Is it too early for Christmas?

I saw Santa on Saturday, 27 Nov 10! It was a good idea but badly planned and executed. It was the first Christmas shopping weekend, apparently, and hellish busy. Not ideal for wandering around a large shopping centre with 3 and 4 year old boys. The queue for two minutes exposure to the charlatan with an acrylic beard was 30 minutes long and then my sons both got stage fright and wouldn't speak to him.

The queue to see him was more fun. It was marshalled by young women dressed as toy soldiers and one particularly cute and curvy blonde one knelt down to ask my sons what they wanted for Crimbo.
"Don't know," they both mumbled.
"What about a toy soldier," I thought to myself as she smiled up at me with blue eyes and heavily rouged cheeks (obviously my wife was away shopping).
We went on a huge carousel, and there was a wishing fountain and magic cave. It was very well done although it was so far away from Christmas that I could not shake the sense of commercial exploitation that we talk about every year.
There was also a Nativity scene amidst all the Christmas trees, teddy bears, snowmen and other paraphernalia and I was gratified that my boys immediately recognised the essential components; Infant Christ, Mary, Wise Men, etc, so at least we have not completely lost the spirit of Christmas.

Was it too early? Very much so, and not least because I had completely forgotten that England were playing the Springboks. It was not much of a game, apparently, mainly because England failed to live up to expectations again. But surely it's not too much to ask for Christmas; a toy soldier and a win over South Africa?

Baby Blues

We have moved our four month old, third son, from his crib by the side of our bed into his own full size cot in his own room. He looks a bit lost in all that space and the crib beside my bed is forlornly empty. He sleeps all the night through now, pretty much, and it is nice to sleep undisturbed again: Only I don't. I still wake up because I miss his little presence, his regular whisper of breath. I miss sitting with him in the middle of the night, just him and me. I miss having a baby because I probably never will again.

He seems in a rush to do everything. He is trying to crawl, seemingly to stand up and talk even. When he sits on my knee whilst I play games with his three and four year old brothers he jumps up and down waving his arms, trying to join in the action.

"Be patient, my son, there is plenty time to be grown up. Enjoy your childhood, if not for your own sake, for mine because I love being your father and that gift has a shelf life. Sure, I will always be your father, but you will not always smile at me in that totally absorbing way that you do now and I will not always be the first person you call out for in the middle of the night. Then, you'll be a man, my son, and I'll be proud of you but I will always miss our chats in the middle of the night."

Still, when he is playing in the back row for England I will get guaranteed tickets...

Starting school.

My eldest son has just started school, even though he has only just turned four. It seems a little premature. Indeed, it seems a little incongruous because when he wakes up he is a little boy with ruffled blond hair and a cherubic smile but once he puts his uniform on he looks like an archetypal schoolboy, complete with schoolbag, lunchbox and even homework (if you can call reading Little Red Riding Hood homework). I had to admit to the teacher that, due to a sick wife and two other children in the house, we had not done our homework; I thought she might spank me but unfortunately I was forgiven.

I have absolute respect for the teachers. "Manage the chaos to win the war" Napoleon is quoted as saying and there was a sense of that in my son's classroom this morning. The teachers, however, went about their business with a practiced routine that seemed to keep things moving in the right direction and all the children busied themselves with painting, jigsaws and books, and my son set to like an old pro.

He seems to have adapted well, having made some friends, and he comes home asking even more questions: He seems very enthused by it which I am grateful for since some other children seem to be struggling a little. One little girl this morning was devastated to be left by her Mom, another seemed to have been abandoned since her Mom left with embarrassing haste. As it was, my son showed me where to put his lunchbox, where to hang his jumper and which jigsaw was his favourite. When I left he gave me a manly hug and went to the window to wave me off. Now that he seems to have begun life's journey, I sense this will be the first of many farewells I will have to endure.

"Polenastics"

With three kids under 4 years old, my wife finds it necessary to have a visiting hairdresser. Nothing remarkable about that except that this lady is into "Polenastics", which is apparently like gymnastics but with a pole not bars or a beam; it keeps you fit, she says. Indeed, as I recall, all the pole dancers I have tipped in various dubious places around the world have been fairly "athletic". How do they hold themselves upside down with only their thighs for support?

So, my wife has decided to have a pole dancing birthday party.
"Yippee!" I cried. But it is only for the girls she has decreed. I ask you, what's the point of girls-only pole dancing? Actually, I can think of a very good reason but you'd need a camcorder and my wife won't even allow that.

I am working on ways of getting invited: I could be a waiter; cross-dresser; peeping tom, even. I have some friends who are coppers so a bit of covert surveillance might help although they are a bit reticent; some crap about "professionalism". Come on, let's prioritise here. Some of my wife's friends are fulsome so there may be a few health and safety issues but it would be worth watching them too, if only for comedy value.

Share and Share Alike

My two elder sons, who are 4 and 3 years old, have an obscene amount of toys bought by well-meaning relatives, Godparents and friends. Most of the toys lie unused in the corner of the playroom (which used to be our dining room; guests now eat in the kitchen as a consequence) and are only brought out at the firm suggestion of their mother or father.
Despite this, they are acutely aware of what belongs to whom. As with many children it would seem, “Mine!” was the first word the older boy learned. Mutual play with each other’s toys requires world cup standard refereeing; perhaps even more stringent than that since B and G are much more aware of the situation than FIFA refs recently seemed to be (Would that goal have made a difference? Surely professional sportsmen earning megabucks should be able to overcome such reversals?).
So, I was very pleased when a neighbour kindly brought a cake around for us to share recently and the boys excitedly brought it outside to the picnic table and began to carefully divide it up on the plate.
“That’s my piece,” said B as he drew the blunt knife through cake as precisely as a surgeon.
“Why it bigger then mine?” demanded G with justified indignation.
“Cos I’m bigger!” declared B.
“Not fair,” stated G keenly. That was true and I suggested they divide it equally. The negotiations began again; Paul McCartney’s divorce was settled more amicably and efficiently. Still, they were sharing and learning about the need to compromise so I hovered on the edge of intervening; like all parents I suppose, trying to maintain the balance between sorting problems and prematurely interfering.
Unfortunately, our dog has much less reticence about boundaries and plodded over to see what the fuss and sweet smell was about. The boys were so intent on ensuring they each had a fair deal they did not notice the big furry nose emerge between them and suddenly scoff the lot!

Birthing Pains

I was asked to complete a questionnaire about my experiences of childbirth and include those thoughts here:

My greatest concern during the birth of our second and third sons was that the midwives we had did not really know what they were doing. They were both very inexperienced and spent most of their time filling in forms. Obviously, staff need experience to develop their skills but their was minimal supervision; both births were late evening or during the night. I read recently that infant death in childbirth was higher during out of hours deliveries and my personal experience would echo that concern.

The second birth was induced, like the first, and I told the midwife that my wife would respond quickly to the drip so she should time the procedure to ensure the anaesthetist was available. She ignored me and my consequently spent several hours in intense pain because she went quickly into labour but could not get the epidural. Then the foetal heart rate was oscillating from 50 to 300 and clearly he had the cord wrapped around his neck. The midwife ignored my concerns and carried on filling in forms. I became increasingly agitated, insisting that a consultant or senior midwife was brought but the prissy little bitch still ignored me. Her main concern was that I was being abusive. Eventually, the gynaecologist did turn up and immediately crashed my wife for a C-Section. In the end he was able to unwrap the chord and deliver normally.

During the third birth the young midwife could not find the cervix so was adamant that delivery was not imminent. I thought otherwise and constantly requested a second opinion and my wife was screaming for the anaesthetist again. This went on for a while. The young anaesthetist did come see and tried bluffing my wife that she was not ready to deliver. A while later the senior midwife on shift did turn up, examined my wife and felt my son's head! He was delivered without pain relief at all.

To summarise my concerns: Inexperienced staff need more and closer supervision and they should also listen to the concerns of the woman in labour and birthing partners.

Hail the Sun God or Hide from His Wrath?

It was a fantastic weekend, hot enough even for my South African wife. I spent most of the weekend in our family size paddling pool. The picture on the box shows a large nuclear family of impossible beauty having a pleasant play in the water but the reality of the pool for me was that I spent saturday afternoon being waterboarded by a three and four year old. I can see immediately how waterboarding is effective as an interrogation technique and also why it is illegal. Every time you come up for air you get forced back under or have a bucket of water poured over your nose and mouth. It makes you very easy to manipulate and although my two sons were obviously not trying to elicit intelligence from me, had they been more savvy, I would have agreed to all kinds of Christmas presents; it's a good job they still believe in Santa.

Despite my initial objections to the cost, the pool has been a useful purchase although it requires some maintenance and close supervision with small children. It has attracted many mums and their offspring to our house and I came home on Friday afternoon to find half a dozen slightly flushed moms sat enjoying "Wine Club" in my garden. It was not long ago that finding a group of drunken women and a swimming pool would have been like entering Valhalla but on this occasion the myriad of their children running amok like the tribe from Lord of the Flies was my main focus. What surprises me most about this recurring scene is not the dent the ladies make in my wine rack, but the amount of sun cream they rub on their ghostlike children. In contrast, my two sons looklike lightly grilled sausages. Even our baby looks tanned in comparison.

I do not understand this fear of the sun. I grew up in Yorkshire where the Sun god rarely visits and every time his presence was felt we children were ushered outside to "get some sun" and, as a parent, I can now see the merit in this. Obviously, sun burn is not good but this is Britain, the sun is not that strong. Medical research has linked problems in later life arising from a lack of sunshine such as rickets and MS. MS, for example, is more prevalent in Scotland and Canada than countries of lower latitudes and this has been linked to a lack of sunshine in childhood. It strikes me that sun hats and creams and Wii or XBox will have the same effect. There is MS in my family so I am very sensitive to the issue and, for me, it is an obvious balance of risk. Apart from that, I am not sure why this aversion to the sun is so strong or who is promoting it. Retailers of said sun products certainly seem to emphasise it a lot but what will be the health repercussions for today's generation of children in 20-30 years time?

There is increasing awareness of this problem and the BBC have run several stories on it: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-11355810
However, the glacier of public opinion is frozen in the myth that the sun is bad and I fear it will be another generation before this will change.

The Devil's Fruit

When I was seven my father tried to make me eat a tomato. It was the first time we had a real fight: He was all sternly adamant that I would not defy him by refusing to eat it and I was all hurt and physically gagging at having to eat the insidiously gooey mess.

I hate tomatoes; they are the Devil’s fruit. Indeed, there is nothing in the bible that actually indicates that the fruit proffered to Adam by Eve was an apple. That was probably just the interpretation of the biblical text by 15th and 16th Century European artists and I believe it was really the eating of a tomato that precipitated the fall of man. Only the blinding temptation of naked totty could get a man to do something so vile as eat a tomato and, in the same vein, you clearly can not make children eat something they do not want to. I resolved never to make my own children eat food they did not like.

Thirty year’s later with three sons, however, the issue of getting children to eat is less certain. My four year old can be very fussy and often refuses to eat either because he does not like the food he is offered or he is not hungry. You’d think the simple answer is to offer him food he likes and accept that he will eat when he is hungry but he often declares he does not like food that he has previously wolfed down and, having declined to eat because he’s not hungry, he will then cry because he’s hungry and wants a peanut butter sarnie.

We’ve tried allsorts of methods. We have banned eating snacks between meals, if they don’t eat supper they are denied a pre-bedtime snack, counting spoons of food (that worked well for a while), and offering rewards. Nothing is foolproof but everything has some guilt attached as to whether they are eating enough if they are denied snacks and whether I have become Victorian Dad from Viz comic. Some things do have a positive effect. Eating together as a family group seems to make the boys feel involved, I always insist they say thank you for their food (even if they did not eat any), and eating food from each other’s plates have all encouraged better eating.

After many stressful mealtimes I have conceded the truth of my own childhood; you can not force children to eat and giving ultimatums and sitting at the table for hours looking at cold food just alienates them and makes mealtimes a dreaded occurrence. We have followed the advice that after 30 minutes children are unlikely to eat more and forcing the issue is counter productive. I have found compromise between the “no snacking” rule and “eating enough” issue by allowing fruit or raw veg.

Now, I see it like this: My father also tried to make me eat sprouts and they are the Devil’s testicles.

Cry Wolf

Aesop’s fable is about a lonely shepherd boy who cried wolf when there was not one there in order to relieve his boredom and attract attention. At school, I recall this tale was told as a reminder not to cause unnecessary alarm just for fun or attention but I also thought it implied that grown ups should not automatically dismiss children just because they have a tendency to exaggerate or even lie.

Now I am a parent I try to bear the lessons from this tale in mind, although it is not always easy. Recently I was walking with my 3 and 4 year old sons, our baby in a pram and the dog. It's quite an expedition on your own and my 3 year old, G, was playing up badly.
"I’m tired, there's something in my shoe, pick me up Daddy." This whinging is generally his way of seeking attention. Each time he complained of something in his sandal I stopped to check only to be told:
"Only teasing, Daddy." At the fifth time of asking I nearly did not check but, mindful of the fable, I parked the pram, tied the dog called my elder son close and got down on my hands and knees again to look in his sandal. There was an ugly piece of glass sticking through the sole of my son’s sandal and it had pierced the skin causing a tiny trickle of blood.

The thought that I nearly did not look still makes me shudder.

"What are these for Daddy?"

"What are these for Daddy?" my four year old, B, asked me waving a box of tampons that my wife had left in the bathroom (thanks Darling).
"They're...err...like plasters," I replied, "for stopping bleeding." B looked at them suspiciously.
"They don't look like my plasters," he said accusingly, "there's no Winnie Pooh." I continued shaving to give myself a moment to think.
"Well, they're special Mommy plasters," I offered hopefully. B considered this like a crown court judge. I half expected him to say "don't bullshit me Daddy" but he is not quite that advanced. Instead he employed simple logic:
"I've never seen Mommy stick these on anywhere".
"Well...(nothing else for it)...do you remember where your baby brother came from? Those plasters stop bleeding there." (Please, please, please, don't ask me to explain menstruation, Son).
"Oh," was all he said losing interest. The he smiled at me, "Can I put some shaving soap on so I look like Santa Claus too?" (Phew)

Strong Love?

Son No2 is two and a half, I'll call him G, and still continues to misbehave to try and get attention. Understanding this helps to prevent overreaction but it still causes me a lot of frustration. Recently, I was trying to get him in his pyjamas and he was playing up to delay me. I was doing a good job at managing the situation calmly until he deliberately kicked me in the eye. It hurt and the result was a hard slap on his bum. It was not lashing out, it was a controlled action, but much harder than intended and he squealed. His mom was there and was cross with me and all love and sympathetic with G.

"Come here and I'll put your jamas on," she cooed.
"No," he said decisively and looking at me, "want Daddy to put them on!" I gestured him to come close and he ran to me and hugged me saying:
"Love you Daddy." This surprised my wife and I. Slapping your
children is always a last resort and, in effect, an admission of failure but it seems to work and ironically seems to strengthen the bond between father and son; at least on this occasion. However, I still feel like I've failed to manage a situation if the solution is a slap and strive to resolve conflicts differently.

Welcome to the World

My third son has now been born. He is a big man; 9lb 10 oz. My wife delivered him without pain relief since he was so keen to come join the gang that the midwives and anaesthetist could not get the epidural to work quickly enough. Afterwards, my wife was quite pleased to have had a completely natural birth and she seems to have experienced some of that spiritual feeling that moms talk of. Still, given the choice she says she would still have opted for pain relief and, as a soldier, I completely support that. The analogy for me would be a battle injury; "Would you like some morphine for that shrapnel wound, soldier, or would you prefer a natural injury?"

No 3 is doing well. He is 5 weeks old but goes to sleep at 2000 and wakes about 0200 to feed and then again about 0500. That is fairly easy going for a newborn but he seems to understand that his dad is old and needs some rest. Actually, I enjoy feeding him in the middle of the night. We watch movies and sport together and there is just me and him; no-one else to interfere or criticise (as women seem to have to do by instinct). It is the only time I get to choose what we watch.

He is putting on weight like a viking. He already fills out clothes for a 3 month old baby so clearly L will be No 8 to B's Blind and G's Open side flankers. Unless, of course, he wants to dance or play football (which are much the same, aren't they?).

Understand Me!

One of my little men can be a bit naughty. He clearly does it for attention but he also does it when we are all playing together. He deliberately does things to disrupt the game or bathing process or whatever. It is very frustrating at times and difficult not to get very cross. Do all Fathers have this sense?

But I have jusfinished reading Jean-Louis Fournier's book "Where We Going Daddy" and this has made me reconsider the situation. Actually the book made me cry and I am a soldier; we don't cry easily but the man's pain is heartbreaking. The book also made me realise how fortunate I am to have such perfect children because it is about being a father to two very disabled children. Fournier describes a moment when his son, who can not speak, constantly and deliberately throws his ball into places that require the father to come retrieve it. The boy finds his dad and takes him by the hand to fetch the ball. This annoys the father until he realises that being led to fetch the ball is the only time he holds hands with his son. So as well as making me sad, the book also made me realise that, as a father, it is my responsibility to understand how my toddler feels, not his responsibility to explain it to me.

It is a book that is devastating and thought provoking, especially if you are a father, I strongly recommend it:

Children and Pets

We got a puppy when our first son was three weeks old. I had read that dogs can be a little resentful of new born babies coming into their space so we waited until he was born before we picked the puppy up from the breeder. We had no problems in terms of dog/baby rivalry; Siberian Huskies are renowned as being good with children. But having a puppy and a baby meant that for a few weeks my life was a maelstrom of crap, it was everywhere. The first night we got the puppy home I shut it in the kitchen as the breeder had recommended and it was like Hades. The baby was crying and crapping in the bedroom and the puppy was howling and crapping in the kitchen. The clean up process was akin to that of the H-Blocks in Northern Ireland after Bobby Sands' "Dirty Protest". So, babies and puppies do go together but the timing needs managing efectively.

The Competitive Edge

I am oddly attracted to Daphne. She is the auburn haired cutie from Scooby Doo. This may be a resurgent fantasy from pre-adolescence but, equally, it could be because she reminds me of a girlfriend from college. That wan, innocently horny look and the slender legs engender memories of youthful carnal adventure. My old girlfriend had a predilection for going without knickers under her short skirts and now, as I watch Scooby Doo, I can't help but wonder if Daphne goes commando. It is certainly an unexpected pleasure from watching cartoons with my sons. Actually, I enjoy cartoons for their own sake, I also like Tom and Jerry, Daphne is simply an inadvertent advantage. Fortunately, my sons enjoy it as well, otherwise I would struggle to explain why we should watch it in favour of Ben 10, Sponge Bob Square Pants or Fun with Claude: I was not expecting to have "that" talk for another 10 years.

I watch TV with my boys in the evening; it's quality time with them and I actually quite enjoy it. Their favourite channel is "Boomerang". The channel has a "Pet of the Week" award and we entered our dog; a three year old Siberian Husky. She's a beautiful animal and I was sure she would win Pet of the Week with her striking blue eyes and alert ears. But, consistently, this slot is filled with sloppy eared rabbits and miserable moggies.
"Daddy, pet of the week is a stupid rabbit again!" shouted my eldest son (I'll call him B from now on) with surprising rhetoric for a three year old. So, I checked out the website and discovered that some pets have 145000 votes. Its disturbing that children, or their parents, are so intent on success that they learn to beat the system at such an early age. No doubt these are the children that grow up to be MPs or work at RBS and it makes me worry about what I have to do to give my sons a fair start in life.

Children are from Jupiter

I am expecting my third child very soon; another son. I am very excited. Being a Dad is the best thing I have ever done. And I've done some stuff in my life. Together my boys could form the England backrow. Still, their Mother was South African so if the boys are not that good they could always play for the Boks. Bold talk, I suppose, given England's poor performance in the 6 Nations this year.

Then again, they may not play rugby. They may play golf, football or take up ballet. It's difficult to tell as sometimes I am on their level and sometimes I am not sure what planet they or I are on. Still, the first two are only two and three.