Dear Dave

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

Dear Dave,

Being a housedad doesn't bring fame, fortune or exotic trips. It's not really something to enter into for the pension plan or the lengthy holidays. It's mainly an efficient way to combine receiving hugs and playing with cool toys while catching a cold.

Adulation and praise from my children is always a bonus, however. It was wonderful yesterday when Marie came out of school full of smiles and delighted to see me. She climbed onto my lap as I sat on a bench and she told me about her day and how much she loves me. Then she danced off happily to play while we waited for Lewis.

When she returned, I was rubbing my eyes. "You look like a goblin without your glasses on," she said.

I put them back into place. "So I look better like this?"

She screwed up her face and stared at me intently. "Yes... but you still look a bit like a goblin."

"Oh, cheers. In what way?"

"Your nose... It's very big."

Before I could respond, she went into a meltdown because her backpack was suddenly too heavy and she didn't want to carry it home. My little princess had returned to normal service. She probably coughed on me as well.

Never mind. The pleasantness was nice while it lasted. Nonetheless, if she's not careful, she's going to end up relocated to a deep, dark forest with a new career as scullery maid to seven diminutive miners...

That'll teach her.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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2:15 PM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Never start a land war in Asia

Dear Dave,

When dealing with my children, I learnt long ago to pick my battles. Sometimes it's worth letting bedtime slide by five minutes in order to avoid twenty minutes of tantrums and screaming. On the other hand, when it's time for school, it's time for school - anyone dawdling is going to get an earful.

I'm sure this comes across as inconsistent and capricious on occasion but in general it makes life more pleasant. The kids get to feel they have some control over their own lives despite the fact that, when it really matters, they don't. They win minor victories but we get where we need to be without too much of a fight. We all stay sane. Hooray!

What I didn't realise until examining Marie's fingernails the other day is that my inconsistency runs deeper than I thought. It turns out that I pick different battles with different children.

When Fraser was younger, he used to pick at his fingernails. When I went to clip them, I'd discover half of them ragged and maybe even bleeding. I was constantly having a go at him to leave them alone. It took months for me to achieve success and finally get him to stop. It was a slog.

In contrast, I haven't clipped any of Marie's nails in more than a year and a half. I assume they're still growing but I don't know what happens to them and I don't ask. Every so often, I remind her not to pick at them, she mutters to herself and we leave it at that.

Why? Why did I make a fuss with Fraser but not with her?

I suppose, for starters, she's a better DIY manicurist than he was. She hardly ever makes a hash of things and makes herself sore. On top of that, I guess I'm more tired than I was when Fraser was small. There's less fight in me, so I need to choose my conflicts even more carefully.

Most of all, though, I know I'd lose. Since neat fingernails are a relatively inconsequential issue in the grand scheme of things, that's really as good a reason as any to leave things be.

I'm saving my energy for when she's a teenager and wants a tongue stud.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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9:00 AM - Permanent Link - 1 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Leaving them alone to be together

Dear Dave,

When, despite the busy schedule of clubs, baths, school and homework, one of the children does somehow manage to have a friend round, life is often easier for me. Rather than being extra work, having another child in the house is enough to keep all the others occupied. Older children find a quiet corner to hide from young visitors; younger children sit and gaze in awe at bigger guests. I stay out of the way and have a cup of coffee.

I used to hang around in the same general location, keeping an eye on things. I was there to explain any house rules the guest was unaware of, to confiscate any contraband they might have smuggled in with them and to make sure Fraser actually gave them a shot on the GameCube.

This last part quickly became frustrating, however. No sooner had he handed the controller over than he would grab it back. Unfamiliar with thumbsticks, power-ups and (in at least one case) TVs, his friends struggled to go more than a few seconds without virtual death but he never let them experiment for long enough to get a clue. He'd just shout stuff like, 'Jump up and ground-pound the Goomba. Watch out for the Bullet Bill!' Never mind that they didn't know the buttons or what a Goomba was - in the context, half of them literally didn't know which way was up. They merely let him wrest control from their limp fingers and then sat mesmerised as the shiny things bounced around on screen.

After a while, they left him to it and wandered off to see if they could find some LEGO.

I tried cajoling him to act differently and be more inclusive but it never seemed to do any good. I just ended up telling him off in front of his friends. The time he made a long list of what he was going to do when Brandon came round, I gave up. 'Ask Brandon what he wants to do' was at number 23.

After a point, it's up to my kids to make and keep friends themselves. There's only so much I can do. It's not like I'm around during playtime at school to supervise their social skills anyway.

Now I keep clear when one of the children has a visitor. Everyone seems to have more fun. I usually only have to intervene when one of my other kids tries hijacking the guest's attention. The miscreant then gets whisked away to the kitchen to do something exciting, creative and educational with me. If I'm lucky, just the threat of this is often enough to stop them interfering.

Sometimes they even go and hide under their bed covers.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Harriet came round to see Marie the other day and they rushed off for a shot on the Wii. I checked on them after an hour and the poor girl was playing intently but not doing too well. It may have had something to do with the fact she was holding the controller upside down. I turned it round and went away. When I returned five minutes later, she had it upside down again. She didn't seem to mind it wasn't working properly and it was apparently comfier to hold that way.

I went and hid under my bed covers.

Labels: children

 
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9:10 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Shock tactics

Dear Dave,

We've all been there:

"Don't play on the rocks - you'll get hurt."
"Don't throw your toys - they'll break."
"Don't pat the dog - you don't know where it's been."
"Don't write there - we'll get arrested."
"Don't get sauce on your shirt - it'll never come off."
"Don't eat that - you'll get sick."
"Don't touch that - it'll explode!"
"Don't do that - your legs will fall off."
"Don't throw rocks at that dog - it'll eat you... and be sick on my shirt. Then the whole world will explode!"

It's easy to get carried away when stating the possible consequences of whatever mischief the kids are up to. Worst-case scenarios always spring readily to mind. It's not hugely surprising that you attempted to put the fear of hospitals, social services and Santa's naughty list into Sam after his little experiment with the forks. I doubt he's traumatised. Unfortunately, it's far more likely he's ignored you entirely and is already back raiding the cutlery drawer.

If you can hear clinking as you read this, you might want to go and investigate...

...

...

See, I told you, he's fine - he wasn't even listening.

I suspect that's why these extravagant prophecies of doom are so easy for us to utter. Lesser threats and warnings have no effect and so we escalate in an effort to get a response. Saying that rough treatment will scratch a new toy doesn't alter the behaviour, so the possibility of breaking the toy is mentioned. Sadly, this is only ever going to stop a child battering an Action Man with a pan long enough to say, "It's not broken. See!"

The concept of 'yet' doesn't come into it.

To be fair, though, it can be the same for adults.

The current fire safety campaign involves emotive scenes of death and destruction, and stern warnings not to leave washing machines on overnight. The accompanying blurb on the website strongly discourages leaving a TV on standby while out at the shops and recommends switching electrical appliances off at the mains when not in use.

This advice is all very well but I can't imagine it's had much effect. I certainly haven't rushed round the house disconnecting things myself. Half the gadgets we own include clocks which reset when the power goes off - they're clearly designed to be left on the whole time. Bearing this in mind, why bother with the other stuff? I'm not switching the kettle off at the mains, for instance. I switch it off once a fortnight when I clean it and that's quite enough. Later in the day, I nearly always end up wondering why it's taking so long to boil...

I'm sure electrical faults happen regularly throughout the country but not regularly enough for me to spend my life fiddling with sockets. Nothing's burst into flames yet. Heck, when I was young, my mum used to get up in the middle of the night especially to switch the washing machine on because the electricity was cheaper.

I can't help thinking the advertising money would be better spent showing smiling, happy people testing their smoke alarms. The slogan could be 'Checked the batteries this week? Superb. You're awesome!'. (They could get Huey to do the voice-over.)

It's the same with those warning ads at the start of DVDs claiming piracy somehow leads to international terrorism. They always seem slightly divorced from everyday experience. Then there are the ones which go on about pirated copies being such low quality that showing one will lose you friends and family. I'm not convinced. I always imagine that if I had a pirated version I wouldn't have to sit through countless unskippable copyright notices. The only time I've taken notice was when a message popped up along the lines of 'Thank you for purchasing this genuine product and helping to support the motion picture industry so we can bring you more great entertainment!' It was a refreshing change from shock tactics.

Being positive about good behaviour can be hard work but I guess it's worth a shot.

Good luck getting the forks out of your neighbour's shrubbery without him noticing. I'm off to check the batteries in the smoke alarms.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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11:00 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Slippery slope

Dear Dave,

So much for a life of freedom and leisure now the kids are all at school. They're taking it in turns to have a mysterious illness which involves a day of dizziness, three days of feeling not too bad and then another week of stinking cold, sore throat and coughing. The result is that as soon as one feels better, the next is lying on the sofa, huddled under a blanket and coughing over the remote controls. Combined with the February holiday, this means I've barely been able to leave the house for over a fortnight.

It's not even over yet. Fraser stumbled out of bed this morning, ate half his breakfast and then stumbled back again, croaking mournfully about a headache. If the other two are anything to go by, he won't get much further than the lounge until Thursday. Then his right ear will start to hurt and he'll whine incessantly.

Joy.

Ho well. The scary thing is that this spate of sickness has lasted so long, it feels like they've all got older in the meantime. Marie has discovered Nintendo, Lewis has lost his ability to stay out of arguments which don't concern him and Fraser has taken to sitting around in a hoodie while exuding an unpleasant odour. Two weeks with the heating on and the windows shut has turned the house into an incubation chamber. All my little Pokémon have evolved to the next stage.

Is it just me or is the fact that they've gone from calling farts 'bottom burps' to calling burps 'mouth farts' the beginning of the end?

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, sickness

 
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10:15 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Crime and punishment

Dear Dave,

I miss owning a cage.

I suppose that technically it was a play-pen but that's just marketing spin. It was a cage. When the kids were small, I could simply banish them to the cage whenever they were acting up. A few minutes of sulking or yelling in there and they soon calmed down. As a bonus, while incarcerated, they were much less of a danger to themselves, me or each other.

If they attempted escape, I could lift them back in. If things got really bad, I could leave the kids loose and climb in myself, curling up for a quick doze, safe from the screaming horde. (Ours had a nice padded base - soft, warm and machine-washable. Bliss.)

Merely the threat of a quick stint behind bars was often enough to cool any situation. As they got bigger, though, toddler prison became less convincing (and, besides, we needed more floor space to cope with the piles of LEGO and Pokémon). The play-pen went the way of the crib, cot, and high-chair.

Now the kids get sent to their rooms when they've been misbehaving. This is OK but not the same. Their rooms are too full of fun stuff to act as successful penitentiaries. It's like open prison compared with the high-security lockdown of the play-pen. There's no saying they'll actually want to leave when the five minutes is up.

Also, Marie and Lewis share a room so if they get both get banished at the same, the resulting pandemonium can be worse than whatever went before.

I'm actually finding it quite hard to think of ways to encourage Marie to behave. My boys aren't too fussed about being sent to their rooms but it's usually enough for them to get the message. Marie, however, can be completely unfazed by the experience. Even when her bed is emptied of its normal 507 toys and she's told to sit on it until she's willing to comply with household regulations, there's no guessing how long she'll stubbornly hold out. Sometimes she'd rather whine for two hours than say sorry.

Another example of her resistance involves breakfast. On school days, the kids have to be done with their toast by 8:30 or we're struggling to get to school on time. When Fraser was in Primary 1, he struggled with this concept, no matter how many times I told him to hurry up. He overran almost every day. Then I told him he wouldn't get to take a snack with him if he wasn't finished on time... I still had to goad him on but I only had to follow through with the threat a couple of times. The possibility of missing out on his Coco-Pop bar was sufficient incentive to eat quickly.

Marie doesn't care. She happily goes without her tub of raisins every other day. If some different misdemeanour means she doesn't get her tea-time dessert, she just shrugs. If her behaviour costs her a treat or some stickers or a trip, she knows there'll be another day. In the meantime, she's deriving too much satisfaction from digging in her heels and shrieking.

She can be hard work.

Of course, the way to virtually guarantee cooperation from the boys is to suggest they're jeopardising their computer game privileges. The prospect of a day or two devoid of Mario can bring them into line almost instantly. I don't invoke the possibility frequently, though - things have to be pretty desperate before I'm willing to risk a couple of days of having to entertain them without the aid of an implausibly acrobatic Italian plumber and his pals. Like the nuclear deterrent, it's only going to lead to mutually assured destruction.

I did decide to try the tactic on Marie at the weekend, however. She's been showing some interest in the Wii and DS since Christmas - nowhere near as much as the boys but enough to make the threat of their withdrawal worth a shot. She'd gone into meltdown at the mention of putting on her shoes and wasn't responding to any other bribes or cajoling, so I thought I might as well give it a go.

No dice. The tantrum didn't abate and she brought down 36 Nintendo-free hours upon herself. She didn't care...

...at first.

By the following afternoon, barely ten minutes went by without her saying, "Can I play computer games yet? I've been really good." I stuck to my guns. She didn't get to play until the next morning. She wasn't sweating and shaking by then but it may have been close.

That evening, she started a strop when told to get ready for bed. I casually mentioned another computer game embargo. To my astonishment, she instantly leapt up and scurried off to locate her pyjamas.

It's still not as good as a cage but it's getting there...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS A couple of discipline points that have come to my attention recently:

• After my kids have served their time, I always ask them, "Do you know why you were sent to your room?"
  
  They always reply, "Yes."
  
  On cross-examination, however, they never do.
• When I want the children to do something, they hardly ever do it immediately. I find giving them a count of five in which to obey works well. It allows them time to argue and whinge but sets a definite deadline. I can also speed up and slow down the count to chivvy them along or give them some leeway.
  
  Unfortunately, they do have a tendency to leave compliance to the very last moment. I end up counting, "One... Two... ... Three... ... ... Four... ... ... ... F... F... Fi-nally." They come within micro-seconds of punishment. To my mind, this is leaving things a touch too late.
  
  It turns out this may be down to miscommunication rather than brinkmanship, though. I discovered yesterday that when Sarah's in charge, she counts to six.
  
  This explains a lot.

Labels: children, computer games

 
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9:45 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Family planning

Dear Dave,

Here's one to ponder: When's a good age to have children and what's the best gap to have between them?

I've never really understood parents who wait until one child starts school before having the next one. It all sounds too long and drawn out. That said, I do recall getting rather a lot of horrified looks back in the day when I told people I had three kids under the age of five. They kind off assumed that either this was down to misfortune or insanity.

I like the way my kids are close together, though. The four years between Fraser and Marie might be enough for them to annoy each other most of the time but they can still play games together without Fraser feeling as if he's looking after her. Being in the middle, Lewis gets on with both of them.

Although, now I think about it, the two year gap between Lewis and Marie could provide some problems for me when they're teenagers. What with girls maturing faster than boys, they'll be ideally placed to provide each other with a constant stream of dating opportunities from amongst their classmates.

Great.

The truth is, there may not be an ideal time and spacing. There are always going to be bonuses and consequences. It's simply a case of getting on with it and seeing what happens.

Recently, a friend muttered that he'd maybe planned things poorly, in that he's going to have the fun of dealing with a teenage daughter when he's in his mid-fifties. I did some quick calculations and was delighted to realise that all mine should be out of the house by the time I turn fifty. It could be a close run thing - depending on the university, Marie might not have got through Freshers' Week before I'm blowing out a stupidly large number of candles - but, nevertheless, once the kids have grown up and moved away, I'll still be almost young... if only for a day or two. I'll wander around the house in my underpants to celebrate and then turn the TV to whatever channel I feel like without anyone complaining.

(Of course, I'm assuming here that my children will go on to higher education, which could be seen as somewhat presumptuous. However, much as I'd love to have produced a plumber, an electrician and a joiner, all my kids seem to be wilfully academic and only Lewis looks liable to have enough coordination to be trusted with power tools. Rather than getting my house fixed up for free when they're older, I'm going to be lumbered with their student debt. Ho hum.)

The happy dream of offspring-free habitation lasted for several seconds. Then a different train of thought dropped, unbidden, into my brain:

Fraser is four years older than Marie and a Scottish degree lasts four years, therefore...

...by the time she moves out, he could have already moved back in!

Gah. Unless I change the locks, I could be in my eighties before I'm left in peace to wander around the house in my underpants. What's the good of that? When I'm eighty, I'm planning to wander round in my underpants whenever I feel like it anyway.

That'll give my kids something really fun to deal with when they're in their mid-fifties.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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9:30 AM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  If Midas had liked pink...

Dear Dave,

Marie has some new gloves. You probably won't be surprised to learn that they're pink.

Really pink.

Even better than that, they're fluffy and sparkly. They also shed. We're not talking the odd ball of fluff and an occasional thread here. Whatever she goes near looks like it got caught in a fight between Fuchsia-Fun Barbie and a My Little Pony. I swear the things have already left more fibres on the hall carpet than they originally contained and yet they're still producing a shower of pixie down every time she takes them off.

I have to assume the fuzz is self-replicating. The only reason the gloves haven't grown into giant puffballs is because she keeps wearing them and dissipating them as a trail of gleaming motes wherever she goes. If they get put away over the summer, I'm going to be in real trouble come the autumn. I'll open the hall cupboard, hunting for the kids' winter clothes, and the accumulated build-up of fairy dust will explode from it in an eruption of rosy gossamer, covering the entire contents of the house in six inches of glittering fallout. I'll be left standing there, blinking, looking like the Pink Panther after a session in the tumble-dryer...

It's all rather worrying. Nonetheless, it has to be said that Marie does now add a little sparkle to everything she touches. Deep down, I'm a bit jealous. I kind of hope that one day the same could be said about me.

(But in a sense which involves much less hoovering and laundry, obviously...)

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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9:15 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Children of the Teenies

Dear Dave,

It sounds like your overwhelming memories of the Noughties are very similar to mine - nappies, banana porridge and Teletubbies. You at least recall a little more about the early years of the decade but I'm struggling. With my eldest born in May 2000 and my youngest turning five in September 2009, the whole thing is rather a blur. It's like I fell asleep with Clinton as President and woke up with Obama. Did I miss much? (I'm sorry? Pardon? Who!?) What happened to that fresh-faced Tony Blair chap, by the way? How's Britney? Are Tom and Nicole still together?

Ah... OK.

Ho well, never mind, I think I'll go console myself by cashing in on the fortune my dot-com shares must be worth by now and spending it on simple pleasures. Fancy some Pic'n'Mix from Woolworths...?

Oh, you're kidding me.

I guess maybe it's a good thing I've had a fairly blinkered existence for the last ten years. To be honest, I hadn't actually been paying much attention before that anyway - my knowledge of popular culture has been shrinking since 1992. Everyone knows all the best music was made in 1987 and it's been a downhill slide from there. The family television of today is a mere shadow of The A-Team, The Generation Game, Knight Rider, The Price is Right, Only Fools and Horses and, er... Dr Who. No one looks normal without too much make-up, shoulder pads and big hair.

I think I'm going to have to admit to being a child of the Eighties. I passed a guy in the street a few months ago and couldn't help noticing the slogan on his t-shirt. It said very simply, 'I STILL hate Thatcher'. It made me grin rather too much.

For me, the Nineties were taken up by studies and employment. The Noughties were swallowed whole by kids. It's the Eighties that really influenced my tastes and opinions. I am the frightening love-child of Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner, J.R. Ewing, Belinda Carlisle, Mr T, Wham! and The Terminator.

Shiver.

I'm going to have to start taking a bit more notice again from now on, though. My kids will be children of the Teenies. If I want to stay in touch with their lives, I'm going to need to have some clue about music and celebrities and social networking sites. I might even have to learn how to use my mobile phone properly.

My children will have unfamiliar tastes and radical opinions which they will try and foist on me. They'll get grumpy and smelly if I dismiss them out of hand through complete ignorance of what they're talking about. Admittedly, they'll probably get smelly and at least mildly grumpy anyway, but I need to sound like I know what I'm talking about as I rubbish everything they hold dear. If I just try and run with a couple of names picked up from listening to a debate on Radio 4, it will only lead to embarrassment for everyone. I'm actually going to have to put some effort in, do some research and watch supposedly famous people attempt to dance on ice.

There will be no escaping whatever this decade brings.

I suppose it might not be too bad. You never know, maybe Kylie Minogue will finally have a come back... (I'm sorry, what's that? Not following. You can't get what dress out of your head? Oh...)

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, tweens

 
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8:30 AM - Permanent Link - 1 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  What kind of bear are you?

Dear Dave,

I've been to plenty of seminars and discussion groups about understanding personality type. They're the kind of thing that are always used to pad out the slot before lunch on team-building courses. Many's the time I've been stuck with a whole load of Shapers as they've enthusiastically envisaged a future of cooperation while the Completer/Finisher in me has just wanted them all to agree to stop talking and head for the canteen. I've also sat by quietly as a bunch of extroverts have argued on how to bring out the best in the introverts around them. On one occasion, in order to encourage my repressed spontaneity, I even had to report the team's conclusions while bouncing on a trampoline.

The one personality trait that always seems to surface, however, is my low tolerance for discussion groups. I can't stand them.

Thankfully, I think I may have found the solution to avoiding them in future. Having presented all my children with the opportunity to visit the Build-A-Bear Workshop, I've discovered a whole new way to assess personalities in a creative and visual manner.

Lewis, being the calm and gentle type, built a laid-back frog wearing a dressing gown:


*Picture removed due to a seven-year-old bursting into tears because he was adamant that his frog didn't want to be famous. :-(

Rather than having an afternoon at the shops with Sarah, Fraser decided he'd prefer to stay at home with me, spend twenty minutes building a snowman and then the rest of the time playing the Wii. Unfortunately, due to a lack of sculpting practice, combined with snow that refused to stick together, it didn't all go entirely to plan. The snowman came out looking pre-melted:



Top marks for effort, though, and at least I won't have to try to eBay it in a few years' time.

Unlike Marie's creation:



Note the sparkly butterfly wings on the costume. She wanted roller skates as well but they weren't compatible with the high heels.

All in all, it's possible to learn an awful lot about my kids from what they made. I think this is a pretty conclusive proof of concept - every office worker in the land should have a self-built bear on their desk, then their colleagues would know exactly what to expect and what sort of person they were dealing with.

I must mention my findings to Useless Dad for the next management training course he runs. I could be onto something special here...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS EdgeOfTheOtherworld.com is back today.

Labels: children, corporate madness

 
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9:30 AM - Permanent Link - 1 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Understanding working parents

Dear Dave,

Happy New Year! I hope you had a good holiday. We're finally back from visiting my parents' house in deepest, darkest Norfolk - the land of turkeys, farmers and dial-up internet. Even dial-up didn't seem to be working very well this time, though. So much as checking my email became a torturous exercise in dropped calls and lengthy load times. Renting a carrier pigeon began to feel like a worthwhile option. At least it did until my cousin popped round to visit and told me his connection had been running slowly too and so he'd had BT out to check the line. The reason it wasn't working properly?

Too many people had shot it.

Presumably they'd been firing at birds which had settled down on the wire for a rest but you never know - sometimes the need to make your own fun in the more isolated areas of East Anglia can lead to pretty desperate measures. Either way, though, my avian-powered p-mail solution seemed unlikely to work. As soon as the poor pigeon stopped to get its bearings it was going to end up as the lunch of some lunatic with a shotgun. This didn't really seem worth it for the sake of a selection of spam and a load of Facebook updates about the snow. I decided to not worry about it, letting the world wide web pass me by for a few days. It was a pleasant rest.

There's only so long a man can go without receiving Photoshopped pictures of cute, fluffy animals, however, so we've fought our way home through the bad weather, taken down the Christmas decorations, re-stocked the fridge and fired up the wireless router. Hurrah!

Even better, despite the cold, the school is open and all the kids are well. I've got some peace and quiet to sort through my inbox that I wasn't necessarily counting on. I fully expected one or more of the children to wake up with a cough or sniffle this morning and thus force me to decide whether they were well enough to go. Sometimes it's obvious, as they have a high temperature and goo is streaming out of every orifice, but usually it's more debatable. A slight temperature and a minor sore throat could clear up by the middle of the morning or it could have developed into full-blown pneumonia by lunchtime. How am I supposed to tell?

Fortunately, one of the advantages of being a stay-at-home parent is that there isn't normally a problem if one of the kids has to stay home as well. I can err on the side of caution and let them doze on the sofa, dosed up on Calpol and surrounded by tissues and sick bowls. Sure, it's annoying if I've got jobs planned or I was intending to head to the shops, but I don't have to organise emergency childcare or phone my boss and grovel to be allowed to take a day off. It's all nice and easy.

Take the last day of term before Christmas as an example. Marie got up complaining that she wasn't feeling very well and then sat on the stairs moaning. There didn't appear to be much obviously wrong with her but she'd been looking forward to the final day activities and the very fact she didn't want to go meant something was up. I decided it would be best to keep her off, reasoning that it would be unfriendly exposing her classmates to a potentially nasty virus only a few days before Christmas. After all, doctors and teachers are always stressing the importance of not knowingly sending an infectious child into school. (Although, bear in mind, if you ever see a kid in the playground glowing with fever and streaming with goo, you can pretty much guarantee they have at least one parent in the teaching or medical professions.)

I dropped off the boys and got to feel smugly self-righteous when the dad of one of Marie's friends mentioned that his child was suffering in a similar way even as he shoved her through the door into school. He'd got to get to work and he was hoping it was nothing and it would be cleared up by the middle of the morning...

Truth be told, it initially seemed to be him who'd made the right call. Marie was very tired all day but not tangibly unwell. Her symptoms could be explained by a lack of sleep combined with a natural desire not to venture outside in the cold. If anything, she was more polite and better behaved than normal. She certainly whined and argued a lot less. She lay on the sofa for most of the day while I got on with packing for the trip south. I wondered whether she could have gone to school.

We had to be up early the next day to catch our train, so we set lots of alarms and tried not stay up too late. I was woken at 3am by Marie complaining she was feeling sick. I found a bowl, calmed her down and went back to bed. It took me a while to doze off again and then I was woken at 4am by Marie complaining that she had actually been sick. Luckily, she'd caught it all in the bowl so there wasn't much clearing up, but I was still rather tired when my bedside erupted in bleeping at 6:30. I wasn't entirely prepared to discover we'd had four inches of snow and getting to the station might be an issue. We got ready and I went to call a taxi, hoping for the best. Just as I reached for the phone, however, Marie threw up her breakfast.

This presented something of a dilemma. On the one hand, we were considering taking a vomiting child for an eight hour journey on packed trains through weather which could conceivably leave us stranded somewhere between Darlington and Doncaster. On the other, I'd spent an entire day packing and we had non-refundable tickets.

Taking the financial hit would have been painful enough but there were only two days until Christmas, so even if we delayed, the chances of Marie being entirely well before travelling down were slim if we wanted to make it for the big day. We wouldn't have been able to get seats on another train anyway. If we were going to go, we had to go right then. I began to regret ordering the kids' presents online and having them delivered to my folks.

It was time to make a decision.

I grabbed a handful of plastic bags and called the taxi.

It turned into a very long day. The taxi struggled to make it the solitary mile through town. Our first train was almost an hour behind schedule before it so much as made it back the mile the other way and passed our house. The carriage was overcrowded with extra passengers who'd had to abandon plans to drive or fly. I almost got left behind in Newcastle as I transferred our luggage to the guard's van in order to free up space for people to stand. We missed our connection...

And all the while, my little biological warfare unit breathed in and out, adding an exciting cocktail of germs to the warm air circulating around us and dozens of others. Every so often, she made retching noises. I hid her up a corner by the window where her pale, drawn features weren't so obvious and I tried not to picture one of those contagion maps they have in the movies, showing bright lines of infection spreading out across the country in an intricate web from the initial source as carriers split up and move on to the next leg of their journeys. I'd probably have felt less shifty if I'd left her with the neighbours and taken a backpack full of anthrax instead.

We got steadily closer to our destination, however. We changed at Peterborough, then Norwich and eventually found ourselves with only one more stop until we reached The Middle of Nowhere. We were almost there. So close...

Then Marie retched. It had a different sound quality from previously on the trip. It was deeper. More liquidy. Kind of ominous.

"I'm going to be sick," she wailed.

I grabbed one of the bags and shoved it under her chin. (Having learnt my lesson with random carrier bags, it was a see-through plastic freezer bag to minimise the chance of holes.) I was barely quick enough. A torrent of evil burst forth from my daughter and flowed into my proffered receptacle. Then she took a deep breath.

...

There was more.

...


And a little bit after that.

...

Then she was done. We'd caught all of it. Delighted, I tied a knot in the top of the bag, inspected it for leaks and then wondered what to do with it. Since Marie had had nothing but water for hours, I was able to marvel at how thin and clear the vomit was.

I have a very vivid memory of going to the fair when I was around Marie's age. There was a game where you had to bounce a ping pong ball on a table and attempt to get it to land in one of a number of jam jars. Success brought a prize - a goldfish swimming around in a freezer bag full of water. I had several shots at that game and then spent the rest of the evening proudly clutching my trophy. It was the only pet I ever had that was completely mine.

As I made my way along the aisle of the swaying train, clutching my bag of sick, I couldn't help musing how my lot in life had changed over thirty years. I staggered past the ticket collector, inadvertently waving my prize at her as the train juddered round a bend, and I felt slightly bereft without a gleaming goldfish to show off.

Admittedly, it would have been the world's unluckiest goldfish but, hey, it might have gone some way to disguise the bio-terrorism I'd been involved in. As it was, the poor woman looked afraid, gave me a wide berth and hurried off to phone Special Branch. We only just got off the train in time. It wasn't out of sight before a couple of helicopters full of commandos caught up with it and the whole thing disappeared in a cloud of tear gas and abseiling men with guns.

Greeting me with a hug, my mum raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

I think I'll be a little more understanding next time one of the kids' friends gets sent to school despite having a sniffle.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, housedad, school, sickness, travel

 
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  Christmas crackers

Dear Dave,

The decorations are up, the mince pies are warmed, carols are playing and the weather outside is truly horrible. I guess it must be Christmas.

Remember I mentioned in my last letter that after all these years, the kids might not have any tricks left up their sleeves? Turns out I was right.

Well... about the sleeves anyway:

Christmas seems to have got here in a panicked rush of cards and wrapping but I've managed to find time to watch some films with the boys in the last few weeks. It's only been after Marie has gone to bed on nights when Sarah's busy but we've managed to squeeze in the entire Star Wars saga. We've settled down on the sofa, the boys in their pyjamas and snuggled under blankets, and we've done some male bonding while people with glowy swords leapt around before our eyes. Fortunately, the prequels aren't as bad as I remember. (Then again, I remember them being pretty bad.) Episode 3 is remarkably dark and scary, though. Glad I watched the original trilogy with boys first, a couple of years ago.

Last night, we sat down to watch the end of Return of the Jedi - a little ewok treat before the chaos of Christmas really set in. I had some reheated mulled wine from our Christmas party last weekend, the room was dark apart from the tree lights around the TV (don't ask) and we were all nice and cosy as I switched on the DVD player.

"Would you like a cracker?" said Fraser, offering me a handful of little, round snacks with a hint of chive.

"Yeah, thanks..." I said, taking one. "Er..." I stopped in the process of moving it towards my mouth as every alarm bell inside my head went off at once. (Not to mention several on my tongue, a strange prickling in my thumbs and an itchiness in my toes that made them want to curl up reflexively.) I hesitated. "Where did you get these exactly?"

"They were underneath the sofa cushion," he replied, his mouth full.

"Pardon?"

"They fell down there during the party, while I was jumping on Lewis."

I blinked. "And you didn't think to take them out again?"

"Er... No."

"So, they've been there all week?"

"Yeah." He clearly wished he'd kept the knowledge of his secret stash to himself.

"Are there any more?"

Fraser nodded reluctantly and I ordered everyone off the sofa again while I switched on the lights and then went hunting around in the fluff and loose change. There were a couple of dozen of the things. My toes curled involuntarily.

Sarah overheard this exchange from another room and called out to me as I went to find a bin and wash my hands. "Never mind, dear. At least it's not snot."

I wasn't too impressed at the time but I suppose she's right. This is the time of year for counting blessings, after all...

Have a great Christmas and all the best for the New Year.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, christmas

 
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  Physics for parents

Dear Dave,

When I first told people I was going to be a dad, many of them said that my world would change. I nodded and smiled. Of course it would change - that was obvious! I simply didn't appreciate, however, how the very fabric of space and time would be ripped and folded around me by the arrival of a small child. With hindsight, I might have been a little more cautious. I certainly would have gone to the cinema more often while I had the chance.

Perhaps if the people I spoke to had had some hard evidence, I might have listened...

That's the problem, though. Up until now, warnings about parenthood have always been riddled with anecdotes and hearsay. In an effort to rectify the situation, and after much experimentation, I've produced the following empirical data to prove that becoming a parent does indeed alter the very laws of physics in a severely world-changing fashion in the surrounding vicinity:



So remember, next time you meet a prospective dad who's oblivious to what the future holds, show him this. He still may not believe you but, down the line, at least he'll know what's happened when time starts running in circles and the contents of his fridge keep disappearing down a wormhole into another dimension...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, science

 
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  Keeping warm (even at church)

Dear Dave,

Small children are like insulation.

Not that I'm suggesting you try lining the loft with them. Well, probably not anyway. (They'd complain too much to make it worth it.) Then again, I do know from experience that strapping one to your front will make you very warm, very quickly. They also have a tendency to lie around in awkward places such as doorways - despite being irritating and potentially dangerous, this does have its advantages in terms of draft exclusion.

I'm really talking about the way they offer shielding from public embarrassment. If you have small children with you, you can get away with almost anything. Wearing a pink, woolly hat and using a Power Puff Girls umbrella? Check. Discussing the contents of nappies with complete strangers? Check. Singing 137 out-of-tune verses of The Wheels on the Bus on the bus? Check. Skipping down the street? Check. Leaving a puddle of pee in the middle of a shop? Check.

Honestly, the world is your oyster. Should anyone challenge you, all that's necessary is to look sheepish and wave a small child in their face. They'll shake their head with a mixture of understanding and pity and then let you on your way. It's like having a reusable Get out of The Ladies Toilets Jail Free card.

Make the most of it while you can. My kids are older now and not quite as cute as they used to be. Marie can still smile sweetly to extricate us from the worst disasters but people are starting to catch on. Lewis and Fraser, meanwhile, have gone from protective assets to social liabilities. They look old enough to have developed some concept of tact but they've really only got to the point where they're loud and understandable when they say something inappropriate. You know, like, 'This is boring,' during the minute's silence at church on Remembrance Sunday.

Yep, gone are the days when all we had to put a brave face on during the service was Lewis' gurgly breast-feeding or a hasty retreat to the changing facilities after one of Fraser's explosive bowel movements. Now we have to persuade the kids to leave the detailed discussion of Hindu festivals they've been studying at school until later.

This was particularly important the other day, when we were helping our minister, Mike, lead the worship. Despite plenty of rehearsals, there really was no telling what the three of them might say or do.

When it came down to it, however, the boys curled up on a pew and pretended to be invisible so we wouldn't force them to get up in front of everyone and do anything. This was slightly disappointing but markedly better than them getting to the front and launching into the alternative version of Jingle Bells. (The one involving Batman's poor personal hygiene that we sang when we were at primary school.) I reassured them that they didn't have to take part if they didn't want to and left them in the duck-and-cover position. Sarah took the chance to coach Marie on her prayer one last time. I went to make some frantic final preparations for my childrens' talk.

When Mike came to check on me later, I was still in the gents with a foot pump.

"Five minutes until the organist launches into the first song, whether we're there or not. If no one's keeping an eye on her, it'll be something from Evita. We need to go. You ready?"

"Almost. I think there's only one more." I jammed my beach ball further into sink. "Pass me some of that tape."

Mike looked at me with professional concern. "Should I ask?"

"Probably best not to," I said, craning my head round, looking for a tell-tale trail of bubbles in the water.

Mike's pretty good with the kids but many other people I've heard give a childrens' talk haven't been so great. Normal practice seems to be to concentrate on a visual aid, such as a ration book, ThighMaster, Rubik's Cube or rotary telephone. Most of the talk is spent explaining about this object the kids have never seen before, then the last minute or so is taken up by drawing an analogy as to how the thing is exactly like God.

I've always been a little suspect of this approach but having children of my own has only made me more wary. It's much better to tell kids straight rather than dressing it up with metaphors and finger puppets. Keep it short and simple. They may not agree with you but at least they'll have taken in what you were trying to say. Leave the finger puppetry for the adults - it'll keep them focused while you tell them something they've heard a dozen times before but using an analogy that will hopefully finally make them understand it.

That's all very well in theory, of course. Unfortunately, having the courage to break with tradition is something else entirely. Not to mention that, what with the kids being ill, I'd left things to the last moment. My goal for my talk had shifted away from entertaining enlightenment and was heading more in the direction of survival.

I took comfort in the fact that I'd at least chosen a visual aid that the children could recognise.

"Yes!" I spotted the leak, grabbed a towel, wiped the ball dry and applied the tape. Then I set to work with the foot pump.

Mike shook his head. "Just look me in the eye and promise you're going to do better than the student we had over the summer."

"What? The one with the arc welder?"

"That's him."

"Oh, yeah, I certainly hope so." I finished inflating and we hurried out into the corridor. "I'll definitely leave fewer scorch marks on the choir."

Mike appeared less than reassured. "So how is a leaky beach ball like...?"

"I told you not to ask."

"Fine," he said. "I'll ask something else. Have you taken the time to figure out where you're going with your life yet?"

"You're asking me that now?"

"Are you ever less pre-occupied?"

"Well, I'm normally less nervous."

"Which isn't the same."

"No, but..."

And then we were through the door and into the church. The organist scowled and the intro to Don't Cry for Me Argentina morphed awkwardly into the first verse of Once in Royal David's City. There was nothing left to do but get on with the service...

In the end, things went reasonably well. Lewis kept quiet, Fraser decided he would read one of the readings after all and people laughed in the right places when Sarah and I did a sketch about Mary and Joseph. Marie's prayer was a hit. It included saying thank you for the usual suspects, such as friends, family, the rain which helps the flowers grow and all the animals. For some reason, slugs and snails got a special mention, though, and bedtime toys. Everyone was so delighted by this, it helped me get away with a slightly incoherent talk about beach balls.

Mike has already signed us up to help out again in the new year. I'm just hoping I still have some insulation left by then...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, christianity, church

 
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  Faith vs obedience

Dear Dave,

Sometimes I don't know why I bother speaking.

Fraser was upset yesterday because he'd fallen over and bruised his back. I was concerned with checking he was all right but he was more interested in blaming Lewis. He'd been leaning on Lewis and Lewis had moved out of the way without warning.

I tried to explain to Fraser that really he had to take most of the responsibility for the accident. Leaning on someone as an annoying joke is almost certain to make them shake free, and he should have guessed what was going to happen.

He wasn't having any of it, though.

He just wasn't willing to grasp that other people's actions can be inevitable consequences of what he's done himself. He went into a huff and was grumpy for hours afterwards.

Marie, meanwhile, has recently been erupting in a toddler-style tantrum whenever anything doesn't go entirely her way. She shouted and screamed because one of the boys got to unlock the front door rather than her. She went into meltdown because the socks she wanted weren't washed. She writhed around on the ground because there wasn't time to plait her ponytail...

Every day brings a fresh fight over nothing. It's bizarre.

Why do I even bother speaking?

Then again, perhaps I'm simply saying the wrong things:

Last night, Lewis was telling me and Sarah about the latest computer game he's been playing. We sat and listened while we ate our tea but I had to stop him halfway through. "Are you sore?" I asked.

He looked confused but continued to clutch his trousers. "No."

"Do you need the toilet?"

"No."

"Why do you keep fiddling with your willie then?"

He shrugged. "I just like playing with it."

This was pretty hard to argue with and I didn't want to get into the details with a seven-year-old. "Right. Erm... Well, best not to do it when other people are around, OK?"

"Why not?"

"Er... It's a bit like wandering about with no clothes on - no one else wants to see you."

"Why?"

I had visions of this line of interrogation dragging on for a very long time. "Just trust me," I sighed.

"OK," he said with a grin and raced off to return to his game.

There was no arguing, whining, shouting or questioning. Sarah and I looked at each other.

She spoke first. "Maybe we should try saying that more often."

I could only agree.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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  The cost of parenthood

Dear Dave,

That sounds expensive. The cinema tickets alone must have cost over twenty quid and then there was the popcorn and drinks. Figure in the trip to Pizza Hut, the bus fare and the balloons and it must all add up to more than you want to think about. That's before you even take into consideration the essential supplies you'll have picked up seeing as you were in town anyway - I don't know about you, but if I go to the shopping centre, I always seem to come back with several packs of wipes, a handful of toothbrushes and at least one pack of school socks. The total cost of a Saturday out of the house can be eye-watering.

And you probably had to leave the film at the best bit to change Daisy's nappy...

There are cheaper alternatives, certainly, such as going to the museum or for a walk in the rain, but my kids tend to complain if I try them too often. Also, if I'm not careful, they can end up costing more than I was expecting. Museums have over-priced cafés carefully placed to ensnare passing parents who really need cake after having spent half an hour extracting their offspring from the gift shop with only a bare minimum of souvenir pencil sharpeners and shiny stones highly-educational geological samples.

Walks in the rain always require snacks and extra laundry. Sometimes they require air-sea rescue.

Of course, you expect having children to be expensive, and there's an initial big hit to confirm things. The list of stuff to buy is almost endless. Expenditure does quieten down for a bit after that, though. Babies don't eat much. They don't need their own laptop. They don't care where they go on holiday. Day-to-day outlay on a toddler can be small (if you're looking after them yourself, that is... and blatantly ignore the lost income you could potentially be earning doing something else).

A second child is also relatively cheap. The cot is in place. There are clothes. It doesn't matter too much if not all the babygros are the right colour. Let's face it, most of them probably won't last an hour before needing soaked in a bucket anyway.

By Number 3, there's no longer a requirement to buy the best - any old tat will do. Sure, a few bits and bobs of equipment will need replaced and it's worth being picky about things like the height of buggy handles but worn bibs and battered toys are fine. It's all quite manageable.

Then they need shoes. Six weeks later they need more shoes. They start eating real food. They notice adverts. They grab stuff off store shelves. They begin to consume...

Before you know it, they're demanding to be dressed in a fashion that doesn't give the impression they've just been shot backwards from a cannon through the bargain rack at Oxfam.

Then they need MORE shoes - flashing ones with little toy cars hidden in the sole...

It's a costly slope which ends in university tuition fees and debtors' prison. It can be remarkably hard to notice the descent, though. When my parents came to stay the other week, I got them to buy a couple of loaves of bread while they were out for a walk one morning. I didn't think much about it but my mum was somewhat surprised that we were down to barely more than crusts by the next day. I shrugged it off. The kids are getting bigger and there were extra people in the house - bread was going to disappear quickly.

I may have been a bit complacent. Yesterday, I went to the shop at the end of the street with the kids. When we left the shop, I had an entire loaf of bread. By the time we got home, I had this:



That's right. They ate half a loaf of bread on the way back from the shop. It was only a ten minute walk and quite a lot of that was down to stopping to get more bread out of the bag. Marie had three slices and she doesn't even like bread. (It apparently tasted better in the rain.)

We had lunch and then had to go to the shop to buy some bread. While we were there, I bought wipes, toothbrushes and socks, just to save another trip later and avoid wear and tear on their shoes.

Excuse me while I go eBay one of my kidneys...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, money

 
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10:30 AM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Home alone

Dear Dave,

Thursdays can be hectic. Marie has a friend round from school for an hour or so and then there's a mad scramble to do homework and eat tea before she and Lewis have to be along the road at church for Anchor Boys and Rainbows. Once they're delivered and I've got home again with Fraser, there's only a twenty minute gap until I have to take him in the other direction to Boys' Brigade. Then I've got a pretty brisk walk to get back in time to collect the first two and head home to prepare food for Sarah's arrival from work so we've had opportunity to wolf something down before Fraser has to be picked up again and Marie needs seen to bed.

It's all a mad rush.

Last week, as I was fighting my way down the street to church with three children who were squabbling with each other over whether we were going to be late or not, a thought occurred to me:

Why had I brought Fraser?

It was dark and raining and I was only going to be gone a quarter of an hour. All I was doing was dropping off Marie and Lewis and coming straight back. Was it really necessary to drag their nine-year-old brother out of the house in the name of safety and supervision? If I'd left him at home, there was a good chance he wouldn't have moved from the sofa. As it was, I was making him cross roads in the wet and gloom. How exactly was that safer and more responsible? I trust him not to play with matches or knives. He knows not to put magnets near memory cards. There wasn't time to organise a wild party.

In fact, I could only think of two plausible disaster scenarios. One involved him suddenly deciding he needed the toilet and then falling down the stairs in his hurry to get there. The other involved me getting hit by a car while crossing a road in the wet and gloom, thus leaving him to his own devices for longer than expected.

Since he's careless and falls down the stairs approximately once a year, the first possibility was a legitimate concern. Then again, he was wide awake, not distracted by siblings and could focus his attention on the task in hand without having to waste any on ignoring me. I calculated the actual risk as on a par with brushing his teeth unattended. Who knows what he does with that toothbrush before putting it in his mouth? And I probably don't want to find out what he does while it's in there. Wrestling with his brother? Arguing with his sister? Gargling the Harry Potter theme tune? All three at once? That's got to be a choking hazard... Nonetheless, I let him face minty-fresh catastrophe twice a day. Lying on the sofa while I'm away for a few minutes really can't be much worse than that.

But what if it had turned out to be more than a few minutes? What if I'd woken up six weeks later in hospital? How would he have coped?

Truth be told, he might not have noticed. He knows where the biscuits and spare toilet roll are kept. He can get himself a drink of water. He's able to change the batteries in a Wii remote. I suspect he'd have been fine until Sarah got home. He'd definitely have been a lot more comfortable than Lewis and Marie as they lurked outside the church halls in the drizzle, forlornly waiting for me to fetch them...

All in all, bringing Fraser with me seemed to be extra effort for no real gain. It was just one more source of stress in a tight schedule. I decided to take the plunge and leave him behind this coming Thursday.

The next day, another thought occurred to me:

Why wait till Thursday?

Lewis had a party to go to at a friend's house round the corner. Even dragging Marie along, I could drop him off AND nip to the shops for some bread before Fraser's bladder realised I was gone and began contemplating launching him down the stairs. There really was no reason to take Fraser along.

He was delighted with this plan, almost looking up from his computer game in enthusiasm. I, meanwhile, marvelled at the convenience of only having two children to get ready to go and to shove out the door. With a parting warning not to brush his teeth, I left Fraser on his own.

It was both liberating and nerve-racking. Getting along the road was easier but I kept expecting to be quizzed at any moment by the Parent Police, demanding to know where my other child was. Is nine an appropriate age to let children look after themselves? If so, then for how long?

As we were going up the tenement stairs to the party, Lewis noticed something was different. "Where's Fraser?" he asked in genuine confusion.

"Home alone," I replied and immediately wished I hadn't. I had visions of Fraser taking on intruders in a hideously messy combination of slapstick and nail-guns. Worse, I felt the desire to buy Christmas lights. I tried to laugh it off. "He's probably sprinkling the stairs with marbles as we speak," I chuckled unconvincingly, "and electrifying the handle of the front door."

As it turned out, however, Fraser was once again safer at home than with me. Having dropped Lewis off, I was so busy making sure Marie was being careful in the dimly-lit stairwell that I stumbled on the steps myself. Twice. I was more than a little thankful to eventually make it back to ground level in one piece. Fraser, meanwhile, barely stirred while I was gone and risked nothing more than mild eye strain.

It was maybe a healthy experiment for us both. He got some peace; I got to work on overcoming my over-protective paranoia. Sometimes he needs to get out of the house for fresh air and exercise but I'll try leaving him behind more often. It'll be good for everyone.

I should make the most of it, though. I'll have another dilemma in a couple of years. What am I going to do when Lewis is nine? He's a good kid. I can't see I'll have any problem with leaving him home alone then. In fact, alone seems to work quite well with Fraser.

It's leaving them home together that I'll be scared of.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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10:00 AM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Herding short Vikings

Dear Dave,

Getting twenty-three seven-year-old school children onto the top deck of a bus is... an interesting experience. Oddly, the kids who've been wandering off and causing trouble all the way along the street are fine at this point - it's the ones who've been dutifully following instructions since leaving the classroom who cause the issues. They insist on holding hands even while going up the stairs and then refuse to sit next to an adult they don't know despite there being nowhere else to go.

It's a conflict of programming worthy of Asimov.

They stand on the top step and argue about stranger danger while clenched in the vice-like grip of a heavier 'friend' who's been distracted by his own nose and has forgotten to hold on to the handrail. Meanwhile, another twenty kids are all lined up behind, ready to go down like nine-pins as soon as the driver has checked all the tickets and the bus lurches off along the road...

So, Dave, you may be having a few issues with Sam's teacher this year but, honestly, you should fob Daisy off on the in-laws and volunteer to help on a school trip. You'll find it a real eye-opener, I can tell you. If you feel Miss Green is giving Sam too much of the wrong kind of work and that she isn't entirely engaging with his educational needs, you ought to try a visit to the museum with his entire class. By the end, you'll have a new appreciation for Miss Green's ability merely to stay sane on an on-going basis. Forget the excessive colouring in - it's a miracle she gives you (and 20+ other parents) six hours of childcare a day and hasn't yet locked herself in the supply cupboard to have a mental breakdown and then play quietly with the finger-puppets.

Heck, if worst comes to worst, you can always teach Sam to read yourself. I doubt it'll come to that, though. Even if it does, having somewhere cheap and away from home for him to go to and be socialised with other kids while learning about papier-mâché is still something to be thankful for.

Of course, if you did manage to off-load Daisy on unsuspecting relatives for a few hours, I can see why you might want to lie around having a rest rather than accompanying a horde of children across town to learn about Vikings. Maybe I should just tell you what happened to me when I went with Lewis' class, his teacher and Kerry's mum (the solitary other parent helper). I certainly needed to lie around having a rest afterwards.

As I said, the bus journey had its moments. The walk at the other end wasn't so bad. A couple of kids picked a fight while crossing the road, most had forgotten where we were going and one was a little cold because he'd tried to put his coat on over his enormous backpack. He'd got into the sleeves up to his elbows but the rest of the coat was hanging round his waste as he wandered along with his upper arms pinned to his side and his forearms sticking out in front of him. When I offered to rescue him from this absent-minded escapology experiment, however, he didn't seem fussed. I left him to it and concentrated on keeping a watchful eye out for cars, kidnappers and open manhole covers.

When we finally reached the museum and the children had been given stern warnings by Mrs Rogers not to get too boisterous, we were greeted by a couple of guides dressed in animal skins and wearing helmets with horns on. Well, I say 'greet', they actually leapt out at us waving plastic axes and roaring. Half the children jumped out of their skin, the other half didn't really notice. Then we were all forced to wear horned hats too, and sit down ready for a talk.

The talk began with a long explanation of why real Vikings never wore horned hats. Sadly, that didn't mean we got to take our hats off. Instead, Erik the Goat-Slayer and Sven Bottom-Thunderer as the guides called themselves, gave us a quick and lively rundown on the standard Viking topics: the names of the days of the week, longboats, runes, Valhalla and lots of roaring. Essentially, it was everything I remembered learning about Vikings when I was seven. Next term I predict a project on Romans featuring gladiators, togas, eating dormice, Hadrian's Wall and catapults.

Once the kids had been suitably wound up with roaring and period-appropriate fart gags, we had a hands-on session with Viking artifacts. We were divided up and I got to tell my group of six boys about the items they were handling as I hastily skim read the info from a help sheet. Since the objects included knives, shears, needles, drinking horns and various other sharpened bits of dead animal, this activity turned out to be more life-threatening than I'd initially envisaged. Nonetheless, we all survived with only minor injuries.

After the kids had done some drawing and then been turned upside down and shaken a bit to empty their pockets of any lingering Viking weaponry, we went to eat our packed lunches.

First, though, I got to supervise a dozen boys going to the toilet (in groups of two and three, thankfully). A couple of them couldn't reach the taps and at least one got mesmerised by the running water halfway through washing his hands and had to be reminded to stop. One thought the best way to check if a stall was free was to peer underneath the door. (Because, although sitting next to an unfamiliar granny on the bus is clearly to be avoided, placing the side of one's face on the floor of a public lavatory is apparently perfectly OK...)

After lunch, we did a quick tour of the Viking exhibits but they didn't hold the kids' attention long. It wasn't time to head home, however, and seeing as we were at the museum already, we went to look at some robots. We got to press buttons, waggle levers and play with touchscreens. This was more on my level. The kids ran riot but I could cope. It was a contrast to when I went to the modern art gallery with the Primary 5s. On that occasion, my own bewilderment made it harder to keep the children in line. I really couldn't explain why someone had painted three orange squares and hung them on a wall. I muttered something about the explanation being as important as the actual art but I'm not sure I was hugely convincing. As for the stairwell lined with the names of all the people the artist had ever met, laid out like a war memorial, in some ways it was thought provoking, in others it seemed like nice work if you could get it...

(I'm from rural Norfolk. If it's not a landscape involving cows, I'm not interested.)

Once the Primary 3s had had a while to play with the exhibits, their excited chatter began to turn to whiny bickering. Mrs Rogers gave me and Kerry's mum a look and we knew instantly to start rounding everyone up to go. The kids were approaching a level of tiredness where they were liable to descend into complete meltdown. If we didn't get them on a bus soon, we might not be able to do it at all without the aid of cattle prods and the Territorial Army. We were suddenly on a time limit.

Within three minutes we had them lined up with their coats (mostly) on. After a couple of head counts we were away.

We still barely made it.

Getting them on the bus was manageable, getting them off the bus again was challenging but getting along the street to school was almost unending. I had to keep saying, 'Keep up!' and 'Pay attention!' to every child in turn. Like ageing lettuce, they were all past their sell-by date and looking extremely tired. Those in the group with anti-social tendencies were picking fights over nothing and the space cadets were stopping in their tracks at the sight of anything bright or shiny, including, somewhat unfortunately, the sky. Every step became a battle.

When we finally reached the school gate, I was mightily relieved. There was forty-five minutes before I had to be back to collect Marie and I hurried home for a strong coffee and a chocolate biscuit, glad I wasn't Mrs Rogers. She had another hour to keep the Primary 3s amused.

Shiver...

They may have long holidays and excellent pensions but teachers deserve sympathy and understanding all the same...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Having now been on a trip with each of my children, I can verify that every age group presents its own difficulties to those in charge. When given instructions, Primary 5s argue, Primary 3s don't listen and Primary 1s sing and do a little dance.

I think I'll be getting all my kids' teachers bottles of wine for Christmas.

Labels: children, school

 
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  Communication issues

Dear Dave,

Sometimes getting a straight answer out of a child can be like pulling teeth. You kind of expect it when you're asking why their sister is covered in graffiti or where the TV is gone but frequently there's no rhyme or reason to it. I mean, for example, you'd think they'd have a vested interest in giving a clear response to, 'What do you want for dessert?', wouldn't you?

And yet...

"The same thing I had the day before yesterday," Marie replied at the end of tea last Friday.

I paused in the act of opening the kitchen cupboard. "What was that exactly?" I couldn't recall what I'd eaten for my own lunch, let alone what anyone else had had. Attempting to recollect anything further back was pushing things. Given the murky, child-addled state of my memory these days, I wasn't entirely certain Wednesday had definitely happened. I had to assume something had gone between Tuesday and Thursday but someone could easily have slipped in an extra Monday and I might not have noticed.

As I pondered this, I became aware that Marie was in the middle of a long (yet not very illuminating) explanation. "... so that wasn't it. Well, my favourite thing is chocolate biscuits but we didn't have any of them, so it wasn't that either."

"What was it then? I can't remember."

Marie rolled her eyes at my stupidity. "The same thing I always have if it's a holiday and we don't have any chocolate biscuits."

"Could you tell me what that is?"

"No. Guess!"

"Look, just tell me want you want," I said, beginning to lose it.

"Dessert!"

I reached into the cupboard and grabbed the first thing I could find that wasn't curry powder. "Have some Smarties then."

Marie pulled a face. "I don't want those. I want cake."

"Then why didn't you say so?" I sighed.

Marie looked indignant. "But I did..."

Yep, getting a straight answer can be hard work. The only time it's easy is when you're desperately hoping to keep them talking, like while trying to distract them from feeling nauseous on a winding car journey or attempting to get them to chat endearingly to grandparents on the phone:

Granny (on speaker): Did you have a nice day today, dear?
Marie: Yes.
Granny: Did you go out anywhere?
Marie: Yes.
Granny: Where did you go?
Marie: The zoo.
Granny: Was it good?
Marie: Yes.
Granny: What did you see?
Marie: Animals.
Granny: Which ones did you like?
Marie: All of them.
Me (encouraging some verbosity): Tell Granny about the flamingos.
Marie: They were pink.
Me: And what funny thing did they do?
Marie: Can't remember.
Granny: That's nice, dear. Can you speak up a bit - there's lots of noise in the background.
Marie: We're in a taxi.
Granny: Where are you going?
Marie: Home.
Granny: From the zoo?
Marie: Yes.
Granny: Don't you normally get travel sick going home from the zoo in a taxi? It's quite a winding...
Marie: Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarf. (Phone goes dead.)

Sigh.

Taxi cleaning bills aside, though, I suppose it's not as bad as when kids give a straight answer to the wrong question. This is normally reserved for talking loudly to strangers in public places. Sometimes it's deeply embarrassing, usually it's just a touch confusing:

"I'm going to my birthday party," said Marie to the lady sitting in front of us on the bus.

The woman smiled and humoured the little girl, not realising the conversational minefield she was entering. "That's exciting for you."

"Caitlin is going, too." Marie bounced up and down on her seat. "And Lucy and Carlos and Jack and Ophelia and Rani and Yasmin."

"Are they all your friends?"

"No."

The woman's smile wavered. "Some of them aren't your friends?"

"No, they're all my friends," said Marie, speaking slightly more slowly for the silly adult. "Igor isn't my friend but he's not coming."

"Er..."

I felt the need to interpret for our hapless travelling companion. "What Marie's trying to say is that everyone she listed is a friend, it's just not an exhaustive list."

"There's Tom and David, too!" confirmed Marie. "And Kuba. And Corduroy."

"Corduroy?"

"She's new."

"Oh, OK." The woman tried to recover by pointing to Marie's pink, sparkly t-shirt and saying, "Your top is very pretty."

"This isn't my top," replied Marie, laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.

The woman's face crumpled in defeat but she couldn't help asking, "Then whose top is it?"

Luckily, our stop was approaching. I grabbed Marie and made a run for it down the aisle. She called over her shoulder as we went. "It's nobody's top - it's a t-shirt!"

I was surprisingly glad to escape to a soft-play full of cake-fuelled five-year-olds...

Still, it all made me wonder. I've experienced any number of bizarre social interactions since becoming a dad. Many have been beyond my control, and others I've got away with thanks to being surrounded by a protective ring of small, cute children. Perhaps a few have been avoidable, though. If I'd been a little more on the ball, I could maybe have steered the dialogue more smoothly. Sometimes all that's needed is a deep breath and a moment's thought:

When Marie came out of school a couple of weeks ago, she was crying and complaining because she hadn't had enough lunch.

"I didn't have a tub of fruit," she sobbed.

I hugged her guiltily. I was certain I'd prepared one but there was every chance I'd put it in Lewis' lunchbox by accident. (It wouldn't have been the first time.) I told Marie this and apologised.

Marie kept crying. "Lewis didn't have it. Fraser didn't have it either. I checked. I couldn't find it anywhere. It wasn't in my lunchbox."

"That's strange. Never mind; it'll turn up. You can have some food when we get home."

"But I'm hungry now... and thirsty."

"You can have a drink when we get home, too."

"But I'm really thirsty. I found a carton of juice on the floor that looked like mine but I didn't think it was."

I began to get the impression I was missing something. I took a deep breath and thought for a moment.

"Did you drink your juice?"

"No - I couldn't find it. I just found juice that looked like my juice."

"On the floor?"

"Yes. With my sandwich."

My eyes narrowed. "You found your sandwich on the floor along with juice that looked like your juice but that you weren't sure actually was your juice?"

"And my biscuit."

"OK, so what was in your lunchbox when you went to the cloakroom to fetch it at lunch-time?"

"Nothing! It was empty."

The mystery was becoming markedly less mysterious. "I think perhaps your fruit fell out of your lunchbox with the rest of your lunch."

"I didn't see it," said Marie, pouting.

"How about we go and have a look together?"

"OK, but I don't think it will be there..."

We found it within seconds.

Marie rapidly cheered up and sat down on a bench to eat her food. After a minute or two, she gave me a very sweet, contented smile to say thank you.

Sometimes the little things are what make it all worthwhile...

(Although a few of her grapes and a slice of apple would have been nice, too.)

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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  The obvious

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  The parenthood test

Dear Dave,

Sounds like you're signed up for one martial arts class too many. What with parent-and-toddler, GymTots, WaterBabies, KidKrafts and MiniMusic for Daisy, along with school, Fab Footie, Dramarama and Trampoleaping for Sam, you've got a hectic schedule. No wonder you sometimes find yourself halfway along the road with a selection of children and assorted sports kits, only to discover you've forgotten where you're going. I'd drop the Junior Judo if I were you. From what you say, it doesn't seem as if Sam's enjoying it anyway. It will mean the money you paid for the outfit goes to waste but think of all the cash you'll save on snacks, bus fare and renewing the subscription. He can always use the thing as a dressing gown.

Struggle through the next few weeks, though, and life should get easier. It's at this point in the year that the timetable is the most packed - school is back in full swing and every club and activity is up and running for the new academic year. There's always plenty of homework, a wealth of new programmes on the telly, a looming deadline for the wife and usually a spate of birthday parties as well. It's manic.

Technically, the spring is just as busy but despite the miserable weather, things don't seem as bad. The routine is well-oiled and there's the happy prospect of longer days ahead. Getting everyone where they're supposed to be with appropriate equipment and footwear doesn't seem so hard.

I suppose, in its own way, December is even busier but that's down to one-off festive events. These normally involve a steady supply of mulled wine and tasty snacks, which helps take the edge off running round in a mad panic trying to buy Great Aunt Edith a present while accompanied by a bunch of chocolate-filled children who are in transit between the AquaSoccer end-of-term tournament and the AeroboCello Christmas concert.

Nope, the autumn is when everything is craziest. It's very easy to lose track of what's going on, so I wouldn't worry too much about these occasional mental aberrations and parental lapses you've been suffering. That said, I can see why you find them disturbing. Believe me, I know where you're coming from (even if you're not entirely sure yourself). I woke up the other morning and didn't have a clue who I was or where I was meant to be. I was pretty certain I had to be somewhere, though.

I stumbled out of bed, pulled on some clothes, went out onto the landing, tripped on a box containing the complete Mr Men collection and fell down the stairs. Luckily, a huge pile of soft toys cushioned my fall. To my bewilderment, however, the impact set off a cacophony of electronic nursery rhymes, sound effects and big hug requests, and in an effort to escape, I crawled into the lounge and collapsed on the sofa. It was covered in remote controls and tambourines.

I still couldn't remember who I was but I began to suspect I had children...

Eventually it all came back to me and I got the kids up, fed and on the way to their various educational and social engagements. Then I went back to bed for a bit to recover. I suggest that you do the same if ever you get the opportunity - it'll minimise the long-term effects of parenthood.

You see, one day your children will have moved out and life will be simpler again but I'm afraid any neural damage you incur in the meantime is permanent. Get some rest or you'll become confused and disoriented like me. Who knows where you'll end up? You'll take your dry-cleaning for a trampoline lesson and then suddenly wonder where you left the kids.

You should really avoid this scenario if possible. It will all involve far too much explaining to child services.

Of course, it may be too late and your zombiefication may already have begun. You should prepare for the worst. Personally, I could have done with some warning about the houseful of children I was wandering into the other morning. As a consequence, I've considered leaving a note of their names and ages on my bedside table for reference in similar situations in the future. Unfortunately, I'd never remember to update it as they got older and, more than that, if I was really confuddled I might not believe what I was reading without further evidence anyway. ('I have a nine-year-old? What the...? When did that happen? The Millennium hasn't even arrived yet and I'm really looking forward to visiting that Dome. This is all some kind of joke. I just need to climb out of bed and go look in - Ow! LEGO! Ow! My foot! Ow!')

I can't be the only one with this problem, so I've compiled a helpful questionnaire for distribution to households throughout the land. You might want to keep it handy. It will help cut down on injuries and disaster should you ever find yourself roaming the house in a daze trying to remember your name and what you were doing:

Do you have children?
(and if so, how old are they?)

- An easy guide to spotting the tell-tale signs of parenthood

Lost? Tired? Confused? Covered in jam? This pamphlet is for you!

Unsurprisingly, these symptoms can be troubling and lead to high levels of anxiety and distress. Don't worry! There may be a simple explanation - you may be a parent. That's right, everything may be perfectly normal! In fact, it probably is. All you need do to be sure is answer the following questions and then add up your score. This will determine if you are, indeed, a parent and provide a rough approximation of the age of your children, allowing you to equip yourself appropriately:

1. Look at yourself in the mirror. Is the face staring back at you:

A. Full of health and vigour, with a twinkle still firmly in the eye? (1 point)
B. Relatively youthful but with a sickly, grey pallor and a splattering of banana porridge? (2 points)
C. Looking a little worse for wear but it's hard to tell with all the nervous twitching going on? (3 points)
D. Lined and jaded? (4 points)
E. Sagging and yet serene? (5 points)

2. What's on your lounge carpet?

A. I'm not sure, I can't see it for Duplo. (2 points)
B. Marbles. Lots and lots of... Argh! Thump... (3 points)
C. Muddy boot prints and half a pizza. (4 points)
D. Not much apart from a vast assortment of faded stains. (5 points)
E. I don't have a carpet. I have fashionable rugs, a glass-topped coffee table and a selection of fragile carvings of giraffes. (1 point)

3. Check your DVD collection. Does it mainly consist of:

A. The original Star Wars trilogy, The Matrix, Love Actually and The Shawshank Redemption? (1 point)
B. The complete works of Bob the Builder and the Teletubbies? (2 points)
C. Computer-animated movies involving talking animals and cute robots? (3 points)
D. Empty cases which have been left lying open on every available surface within five feet of the TV? The only discs visible appear to have been used as pizza toppings and then trodden on. (4 points)
E. A huge mix of accumulated tat. (5 points)

4. What's in the fridge?

A. A delicious selection of produce from around the world, ready to be whipped up into a nutritious meal. (1 point)
B. Lots of little tubs of slime. (2 points)
C. Vegetables, fresh fruit, twenty pints of milk and some Cheestrings. (3 points)
D. Absolutely nothing - it's been emptied out. Wait a minute... my beer's gone too, and the crisps! (4 points)
E. Cottage cheese and low-cholesterol margarine. (5 points)

5. Examine your TV and the surrounding area. What do you see?

A. An Xbox 360. (1 point)
B. Sticky fingerprints, an Xbox 360 and a sandwich in the DVD player. (2 points)
C. A Wii and an Xbox 360. (3 points)
D. A Wii, vast numbers of empty DVD cases and a void in the dust where an Xbox 360 used to be. A trail of muddy footprints and pizza leads off in the direction of a darkened bedroom. (4 points)
E. There is no TV. Looks like one of the bedrooms has been converted into a cinema, though, complete with projector and mini-bar. It appears the previous contents of the room have been tipped into bin bags and chucked out the window. (5 points)

6. What's in the laundry tub?

A. It's mainly shirts and underwear. (1 point)
B. Almost nothing. That must be why the washing machine is on. There is this funny bucket with a lid on, though. I'll just check what... Gag!... Somebody... Gasp!... call a Hazmat team... Wheeze... (2 points)
C. A hundred thousand pairs of grey school socks. (3 points)
D. I don't know but I think I saw something move in there. (4 points)
E. I can't get to it because someone's mistaken my house for a laundrette and dumped several bin bags full of dirty clothes in the utility room. (5 points)

7. Do the photos on display around the house feature:

A. You and your friends in interesting and varied locations? (1 point)
B. You holding babies? (2 points)
C. Children in school uniform trying to remember how to smile? (3 points)
D. People who look a bit like you (but much younger) and their friends in interesting and varied locations? (4 points)
E. People who look a bit like you (but much younger) holding babies? (5 points)

8. Examine the shoes in the shoe rack. What do you see?

A. What shoe rack? I only have one pair of shoes. Why would I need a shoe rack? (1 point)
B. A vast selection of Crocs, Wellies, sandals, trainers and school shoes spilling off the rack, down the hall and out onto the street. (3 points)
C. Huge, puffy trainers, combat boots, uncomfortably high heels and some flip-flops. (4 points)
D. Several pairs of sensible shoes (mainly female) plus plenty of extra space for when people come to visit at Christmas. (5 points)
E. There are no shoes in the shoe rack. They're all in the tumble-dryer. (2 points)

9. How many bedrooms does your house contain?

A. None. I have a futon. (-3 points)
B. One. (1 point)
C. Two, and one of them has a cot in it. (2 points)
D. Two, and one of them has bunk beds. (3 points)
E. Three. One with a cot AND one with bunk beds. (3 points)
F. Four. Oh, this isn't good - two of them smell really bad and another is covered with posters of Zac Efron. (4 points)
G. Five. Worryingly, they all have bunk beds. (Stop counting and run)
H. One. But I do have my own cinema, gym, jacuzzi and study... (5 points)

Well done. You've completed the questionnaire. Now add up the score and discover if you have children:

6-20 points. You have young children. You are suffering from a mixture of sleep deprivation, exposure to biological waste and a caffeine overdose. Go have a lie down after you've made sure the kids are all properly fed, cleaned, clothed and caged. (This may take some time...)

21-30 points. You have children. They've driven you slightly mad but they're probably entertaining themselves happily by destroying the house. Find them and make them do their homework.

31-43 points. You have older children. They'll be in their rooms or helping the police with their enquiries. You're blacking out because you don't want to know which. Teenagers are self-cleaning, however, and can look after themselves for short periods, so it's OK to leave the house and go buy some more food. (Remove the fluff from the pizza if you need something to keep you going. You almost certainly paid for it, after all!)

44+ points. You have children... but they've left home. Result! You don't have to remember where they are. Go put your feet up while playing computer games in your underpants.

If you scored less than 6 or found the questions impossible to answer, you probably don't have children. You have a hang-over. Go put your feet up while playing computer games in your underpants. (Make sure they're clean underpants - it'll minimise the embarrassment should you discover that you do in fact have children, you're simply in someone else's house.)

Whatever your situation, we hope you found this information useful and that it will help you cope with the next few minutes, hours and decades! Good luck!

Compiler's disclaimer:

Of course, it should be noted that when I hired a pest control guy to deal with my rodent issues a couple of years ago, he failed to find many droppings, spot any visible damage or detect any suspicious odours. As a consequence, he thought I was paranoid and exaggerating the extent of the problem.

I wasn't. The mice were everywhere - they were merely clever enough to clean up after themselves.

Similarly, just because there aren't any signs of children immediately apparent in your home, that doesn't mean they aren't there. They may be hiding behind the sofa, desperately whispering to each other in an attempt to devise a plausible excuse for the honey in the tumble-dryer (mixed in with the shoes). It's always worth double-checking.

That should sort out some of your confusion but try to take it easy when you can anyway. You don't... Oh, is that the time? Fraser has a Street Dance & Hip Hop taster session. (He's not thrilled but it's free.) I'd better go. All the best...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children

 
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