. To become good, they're going to need to put some effort in. Telling them they're good already is liable to lead to disappointment and poor motivation.)
Nonetheless, I find nursery sports strangely quiet. I got to shout, 'Come on, Marie. You can do it!' every ten minutes or so when it was her turn, and then I was able to lie down for a nap in between. The other parents mostly stood around chatting.
Sadly, Scary Karen hadn't been sent the memo.
My dozing was constantly disturbed by her yelling at her son and the rest of the red team to get a move on and crush the opposition. Most of them entirely ignored her, however, and continued to wander about in a dream. A couple stopped to stare as she jumped around waving her pom-poms. It didn't make much difference - no one was keeping score and, besides, the yellow team had blatantly edged ten feet forward, ensuring they always finished first.
I gave up on sleeping altogether when Marie noticed my eyes were closed and started shouting, "Wake up, Daddy!" to pass the time as she waited her turn.
We had the beanbag and spoon race, the twenty metre dash, the sack race and the ten metre hurdle. (Yep, there was only one hurdle but, to compensate, it was nearly five inches high!) They concluded with the hat and scarf race. This was identical to the twenty metre dash except it required competitors to stop halfway through the outward leg and don winter clothing. Despite being disturbed that the accessories didn't coordinate, Marie made sure to put them on very carefully and adjust them to her satisfaction before continuing. She wasn't fast but she looked adorable.
It should be an Olympic sport.
Eventually everyone had taken part and it was time for juice and crisps (but only for the children. Next year: Book and snacks.)
"That was great," said Karen, walking over to me. "Did you see the speed of Malcolm with his sack?"
"He was definitely the fastest," I replied. I decided against mentioning that the other kids had had the sack over their feet rather than their head. I've been acquainted with Karen long enough now to know it's not worth pursuing these things. Arguing seldom makes the conversation any shorter but greatly reduces the chance of survival. I relaxed, went to my happy place and waited for her to fill me in on the details of her life.
Within seconds, I was learning about her recurring nightmare of being trapped in a packet of Quavers. This then led to an extensive monologue on her most recent shopping expedition to buy underwear.
It was like being back at parent and toddler again. Mostly. Something was missing. Well, I suppose plenty of things were missing - the cups of tea, chocolate biscuits and comfy seats, for starters. There was more to it than that, though.
It took me several minutes to realise that I didn't need to be averting my eyes. She wasn't breast-feeding in her normal scary fashion. I chanced looking in her direction. She wasn't breast-feeding at all.
"Where's William?" I asked, wondering what she'd done with her two-year-old.
"I left him with Trevor," she said. "It'll be good for them. They don't get much time together on their own and, now that Trevor's moving in, he's going to be like their dad. They need to get used to seeing him all the time and not just when they walk in on him and me in the middle of..."
"And Trevor's OK with that?" I said, surprised.
"You think he shouldn't be?"
"Er..." Trevor's not hugely comfortable around children. He's built like a truck, has been in the army and can open cans with his teeth but kids make him nervous. I couldn't imagine that having changed in the few months since I'd last seen him. I didn't want to upset Karen, however. "Sudden parenthood might be a shock, that's all," I said.
"He's fine with it. He's been having lots of practice. You should come round and see. Yeah, it's almost the holidays - you could bring Marie round to play with Malcolm when nursery's off for the summer."
I've never been to Karen's house. It's not that I don't like her - over time, I've learnt to appreciate her openness, enthusiasm and disregard for nonsense. If I ever buy a big telly, I'm going to take her along and get her to haggle for me. I will get a bargain. There's no denying she is useful to have around and can be lovely at times. That said, she's still scary. I don't particularly want to enter her lair. "The boys will be off school too," I said, attempting to make my excuses. I wished I had a bag of cheesy potato snacks with me to frighten her off.
"Don't worry about them. Trevor can show them his shrapnel collection."
"That's, er..."
I was saved by Miss Nolan announcing the parent's race.
I hurried over to take my place on the start line and did my best to limber up while checking out the competition. As ever, there were one or two who'd taken it rather seriously and turned up in tracksuits and running shoes. They were bound to win. Most of the other parents looked as out of shape as me, though. I set my sights on a laid-back finish in the middle pack. I've learnt from experience that winning isn't worth the risk of pulling every muscle in my body nor of falling over and being trampled by a horde of mums.
On the other hand, there's not much I won't do for free cakes...
"Bag of doughnuts says I beat you, Ed," shouted Scary Karen from further along the line.
I knew all the dads present could probably out-pace me but I fancied my chances against Karen. I'm a foot taller than her - her determination would keep her going longer than me in an endurance event but I figured I could accelerate past her over the hundred yards to where two of the nursery staff were holding out a rope to mark the finish. "You're on!" I yelled back.
More parents jostled in to join us, Miss Nolan blew a whistle and we stormed off. The grass was quite long and the ground was uneven and I stumbled immediately. Mums pressed in around me. Some of them were carrying toddlers. I couldn't get up speed without barging through them and I was reluctant to do that.
Karen had no such qualms. She charged forward, the panicked throng parting before her.
She had a considerable lead before I had clear space to sprint but I was confident I could still beat her. I dashed forward, quickly gaining ground... Then, out of nowhere, a small child ran across the grass in front of me. I couldn't stop in time. I had to swerve to avoid a collision and my foot caught another divot. I tumbled and sprawled onto the ground. I was trampled by a horde of mums. By the time I picked myself up, I was dead last.
It was Chariots of Fire all over again.
I set off in chase.
Karen looked over her shoulder as the finish neared and slowed down when she saw how far behind I was. She was certain she'd won but I didn't give up. I was convinced I could still beat her.
What she didn't know was that they were going to move the line.
Every year it happens. Just as the parents in tracksuits approach, the two teachers holding the rope leg it another hundred yards across the park.
Sure enough, when Karen turned her eyes forwards again, the finish was rapidly receding from her. She re-doubled her efforts but I was swiftly making up the distance. It was going to be close. Time slowed. My feet hung in the air forever and every rasped breath took an age. The wind swept back our hair, our sweat glistened in the sunshine and the music of Vangelis swelled in our ears. An eternity passed in seconds...
...and then we were there.
I dived forward, straining for the finish. Karen made a desperate lunge at the same moment. My nose and her chest crossed the line together.
It was a photo finish but we didn't have a camera (perhaps luckily).
Once I was certain I wasn't dying, I made to offer a tie but she very magnanimously conceded defeat. "Do you want icing on the doughnuts?" she said.
"Definitely," I wheezed.
"Great. You can have them when you come round and visit and you can share them with the rest of us." Then she presented me with a date and time and very little option to say no. If I'd refused, I'd have been there arguing the rest of the day. "Glad that's all sorted," she said. "Trevor likes icing too," she added wistfully. "He..."
I interrupted her hastily. "We should go get the kids," I said, still gasping for breath. "Good race. See you later." I staggered off to collect Marie. I let her know about the plan to visit Malcolm. She was very excited at the prospect of a new house to explore, especially one with doughnuts. She sang a little song to herself as we walked home. She'd had a good time.
I, meanwhile, woke up this morning to discover that I've pulled every muscle in my body. Even raising my eyebrows is sore.
Those doughnuts had better be fantastic...
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
Labels: nursery, Scary Karen
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Friday, 11 April 2008
Dairy issues
Dear Dave,Your last letter was very short and covered in interesting stains. It appeared to have been written in a hurry and was barely legible. I take it that life is a little hectic now that Liz has been back at work from maternity leave for a couple of weeks. Nonetheless, the very fact that you managed to write at all implies you're coping marvellously with looking after two children on your own. Reading between the caked blood, sweat and tears, I managed to make out that Liz is continuing to breastfeed Daisy but that it's turned into something of a struggle.
I remember those days. I was constantly washing and sterilising bottles and pumps in order to maintain an adequate supply. The mornings were particularly bad - we needed clean equipment for Sarah to use before she left for work and also some for her to take with her. The first thing I had to do when I got out of bed was go down and switch the steriliser on so that it was finished and cooled the moment breakfast was over. If I ever forgot to press the button until after my shower, I ended up juggling scalding hot beakers round the kitchen in a desperate attempt to get the milking apparatus packed in time for Sarah to leave.
When she came home, I had to estimate how much of the latest batch to keep in the fridge for the next day and how much to stockpile in the freezer. The stuff can stay refrigerated for three days, so I always found it best to keep a little extra handy in order to avoid having to placate a hungry baby while hurriedly trying to thaw out emergency rations.
Ah, the joys of defrosting little plastic bags of frozen milk!
Do you melt the bag containing six fluid ounces and risk some of it going to waste or do you go for the bag holding four fluid ounces and risk running out halfway through the feed?
It's never good having to defrost some more while holding a baby who's indignant that the bottle emptied just as they were drifting off to sleep. They have a tendency to scream, burp all over you and then not actually go to sleep even when they do get the last few mouthfuls they wanted. Eventually the tiredness catches up with them, they pass out face down in their tea and then wake up refreshed just in time for bed.
On the other hand, that's probably a better scenario than having to admit to Liz that you had to pour half a bottle of breast milk down the drain because Daisy drank just enough to contaminate it and then nodded off for three hours. There's so much pumping and sterilising and decanting involved for such tiny amounts, that the stuff quickly develops a status akin to twenty-year-old single malt. Coupled with the limited supply, this makes wasting even a drop seem like failure.
No pressure.
Try not to get too worked up about it. Just remember that any breastfeeding is better than none and you can always add formula feeds if necessary. If you have to go entirely over to formula in order to avoid going mad, then that's what you have to do. Sane parents are going to be better for Daisy's long term health than just about anything else.
Oh, which reminds me, I had a surprise at nursery the other day:
Normally, Sarah takes the kids to school on the way to work but she had to go in early for a meeting, so it was my turn. I dropped the boys off at their respective doors and then walked Marie round the back to the nursery entrance. Getting there on time had been something of a mad rush. I'd made the packed lunches, provided the kids with breakfast and got them ready. Every step of the way, I'd had to goad them all to hurry up. That's always the case, though, and I can pretty much manage it in my sleep now - I certainly don't need to be entirely awake and this was one of those occasions where I was less than fully alert. I was just wanting to get home to have my own breakfast, drink some coffee and check my email. I led Marie inside to the cloakroom on autopilot, and started taking her coat off.
"Ed!" Came a familiar shout from behind me. "How are you? I thought you'd show up."
I was suddenly very awake. It took me a few moments to recover from the shock before I could look round, however. Helpfully, Marie confirmed the identity of the person talking. "It's Karen!" she screeched, grinning. "She's scary!"
"She's not scary," I said, not sure whether to laugh it off or hush Marie up. The indecision resulted in my voice coming out in a strangled croak.
"Yes, she is," began Marie. "You said..."
"So, is Malcolm starting nursery?" I asked, hurriedly talking over my daughter and turning round. Scary Karen was sitting on a row of foot-lockers with her youngest, William, by her side. (He must be nearly two now.) She was, if anything, looking even more top-heavy than usual. Malcolm was nowhere to be seen.
"Oh, yes," said Karen. "I held him back a term. He's such a wee mummy's boy, I didn't have the heart to send him until now. I just hope he'll be OK." Then she wapped out a rippling bosom and shoved it into William's face.
The kid had developed a slight look of wide-eyed fear at this turn of events in the few months since I'd last seen him and he had to keep coming up for air but, other than that, it was just like old times. Karen started telling me about what she and her boyfriend, Trevor, had got up to behind the cheese counter at Tesco.
I developed my own look of wide-eyed fear.
I was stuck. I couldn't get a word in edgeways to make my excuses and beat a retreat. Marie got bored waiting and, in order to get my attention, decided she wanted the toilet. She then proceeded to choose the one cubicle which was in use.
"Malcolm won't be long," said Karen, mercifully breaking off from listing some of the lesser known uses of Brie. "He'll be sorting out his costume. He wanted to dress up for his first day."
"Oh, OK," I said. As if in confirmation, the toilet flushed and then, a few seconds later, the door opened and Malcolm stepped out.
He was wearing a hockey mask and carrying a rubber knife covered in fake blood stains.
"Nice," I said with all the sincerity I could muster and ushered Marie into the cubicle.
She stared at Malcolm and then giggled. "He's got cats on his shoes," she said, pointing at his Pumas and ignoring the costume entirely.
"You're right. Well spotted," I said. I followed her into the cubicle, shut the door and locked it behind us.
I didn't encourage her to hurry up for once.
When we finally emerged, the coast was clear. We washed our hands and I took Marie through to the nursery room. To my dismay, Karen was having an increasingly heated discussion with Miss Nolan and was blocking the doorway.
Miss Nolan is young and pretty and lovely to the children but you wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her. She's the one who tells all of us parents when we've been bad and haven't handed in the correct permission slips. "As I was saying," she said to Scary Karen, "just come back in an hour or so. We've got your mobile number if there's a problem."
Karen didn't budge. "I thought carers sat in on the first day. That's what I did when I helped out with his cousin Dougie."
"The rules have changed," said Miss Nolan. "Some children get on better without their normal adults around."
This was news to me. "When did...?" I began but Miss Nolan shot me a look that made it quite clear that another word would land me in detention removing Play-Doh from the soles of the children's shoes (probably with my tongue). I shut up.
"I'm sure he'll settle well," she continued. "He seems to be making friends already." Malcolm was showing his knife to a handful of other children as they cowered in a corner.
Karen wasn't having any of it. "He doesn't like new places. I should stay here."
Miss Nolan was half her size but stood resolutely in the way. They glared at each other.
Fearing that I might suffer collateral damage if any wrestling broke out, I decided to intervene. "I'm helping out in the nursery this morning," I said. It wasn't so much a lie, more a subtle attempt to volunteer. "I can keep an eye on him."
Karen stood for a moment, fists on hips, fuming at Miss Nolan, the world in general and even me. Then she relented. "All right," she said. "Just don't let the other kids pick on him. He can be a real softy sometimes."
"Uh-huh," I said, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he played a xylophone by battering it with a teddy bear. I did my best to ignore this, however, and concentrated on reassuring Karen until she eventually left with William. Marie was able to get into the nursery at last.
"Thank you," said Miss Nolan. "I wouldn't normally keep a parent out but..."
"Yeah, I know... What did she do last time?"
Miss Nolan rolled her eyes. "It would be inappropriate for me to tell you the details but we had to dispose of all the jigsaws and the computer still doesn't smell quite the way it should. Now excuse me while I tell Mrs Richards it's safe to come out of the store cupboard."
I nodded and then spent the next hour getting Marie to help me show Malcolm around. I managed to persuade him to take the mask off and put the knife down so the other children didn't run away from him and, after that, things went reasonably well. He's actually a pretty good kid. The only problem came when he tried to drop Karen's taser in the water tray. Still, I caught him quick enough and there was no harm done... The nursery staff made a note to frisk him the next morning.
When the time came, Karen collected him without incident and I finally got to go home and eat my breakfast. I'd hardly recovered before I had to head right back to pick up Marie. It was only later that I realised Malcolm will be in the nursery all morning next week. He'll come out at the same time as Marie.
I'll be there. Scary Karen will be there. I'll get to see her every day.
I'm not sure I'm prepared for that.
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
PS I was sitting in the study last night when Marie came up to me and said, sweetly, "Daddy, you're looking really great!"
It was possibly the most adorable and endearing thing that any of my kids has ever said to me.
"Thank you, Marie," I said. "It's nice of you to say so."
Then she laughed and said, "That was just my funny joke," and skipped away, giggling.
Needless to say, she's out of the will...
Labels: nursery, Scary Karen
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Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Mince pies and mistletoe
Dear Dave,It was the Christmas party at Scary Karen's parent and toddler group today. I turned up early with Marie to help decorate. There were some streamers in the hall already and a decent sized tree complete with baubles and lights and, if I were running things, that would have been enough. Karen, however, adheres to the 'more is better' philosophy of holiday decor which holds that you simply can't have too much gaudy tack stuck to the walls when the festive season comes round. In her case, it doesn't even have to be relevant tack. She emptied out the Millennium Centre's store cupboard and we hung up everything we could find. Pretty soon, amongst the tinsel and stockings, the Easter Bunny stood atop a pile of grinning pumpkins. It had flashing red eyes and was wearing a Santa hat.
I set up the spinning disco lights. Trevor, the bouncer, inflated huge numbers of balloons with a single breath each. Karen's friend Bess put on some suitable musical accompaniment. It appeared to be the CD that all the shops have had on loop since mid-November. I suddenly felt the urge to buy lots of junk in a mad panic and did my best to phase out the jaunty melodies. I didn't do too badly until Slade came on and Marie started running round the room shouting, "It's Christmas!" at everybody.
She knew it to be true because Noddy Holder had told her so.
"Well, sort of," I said, when she got to me. "It's a Christmas party. It isn't actually Christmas until next week."
She considered this for a moment and then ran round the room again shouting, "It sort of Christmas! But not really!" at everybody. Then she came back to me and said, "Can I have a mince pie? Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase..." She made her eyes wide and pouted mournfully. She gave the impression she hadn't been fed in a week. I knew, however, that only half an hour previously, she'd taken one small bite of toast for breakfast and then declared herself finished.
"No," I said.
"Oh," said Marie. Her lower lip quivered and tears welled up. "But I'm huuun-greeee..."
"You should have eaten your breakfast then."
She started to sob. "You made me sad, daddy," she wailed and buried her face in her hands.
"Tough." I went back to wiring up the lights. The other adults nearby looked at me like I'd just told Tinkerbell to her face that fairies don't exist. I ignored them (and Marie) and, before long, the room was bathed in multicoloured swirls. Marie lay face down on the floor for a bit and then gave up. "I have mince pie later?" she said hopefully.
"OK," I replied.
She grinned, wiped her eyes and ran off to dance. I barely had time to grab a cup of coffee before she ran back and gleefully exclaimed, "It later now! I have mince pie?"
"Nice try," I said, sitting down amongst a group of mums.
"Awwwwww..." She tipped her head to the side, tucked in her upper lip and tried to drown me in eyes that were deep, pleading wells of sorrow.
"Not just now."
"You made me sad again, daddy," she said and threw herself back to the ground. The mums gave the impression that I'd just given Bambi the bad news in a rather callous fashion.
I ignored the looks (and Marie). "You all ready for Christmas?" I asked.
This brought on various tales of shopping woe and festive mayhem that distracted everyone. Marie got up and went back to dancing. The conversation eventually turned to advent calendars.
"Yeah, we got the kids a chocolate-filled one each last year," I said. "They kept forgetting to open them and we ended up with a stock-pile of little edible Scooby-Doos that lasted well into January. They've got one between them this year and we're still three days behind. The only one who's organised is Lewis. He's on the bottom bunk and has taken to suspending an additional stuffed animal from the slats above him every day in the run-up to Christmas. It's less of an advent calendar, more of an advent toy lynching."
"Christmas sounds like fun in your house," said Jess.
"Shouldn't be too bad really. We're off to Sarah's sister's for the actual day. Her husband will make a few snide comments about my place being in the kitchen but, apart from that, it'll be fine. How about you?"
It transpired that they would all be experiencing a mixture of custody wrangles, bickering with relatives and Brain Training. The first two were quickly glossed over in favour of comparing which family members they were getting a Nintendo DS for Christmas. It ranged from kids to grannies. This moved on to some discussion of how much the 'discs' cost and how the bit with the rocket when you do well is ace. I just sat there, somewhat perplexed. By rights, I should have had a great deal to say on the topic but, after years of not having anyone to talk to about computer games at parent and toddler, I was dumbfounded to suddenly be surrounded by women promoting a game as both entertainment and mental exercise. It was as stupefying as my mum suddenly admitting she was thinking of becoming a Jedi and asking me where she could get hold of one of those 'lightswords'. I just sat and looked surprised, wishing I'd bought shares in Nintendo a few years ago.
Marie broke me out of my trance by shouting in my ear. "Is it later yet?"
"No."
She didn't even blink. "And now?" she said, smiling endearingly.
"Nope."
Pause. "And now?" She did the cutest little dance you've ever seen and, still smiling sweeter than a Sugar Puff dipped in saccharine, she asked, "Can I have a mince pie, nooooooooooooooooooooow...?"
"In ten minutes," I said. She threw herself down and cried into the floor again.
The mums looked at me like I'd just flushed the Andrex puppy down a toilet.
"Oh, look," I said, directing their attention elsewhere. "Santa!"
I don't normally imagine Santa with tattoos. Or bald, for that matter. Still, the red suit and fake, white beard gave the impression that Trevor was at least attempting to pretend to be Santa. He didn't look too happy about it, though. I can only assume that Scary Karen had used her feminine wiles to talk him into it. She'd slipped on a slinky, fur-trimmed, scarlet outfit complete with Santa hat. It was surprisingly fetching in a scary kind of way. It also seemed liable to burst at the seams at any moment in an even scarier kind of way. I had visions of an explosion and nothing being left but the hat.
I quickly focused myself on Trevor. He really wasn't looking too good. I imagine he'd be totally up for catching bullets with his teeth but he's quite nervous with kids. Still, all he had to do was sit on a chair, pull the gifts out of a sack, read the labels and call over the children to take them. How hard could it be?
It was unfortunate that the first three gifts he pulled out were for Mateusz, Enkhjin and Joao. Karen had to bend over to help him make out the names. Each time, I tensed myself in preparation for the velvet and ermine shrapnel, and then sighed in relief when the catastrophe never came.
After that, it was Marie's turn.
I picked her up off the floor and gave her a little shove. She trotted over to Trevor, who held out the parcel to her at arms length. He was oblivious to the creaking bodice-work beside him and seemed worried that it was Marie that might explode.
He may have had a point.
She looked at the parcel briefly, obviously torn over whether to take it. She glanced at the sack to see if there was anything more promising in there. She peered suspiciously at Trevor's fluffy beard. Then she made the eyes and pulled the face. "I reaaaa-leeeeeee want a mince piiiiiiie..."
"Er, I don't have mince pies," said Trevor. "Just this." He shook the parcel and grimaced slightly.
She threw herself at the floor and started to cry again.
I rushed over, grabbed her and the parcel, and then whisked her out of the way. "Santa doesn't have any mince pies!" she wailed.
"It's OK," I reassured her. "That's not really Santa and Santa's not really real anyway."
It's possible I may have said this a little too loudly.
Every adult in the room looked at me like I'd just stood on Tinkerbell while wearing fluffy slippers made from Bambi and the Andrex puppy. Luckily, every child in the room remained transfixed by the sack of presents.
"Would you like a mince pie?" I asked Marie hurriedly.
"Yes, please!" she said and we beat a retreat to the refreshment trolley. The whole thing was a close call... but I think we got away with it. The gift-giving resumed and everyone relaxed again. Soon, toddlers were dancing once more and I was being offered something warm and spicy in a mug. Jess had mulled some of her homemade wine specially.
I've never had green mulled wine before. I looked at it nervously.
"It's the spinach," Cress whispered.
I shrugged and tried some. It actually tasted kind of all right - not disagreeable as such but you wouldn't ask for it specially. I guess a lot of Christmas is like that. I had a second helping for no other reason than it was there. I guess a lot of Christmas is like that, too. It seemed to make Jess happy, though.
Marie opened her parcel. It was a set of pretend medical supplies containing a stethoscope, a rectal thermometer, a pair of scissors, a hammer and... a spoon. All the essentials of a home surgery kit, apparently. She was delighted and set about listening to my knees as she took their temperature.
The time slipped away and then, all of a sudden, it was half-past eleven. We had places to be but I was reluctant to get our coats. The Millennium Centre is going to be closed at the start of January so Karen's toddler group won't be on again until after Marie has started nursery. Today was our last one. It was odd looking around at the familiar faces and toys, knowing that, barring sanity-threatening accidents, I'd never be back. I lingered, finding it hard to leave, not knowing quite how to say good-bye.
Then I realised that Scary Karen had found some mistletoe.
I wished everyone a merry Christmas and headed out the door.
It was time to go.
Yours in a woman's world,
Ed.
Labels: christmas, playgroup, Scary Karen
Thoughts? Responses? Got a funny story about your children? Add your comment here. 1:00 PM - Permanent Link - 3 comments - Post comment - Links to this post
