tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43455855265331565852024-03-22T02:16:10.954-07:00Daddy Do-littleDaily Disasters of a Stay-at-Home DadDaddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-13815060597494628992018-11-24T10:55:00.000-08:002018-11-24T11:08:39.076-08:00Am I the only scooter Dad?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1fjgQkYQXQIBEezdFWprtFlgMTcKhJ-8kt7dylPffrgue15dzyGxJ2XjTlCwi89GSkukaPGg3kQtceYPnhbCNNwhUQi6A-I4GLn_F6YcXjHB5VbVwb-nyZMOpG1Nlz7QAncpyaU7Dis/s1600/20180714_164800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1fjgQkYQXQIBEezdFWprtFlgMTcKhJ-8kt7dylPffrgue15dzyGxJ2XjTlCwi89GSkukaPGg3kQtceYPnhbCNNwhUQi6A-I4GLn_F6YcXjHB5VbVwb-nyZMOpG1Nlz7QAncpyaU7Dis/s640/20180714_164800.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And for my next trick, I'm going to fall off - to the left, my left, not your left.</td></tr>
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<br />
Downhill racing on two wheels. Kick start. Push off. Downhill surge. Wind in my face.<br />
<br />
Two wheels. No, it's not my mid-life crisis Harley. It's not my mid-life crisis carbon-fibre racer.<br />
<br />
It's, um, a kick scooter.<br />
<br />
<b>The man for all parties</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
This is the fun part, sailing downhill over smooth pavement until I hit the potholes at the bottom. Rattle, rattle. Over the road, past the chippie and the fire station and then the long slog upwards past the secondary school, possibly watched by a gang of youths supping surreptitious fags in between (or during?) lessons.<br />
I try to look appropriately youthful as I slither in the mud-slick past them. "Yeah, bro, this ain't what it looks. This receding hairline isn't middle-age: it's the pressure of A-Levels and the only reason I've heard of the Spice Girls is because they recently announced a reunion tour - without Victoria Beckham apparently. Isn't she the one married to that old ex-footballer? The man whose professional career so-obviously-did-not-run-concurrently-with-my-(later)-childhood?"<br />
<br />
I don't think they're convinced.<br />
<br />
Then it isn't long before I'm rolling (or bumping - those flagstones aren't very smooth) into town and my outlook abruptly changes. Suddenly I'm trying to appear as grown up and responsible as possible. I give elderly ladies a respectfully wide berth and slow down to a crawl at footpath junctions, zig-zagging at snail's pace between pedestrians and smiling what I hope (but probably isn't) a reassuring smile.<br />
<br />
"Yes, madam. I am so much more mature than I look. I've simply borrowed my teenage son's scooter to go to the bank because my wife is using the spare Range Rover. Good morning, sir. Lovely day for a walk, isn't it? Really, I'm not trying to hustle you. Please, take your time."<br />
<br />
I imagine that everyone is giving me disapproving looks. They probably aren't. Who knows? They might be wishing they had a scooter to.<br />
<br />
<b>No cred to lose</b><br />
<br />
I grew up in a world far away from paved streets and tarmac footpaths. Well, a good mile away anyway. I had a scooter to play with as an infant, and never got another until I was past thirty. Skate parks and stunt scooters were a great unknown. I'd never been on a half pipe: my eldest son had, at the tender age of seven, already got the march on me there.<br />
<br />
It's like time and opportunity passed me by. Scooting and skating are not considered 'cool' once you've reached adulthood. Okay for the teenagers, not so for their balding, beer-bellied elders. To be seen chugging along on a scooter is, apparently, to immediately invite sniggers and a catastrophic loss of street-cred.<br />
<br />
Except that I never had any street-cred to lose. You can't go backwards from zero so perhaps my late attachment to a fairly unremarkable push scooter may actually work in a kind of reverse. I'm the one who dares where others fear to tread, who rides where others walk, who carries his wheels around town rather than paying for the privilege of leaving them in a car park. Maybe other people secretly feel the same? Because let's face it:<br />
<br />
<b>It's fun</b><br />
<br />
Come on, hands up who hasn't watched a kid on a scooter and thought "I wish I could do that!"<br />
<br />
<b>It's practical</b><br />
<br />
It's quicker than walking - you can be there and back in the same time it would take you to get there on foot.<br />
Cheaper than driving - no parking fees, no petrol, no wear on the tyres.<br />
It's handy - can't be bothered to lug the bike out of the shed for a ten-minute ride? Take the scooter out from under the stairs instead.<br />
You can take it with you - in the car boot, and keep up with the kids without having to run and look ridiculous.<br />
You might win the World Cup - okay, a bit unlikely, but it's well-known that French Premier League and World Cup winner N'Golo Kante used to turn up to training on a scooter in his early days as a professional.<br />
<br />
A note of caution though:<br />
<br />
<b>You will fall off</b><br />
<br />
I have been asked whether I do tricks. I do one: it's called falling off. Several times. Can be quite spectacular, but I'm not sure it really qualifies as a 'trick'.<br />
<br />
Pavements can be bumpy and fallen leaves are slippery. Many scooters have brakes that don't work too well in the wet, so you need to be aware of terrain and weather.<br />
But having said that, people still say:<br />
<br />
<b>"[Someone adult I know] would love one of those!"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
It's official, everyone else wants one too! But I've yet to see anyone actually get one. There are myriad reasons for this, many of them exceptionally logical and sensible and which I have chosen to ignore.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And back to the beginning</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
If there isn't any foot-traffic (smokers, loafers, dog-walkers) on my homeward journey I can get all the way from the second school gate down past the chip shop without putting my foot to the ground. It's payback for the annoying slog uphill on the way out and the time gained there means I don't feel so bad about walking up the hill beyond. <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">It's something I've worked out carefully over time. Alone.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Always alone.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">The only Dad on a scooter. There and back. Up and down. Wind in my face. Alone.</span>Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-6210229716214521202018-08-30T12:13:00.000-07:002018-08-30T12:13:01.049-07:00Getting Cold Camping? Night's Worth It!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Night remains an evasive beauty.<br />
<br />
"Evasive?" I hear you splutter. "Comes around once a day! Or night..."<br />
Evasive, yes. Also enigmatic and unfathomable.<br />
<br />
Let me elucidate a little. Night and Man have existed together for thousands of years, but how well do we actually understand her? How do we perceive her? Gloomily - night is the deathlike shroud that casts a blackness over the living earth. Fearfully - night is the haunt of creatures and dangers unknown and unheralded. Thankfully - night is usher of sleep that knits the tattered threads of life and makes them new.<br />
<br />
Wonderingly...?<br />
<br />
It had been raining. In a tent, rain makes itself known to a quite extraordinary - and sometimes misleading - extent. To the unaccustomed ear a shower of rain on fabric sounds rather as though the clouds above were unleashing the Victoria Falls - a notion that persists until you fearfully poke your hooded head out of the doorway and are presented with a downpour more in line with one of those ornamental solar fountains you might have in your garden than Earth's mightiest cataract. It's noisy, but it's unlikely that you'll need your inflatable mattress to double as a life raft.<br />
<br />
Now, as I woke from my light slumbers (deep slumbers when camping are often a precious rarity), it was apparently still raining, for there was the sound of heavy drops thudding onto the tent above my head. The sky outside seemed to have grown lighter so I assumed that dawn was approaching. And it was cold, shiveringly cold. The sort of cold that makes you wish your sleeping bag was thicker and that you hadn't left your spare blankets in the car.<br />
<br />
Not quite wide awake, I scrambled out of bed and stumbled towards the exit, crackling as quietly as possible across the sewn-in groundsheet (why can't they sound-proof those things) and un-zzzzipped the front door twice: one zzzz for the anti-bug door and zzzz one for the outer door. <br />
<br />
Then I peered out into a scene so sublime, so silently sensational, that I gasped in delight. A 'Wow!' of wonder escaped me. My face cracked open in an enraptured grin. This wasn't dawn. This was (I found out later) not even one o'clock in the morning. The raindrops on my tent were drops from the trees, the clouds had rolled away and Night had cast aside her mantle.<br />
<br />
Night makes us think of many things: darkness, danger, tiredness, cold. In our tents we might listen to the hoot of an owl (possible), the song of the nightingale (unlikely), the churr of the nightjar (who are you kidding?) or more prosaically the roar of a passing motorbike and the rumble of a passing articulated lorry. But what do we see? Dimness, vague shadows in the gloom.<br />
<br />
Nothing prepares us, not even hope, for a land laced with silver, a realm of liquid shadows and silence, where even hushed speech is like a spreading stain. The moon drifted above the inky trees, white and full. A full moon is a friend, a tangible thing, whereas a full sun is a devouring ball of fire who blinds.<br />
<br />
And Night is a wonder we cannot capture. I tried. In the silver light, I hurried back into the tent for my phone and tried to take a picture for posterity. Here it is... Pretty good, right?<br />
<br />
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<br />
That was our last night of camping this summer. My wife will remember it because it was "freezing". My children may (emphasis: 'may') remember it because we went blackberry-picking the next morning. And I will remember it because of Night in a dress that I can never see again, evasive as ever.<br />
Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-85605415722965870912018-08-11T12:58:00.001-07:002018-08-11T13:36:14.784-07:00Childhood's Wonderland may not be where you expect.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April '18: Waiting for the train outta Sherborne, expectations defied...</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>The Child's Wonderland?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Let's go back in history a bit...<br />
Last Summer, whilst holidaying near Manchester, we paid a visit to Eureka! The National Children's Museum in Halifax. It came highly recommended - at a price - and we arrived to find a queue so long we had enough time to pre-book tickets on the phone while waiting so that we could be fast-tracked. Inside it was like something from a kid's dream: play shops, buttons to press, pretend houses with real staircases, flaps and noises, flashing lights and apparently everything else that a child could possibly want, with a fair amount of education thrown in.<br />
<br />
And yet, after a couple of hours of this wonderland Graham was ready to leave. He'd whizzed up and down the staircases, pushed all the buttons he wanted to push and was only interested in going elsewhere. After an expensive and high-tech morning we wound up the day watching the ducks and barges at Hebden Bridge.<br />
<br />
<b>The Child's Boredom-ain? </b><br />
<br />
The next day we headed for the Peak District National Park.<br />
Now the Peak District has been around for a long time. In basic terms it contains lots of grass, water, hills and a goodly amount of rock. Marketing materials for the Park contain very few (if any) references to video games or electronics. The emphasis is on the great outdoors rather than man's mastery over fibre optics. On the face of it, not a day for the kids then...<br />
<br />
But you'd be wrong. Our children loved it. They loved hopping on stepping-stones over a racing stream on the Snake Pass, clambering over rocks and climbing the massive steps up to Mam Tor, bracing themselves against the blustery wind at the top. We wound up eating chips in the public gardens in Bakewell and returned home, full of rich country air, as dark fell and lights lit up in glittering skeins in the valleys.<br />
<br />
A one off? Maybe... Or maybe not.<br />
<br />
<b>There's not much to do in Sherborne</b><br />
<br />
Spring 2018. There's not much for children in Sherborne, we were told. Nice for the adults, all that old-fashioned architecture, but pretty dull for the kiddies.<br />
<br />
Well, dullness is what you make it.<br />
<br />
Going on a train is pretty dull for a seasoned commuter. They take a book to while away the time. But for a three-year-old boy even the humblest, most ordinary, dirt-streaked commuter train is a wonder. Isaac shrieked with excitement as our grimy, London-bound transport ground into Axminster station. Not that we were going to London. We were only going to Sherborne, that dull jumble of stone where kids fall asleep standing up for tedium.<br />
<br />
Our two, strangely, didn't fall asleep - which is probably because they were too busy enjoying themselves. After all, it isn't every day that you get to have a meal out in a backstreet cafe, where the chefs cook your pizza in front of your eyes. It isn't often that you get to race around in the grounds of an ancient abbey, balance on fallen trees in a riverside meadow, stalk grey herons in the shallows or sit on the ramparts of a ruined castle after nearly a mile's walk out of town. <br />
<br />
Perhaps our children are just unusual. Or perhaps it is us all-knowing adults who simply underestimate the simple pleasure that can be obtained from a short train ride through green countryside and unfettered adventure in the open air. As one burly dog-walker pointed out, passing by as Isaac teetered uncertainly but triumphantly on a fallen tree-trunk, "It's free entertainment innit!"<br />
<br />
The Summer holidays aren't over. There's still time for a bit of non-electronic 'free entertainment' yet. Even in Sherborne... Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-69233404329463888552018-06-11T06:18:00.002-07:002018-06-11T06:18:53.967-07:00Is There a [Child] Doctor in the House?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The modern system of education accepts that children are not mere empty vessels, patiently waiting to be filled but are capable of distributing and analysing information as well as receiving it. They are, in fine, Givers as well as Receivers.<br />
<br />
This is amply demonstrated in our house. Should I require (for example) a description of the Red-backed Shrike*, I would not go to an adult for help, but to Graham, secure in the knowledge that he will have the information at his fingertips. Data regarding the world's best colour (blue), the world's worst football team (Tottenham Hotspur) and the shortcomings of broccoli are available from the same source. That's Graham.<br />
<br />
If it's medical assistance you want, however, you ask Isaac.<br />
<br />
A few months ago I wrote a blog entitled 'Is Calpol the answer?' coming to the conclusion that, so far as infant ideology went, it probably is. I have since revised that view. Isaac has shown me that juvenile physicians are no one-trick-ponies; the medical field is wide and they are prepared to use every part of it at their disposal. <br />
<br />
On Saturday afternoon I was suffering from a slight headache, a result of spending two-and-a-half hours labouring in the midday sun which, you will recall, is the sole preserve of mad dogs and Englishmen. As a born and bred member of the latter (if not the former?) class I was obviously obliged to mow the grass at a time when most sensible people are taking a nap. The results were uncomfortable and I retired to the sofa to relax and ease my throbbing temples while Isaac played with Duplo, regretfully declining his invitation to join him and explaining that I needed to rest my eyes a little as I had a bad head.<br />
<br />
A look of quite professional sympathy came over his face: Doctor Isaac was Concerned and this Concern did not find him Inactive.<br />
<br />
So it was that Gilly came in a few minutes later - self having dozed off - to find Isaac carefully daubing my unconscious scalp with copious dollops of aqueous cream - 'for dry or chapped skin conditions' - in an attempt to alleviate my sufferings. The instructions on the bottle state that the formula is FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY and Isaac is a conscientious practitioner. The good Doctor had refrained from making me drink the solution but this did not prevent him from smearing it generously into my hair, working it well in with the palms. <br />
<br />
Gilly, as previous readers of this blog will know, is not absolutely sympathetic in such situations and immediately dissolved into giggles. Isaac, slightly perplexed, was relieved of his self-imposed responsibilities and I was summarily dispatched to have a shower with instructions to lay the shampoo on nice and thick in the affected area. And it is worth noting that I emerged from the shower feeling considerably better so it may be that Isaac's prescription was effective, although the soothing waters and two paracetamol caplets I took could also have had something to do with it.<br />
<br />
And so Isaac's little store of medical knowledge and expertise increases and one feels that it can't be very long before he is confidently applying bandages to grazed knees and distributing throat lozenges to anyone with a tickly cough. He is already advising Gilly to lie down when she has back-ache and was actually engaged in eating an apple - every Doctor's Daily Dose - shortly before applying the cream to my poor, aching head.<br />
<br />
Even so, I think I'll leave the catch on the medicine cupboard for a while longer. I don't think he's quite up to mixing Dioralyte just yet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>*Migratory, carnivorous passerine bird and member of the Lanius (from the Latin - 'butcher') genus and Laniidae family. Male has reddish upper parts. Now you know.</i><br />
<br />Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-30750015945881719272018-04-28T14:24:00.001-07:002018-04-28T14:28:52.882-07:002018: The Tale of The Temporary Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Two weeks ago, with the suddenness of the sun coming out from behind a cloud, Spring arrived upon our shores. I say Spring but actually it felt more like Summer. The sun gleamed down from a blue, blue sky and temperatures skyrocketed. Overnight, people flung off their bulky winter clothes and reappeared the next morning with all their chalky-white limbs exposed. I can't claim complete authority, but I imagine that up and down the country there was a sudden hysterical babble as everyone made a mad dash for the garden, laden down with deckchairs and tripping over the snow-boots and sledges that they had left handy by the back door 'just in case'.<br />
<br />
2018 being 2018 this state of affairs obviously didn't last. As I write this, I look out upon a world of lead-grey skies with an all-pervading atmosphere of unseasonal chilliness, which is pretty much par for the course this year. Online, forecasters are happily predicting heavy rain, snow and potential flooding in a possibly (hopefully) last-ditch attempt to sustain Winter's vanishing aura.<br />
<br />
So much for the present, what of the recent past? For a few glorious days we exulted in a welcome dose of sun and shine and watched as the world visibly expanded before our eyes. Skeletal trees have ceased to form Wintry friezes against a Wintry sky and are abruptly bursting into leaf, puffing up as though someone in the roots was hard at work with a bicycle pump. Flowers and blossom fill the countryside in a shower of whites and pinks.<br />
<br />
And the change has not gone unmarked in our house either. For a few joyful days the Dolittle household went all al fresco. Lunch and dinner were consumed in the open air as we re-discovered what that biggish green space behind the family home (commonly called a garden) was really like. The children remembered the trampoline, the cover was ripped off the sand pit and we even managed to get a few loads of washing out on the washing line. The only downside, from my point of view, is that I will, at some stage, be obliged to mow the grass, which has commenced growing at an unacceptably rapid rate.<br />
<br />
In this first careless flush of Spring I walked into town wearing a broad-brimmed bush hat, clipped up at the sides. It is the type of headgear that would be met with howls of derision twelves miles away in Ashford but in Tenterden, where there is a Waitrose just off the high street and elderly men wear maroon-coloured trousers, I doubt whether it even merited a second glance. My former Biology teacher, who cultivated a carefully maintained eccentricity, used to call Tenterden dwellers 'Spacemen' (or something similar), inferring that they were somehow a little way-out, out-of-touch and generally loopy. Living eight miles away at the time - and being more of an Ashford-native than otherwise - I found nothing to resent in the description. I still don't, even now that I have joined their ranks. Any society that can embrace maroon-coloured trousers and patterned leggings and treat both abusers of fashion just the same is a society that is unlikely to laugh at my bush hat, which can only be a good thing for me.<br />
<br />
Wild weather may well be heading our way over the next few days. Those people who have purchased blow-up paddling pools in the first optimistic surge of sunshine may find that they are having to use them as rafts when they put the bins out on Tuesday morning but at least, as we draw our armchairs closer to the fire and reluctantly unpack the recently-packed long-johns, we can all have the comfort of memories of sunny days gone by; those few brief hours of warmth that may - who knows? - come again.<br />
<br />
Until then, stay warm fellas.Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-89249977183171430832018-04-10T01:48:00.001-07:002018-04-10T01:48:28.656-07:00Mud, mess, boys and bikes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTlvuZB1pxR4V8YhHt35JVBOtrRswtW7aIoK36PGK7mLJzI1hyphenhyphenbojjrjpCWp5GL0TjHqvyrQkBo654lEmfHrFw7wNgir2fPkKTtibikcikZlpTAArC56LpjKE3ldm-ozfNUHBJn6Dt0A/s1600/Gram+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1029" data-original-width="1600" height="409" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTlvuZB1pxR4V8YhHt35JVBOtrRswtW7aIoK36PGK7mLJzI1hyphenhyphenbojjrjpCWp5GL0TjHqvyrQkBo654lEmfHrFw7wNgir2fPkKTtibikcikZlpTAArC56LpjKE3ldm-ozfNUHBJn6Dt0A/s640/Gram+crop.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
There is a theory that Spring is on its way. Like many theories it doesn't always stand up to close examination.<br />
We have, admittedly, passed the date for the Spring equinox and gradually-expanding splashes of yellow primrose adorn the banks and hedgerows - but one wonders whether they should be blue instead of yellow. The deathly blue of intense cold.<br />
<br />
We've had several false starts already this year. An occasional day of sunshine has warmed us into enthusiasm only to be immediately replaced by a week of clouds and rain. The countryside labours beneath a weight of turgid water. February fill-dyke, the old saying used to be. Well, we've had March fill-dyke too - and plenty of it.<br />
<br />
Which is all good news, of course.<br />
<br />
Not only does it delay the inevitable water shortages resultant from planting excess homes in the South East (where the majority of people apparently get most of their H2O from one single reservoir) but it also allows crazy kids to run mud-splatter-wild. Provided you have children who are happy to wallow in dirt - and pack a spare change of clothes - this type of weather can provide some of the greatest fun of the entire year.<br />
<br />
A couple of months ago our family paid a visit to Hinchingbrooke Country Park, near Huntingdon. It consists of 170 acres of woods, marshes, lakes and open grassland. Paths of varying quality snake their way around, some clean, some squelchy. Muddy puddles abound. On the off-chance, we packed the kids' bikes but it wasn't a promising start. The road through the woods was soggy, cycling was a chore - but then...<br />
<br />
It was after we found the custom-made mountain-bike course that the boys suddenly realised the possibilities of the place. A few skiddy downhill runs later and they were hooked. Suddenly, the rutty terrain became something to be embraced rather than endured - a two-wheel assault course, conveniently laid-out to maximise personal daring.<br />
<br />
Isaac, being Isaac, managed to retain his sanity. Graham threw prudence to the winds. Tyres roared in the puddles, sediment-laden slush arcing into the air, splashing to earth and clothes. Brown stains saturated bike and rider and seeped to the skin. It was a riot of uncontrollable mud-moisture-mayhem.<br />
<br />
Graham is a boy who sometimes changes his socks because he stands in a drop of tap-water. Now he was dripping, filthy and riding a bike that had once been silver and was now the colour of badly-filtered coffee. <br />
<br />
And he laughed and turned to go again. Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com204tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-63000527594422157452018-03-07T13:16:00.002-08:002018-03-07T13:30:48.072-08:00Monthly Photo, Feb '18: The Beast from the East!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SePu7IB3OixHkFuw_B2t-NwkcqVKNHV6gUOKgsPkl0eaordldedZmnyqwP0GinEGbTARoNkLiqpBfenJ03cWX9g5aTV_G8CJnjir3zoUmASD8U036fl1yf5vaK580fCwq9st-rgaGEY/s1600/20180228_100309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SePu7IB3OixHkFuw_B2t-NwkcqVKNHV6gUOKgsPkl0eaordldedZmnyqwP0GinEGbTARoNkLiqpBfenJ03cWX9g5aTV_G8CJnjir3zoUmASD8U036fl1yf5vaK580fCwq9st-rgaGEY/s640/20180228_100309.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It came at last! The day I've been awaiting for so, so long. It finally came!</div>
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OK, so it's about twenty years too late for my personal schedule but, hey, I guess I was able to enjoy it vicariously with the kids. One of them anyway.</div>
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Now, until last week this post was going to be about mud, bikes and a whole lot of mess but then came...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Gw_Qo5vVkAN3cjMQjkP2hwfQ_S3BDSYLgXOk2iXsuNZ1F_Nwsm2JfFbGFBhNrgJpinZ3T0aQyb3RBHHEl0N2r761s3HrYnYilTQg30h-NT5BahtSoPUEVrm4F3ZleWos-0JWmnZaOsw/s1600/The+Beast.3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1247" data-original-width="1600" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Gw_Qo5vVkAN3cjMQjkP2hwfQ_S3BDSYLgXOk2iXsuNZ1F_Nwsm2JfFbGFBhNrgJpinZ3T0aQyb3RBHHEl0N2r761s3HrYnYilTQg30h-NT5BahtSoPUEVrm4F3ZleWos-0JWmnZaOsw/s200/The+Beast.3.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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Actually, let's do that again - a bit bigger this time...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPF1SnQ6tzGChEysN-xrt5lNvrn6nOZjjTWmJNnrT8X7eemaCENTLhEE1zhdZu4PRO_GsVNUnXwRKmrj2-KCxUS8jPI7QzUpqdU78ojQOWv2gRypVtO1hlreHRovUiJTZtGGKOQziUDAI/s1600/The+Beast.3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1247" data-original-width="1600" height="497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPF1SnQ6tzGChEysN-xrt5lNvrn6nOZjjTWmJNnrT8X7eemaCENTLhEE1zhdZu4PRO_GsVNUnXwRKmrj2-KCxUS8jPI7QzUpqdU78ojQOWv2gRypVtO1hlreHRovUiJTZtGGKOQziUDAI/s640/The+Beast.3.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Oh yes...<br />
Frankly, looking at a green and Spring-like land in the days before its arrival all these tales about a raging, blizzard-encrusted 'Beast from the East' sounded like nothing more than hysterically overhyped hyperbole. If you live in Russia, they probably still do - but it was enough for us.<br />
<br />
The icy blast from Siberia swept over the country, smashed into another wall of wild weather from the Atlantic and turned the nation white. The UK trembled, tottered and fell. An extreme 'snow-mode' enveloped us in its juddering grip. Roads ground to a standstill, trains stopped running and schools were closed. And Graham was presented with an unexpected bonus of three days' holiday.<br />
<br />
Now in all the however-many-years-it-was that I was at school I never recall having a day off due to bad weather. Graham has managed three days less than two years in! Oh well, that's parenting for you: sharing in the joy of your children when you've never experienced that joy yourself. After all, why else would you see parents going down the slides in 'soft play' areas?<br />
<br />
So, duty bound, I set out to do as much snowy 'joy-sharing' as Graham required. And, boy, was it good fun, even if our rookie sledging prowess is unlikely to land either of us a spot in GB's Winter Olympics squad.<br />
<br />
The snow in our corner of the country lasted from the evening of Monday February 26 until (for all useful purposes) the morning of Saturday March 3. The Beast snarled, snow swirled, temperatures plummeted - the thermometer outside out kitchen went down to -11C - but in between all the growling there were some periods of calm and blue skies. The picture at the top was taken on Wednesday, when the fresh, powdery snow had hardened and the sledge runs had become quicker and more defined. Bleak, cold and yet sparkling with brightness and movement, this is a picture of contrasts: the church tower in the distance adding a quintessentially English touch. <br />
<br />
Friday afternoon saw the last of our snow showers and by Saturday morning the Beast was in retreat. I took a walk through the melting countryside. There was warmth in the air, the breeze blew mild and although the sledge runs were still faintly discernible the snow was slipping away from the hills, oozing into a gritty slush between the tufts of grass. <br />
<br />
Snow is not good news for everyone, however fun it may be for the many but even so there was a distinct wistfulness in my walk as I slogged through the squelchy mud. It was as though with the disappearance of the snow a part of my life was being wiped away like chalk from a blackboard; an existence hanging in the balance between the savage beauty of a vanishing Winter and the as-yet unheralded Spring.<br />
<br />
Below the town a few children were still racing sledges on a brittle film of ice and slush - but they were racing against time. The Beast from the East was gone.Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com75tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-14644374192248466612018-02-22T12:51:00.002-08:002018-02-22T12:51:33.095-08:00The Race of the Snails<u>Or, You Can Push a Boy to School but You Cannot Make Him Run</u><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzCfdHFmZlVaINwvMQxXkbD0M_2UyxVK16JjHi70NnGKK7_v1ucrA6hExUKeQUdNXxxVC-5Y-tWmJDQXIYX8kDK31mbcFlf-h6v28klDcws5Pcw8OsbYVWoPhFGDcJfisHsAhRlBWpMA/s1600/P8040467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzCfdHFmZlVaINwvMQxXkbD0M_2UyxVK16JjHi70NnGKK7_v1ucrA6hExUKeQUdNXxxVC-5Y-tWmJDQXIYX8kDK31mbcFlf-h6v28klDcws5Pcw8OsbYVWoPhFGDcJfisHsAhRlBWpMA/s400/P8040467.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If only the school run looked like this...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
People driving past our school at about 8.56 am on a weekday morning will generally observe the following, in order:<br />
1) A small boy,<br />
2) Followed, a good bit behind, by a rather smaller small boy and his father.<br />
<br />
The father's hand appears to be placed reassuringly on his son's back, in a touching gesture of paternal fondness. Together they stroll slowly along, as if all the time in the world was simply waiting for them to make use of it. It doesn't seem to matter that the school gates are still some distance away and registration takes place in less than ten minutes. Here are two people who have apparently modelled their entire existence on those stirring works of Sir Francis Drake: "There's time enough to finish our walk and beat the school bell too". <br />
<br />
But the casual observer, observing this, might have missed out on a few revealing details. For instance, is that fatherly hand resting languidly on his son's shoulder-blades or actively pushing him along? If the former, why is the boy's coat apparently hitched up at the back as though impelled by some determined force? Why is he leaning backwards, feet glued to the floor? Why are the faces of father and son so agitated when they should be relaxed in tranquil repose? Why is the father seemingly muttering threats angrily into his son's ear? Why... but I leave these observations... The answer is plain.<br />
<br />
We're late for school again.<br />
And Isaac is on a go-slow.<br />
<br />
Getting out of our door in the mornings is always a tedious business. Good intentions invariably count for little. I may intend for us to be on our way in plenty of time but unfortunately I have some inbuilt glitch which never fails to make me late. Consequently what should be a gentle stroll to school almost always becomes a mad dash. Or it would be, if Isaac appreciated what the words 'mad dash' meant.<br />
<br />
You can't hurry Isaac. Where Graham sprints, he ambles - usually with his hands in his pockets. It matters not to him that we are late and the way is long. Encouragements and recriminations alike fall upon deaf ears. If there is a puddle to be stepped in he will step in it. If there is a lorry to be looked at he will look at it. So long as movement consists only of shuffling one foot at a time he is quite happy. Any attempts on my part to make him think otherwise are doomed to failure. Isaac has two strategies to resist calls for haste: he either ignores them, or he stops completely. He would rather expend breath in protesting than he would in increasing the speed of his (and - by extension - our) progress.<br />
<br />
He cannot be shamed or inspired to greater efforts. You might point out that Graham is drawing ahead and he is being left behind. He will either ignore you or want Graham to wait. You may remark that there are people coming up behind who want to get past. He will simply watch them go by. For someone, like myself, who is accustomed to making up for his lateness by walking as fast as possible such a philosophy can be quite maddening.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, for example, we found ourselves being pursued by two old ladies and a dog. They were two old ladies who clearly were not rushing for an appointment. The dog was similarly unconcerned. It developed into a sort of ghastly race, like two snails inadvertently advancing upon the same lettuce leaf, where Isaac and I (unconsciously on his part) attempted to avoid being overtaken by our pursuers. We did - just - but I think only because they stopped to chat with a friend on the way.<br />
<br />
Fortunately there is one way to make Isaac go faster than crawling pace and that is to mount him on two wheels. We went for a walk recently and, aware of Isaac's (lack of) turn of speed I gave my fellow walkers two options. "Isaac can walk and we get nowhere," I said, "or we can take his bike." We took the bike.<br />
<br />
To be fair to Isaac he entered into the spirit of the thing most wholeheartedly. Houses on fire could not have set off at a quicker lick than he did, nor have maintained the same rate of progress. It wasn't long before I had abandoned my companions and was striding out in hot pursuit. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and the countryside glowed. At least I think it did. Speaking for myself I didn't have much leisure to examine it; my eyes were fixed upon a small figure on a balance bike weaving its way between the crowds of people on the path ahead. <br />
<br />
The people laughed as I trotted by.<br />
I began to run.<br />
A gangly figure chasing a little boy in blue.<br />
In motion at last. Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-35285587336341408962018-02-12T14:56:00.000-08:002018-02-12T14:56:52.179-08:00The Working 'Holiday' of a SaHD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIdO_s-qk3Gt41sCSi_MobqWoAeFVi8N_bP45jVwU1K8-55xlfUar6czC1JAOxStgm-XC0xdjRFxy6u4kSQDEFcjFLfmBo7sf8-0W3O-h9agFdmeMaQWprnmqLjTrWXXzG3Z5HgQp42c/s1600/20180129_193350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIdO_s-qk3Gt41sCSi_MobqWoAeFVi8N_bP45jVwU1K8-55xlfUar6czC1JAOxStgm-XC0xdjRFxy6u4kSQDEFcjFLfmBo7sf8-0W3O-h9agFdmeMaQWprnmqLjTrWXXzG3Z5HgQp42c/s400/20180129_193350.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Stereotype says that Stay-at-Home-Dads are dodgers. They are
life’s loafers, avoiding responsibility and real work by using their offspring
as a handy excuse to idle away the hours doing very little. In contrast to Stay-at-Home-Mums,
who rush around from the dingy grey of dawn until the star-spangled night and
only pause to eat because – well – somebody has to clear up those half-eaten
fish-fingers that the children left from dinner, a Dad spends a goodly portion
of his day lounging on the sofa or having fun. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So saith the stereotype.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But, as dozens of angry SaHDs will no doubt testify,
stereotype often gets things wrong. There’s no smoke without fire, it’s true,
but sometimes smoke gets in your eyes and the facts go a little hazy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A couple of weeks ago, as a fully-unpaid-member of the
(apparently) loafin’, time-wastin’, good-fer-nuthin’ SaHD community I was given
the opportunity to put stereotype to the test, when I spent a few days doing
some ‘real man’s work’ in a Blackburn warehouse. The labour was busy, hard and
dirty, mainly involving shifting many heavy boxes onto pallets and wheeling
them around with clattering pump trucks. Lunch was taken, from choice, leaning
in a semi-perpendicular position against a desk and involved unhealthily-large
quantities of sugary cakes and coca-cola, which kept me functioning alongside
regularly-replenished cups of coffee. The warehouse was cold, the floors
covered in a layer of filth which coated my fingers and burrowed deeply into
the cracks in my skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Hello, Daddy!” came Graham’s cheery voice over the phone. “Are
you having a nice holiday?” I considered my aching limbs, my weary head and
stomach… and smiled mirthlessly.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This was man’s work at its most stereotyped; a cliché writ
large. My SaHD life curled up on a comfy sofa reading stories to my children
was half a country away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But at five o’clock each day came pay-back. The lights in
the warehouse flicked off and, as darkness descended, my colleagues and I
trooped out into the cold afternoon air. Fifteen minutes later we were back in
our hotel rooms, our day’s labour at an end and the only things remaining on
our to-do list being a wash, dinner and bed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Back at home, where Gilly was having to balance school runs,
cooking, cleaning and all manner of household tasks alongside her normal work
routine, the business of the day was far from over. While I was relaxing in a
hot bath, allowing the day’s accumulated layers of grit and grime to gently
detach themselves from me, she was switching off her computer and running
downstairs to cook dinner – a task that would normally fall to me. While I was
politely reminding the waiter that I had asked for my steak to be ‘well done’
and not medium rare (true story, there was still blood trickling out of it in
places) Gilly was running the children’s baths (another of my jobs) reading
stories, cleaning teeth and tidying bedrooms. While I relaxed on my hotel bed
watching TV, she would have been surveying an untidy kitchen and trying to work
out how much she could cram into the dishwasher. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Aside from work I lived a life of unalloyed leisure. Someone
cooked my breakfast, someone cooked my tea and someone washed up my dirty
dishes. Someone even made my bed for me while I was out. I may have been hard
at work, but I was also being given the opportunity to be spectacularly idle. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Stereotypes have limits. After three days of hard labour I
arrived home refreshed, invigorated and with the fixed idea that rising at six-thirty
was a pretty neat concept (a resolution that met an inevitable demise the
following morning). I was greeted at the door by a weary-looking lady who spent
the next few days constantly saying how glad she was to have me home. I
returned to the school run, the washing machine, the kitchen, toys on the floor
and hastily-gobbled bowls of cornflakes for breakfast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">They say that change is as good as a rest. Perhaps Graham
had a point – I had been on holiday. The working holiday of a SaHD.<o:p></o:p></span>Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-70563700202511216812017-12-12T12:18:00.002-08:002017-12-12T12:18:27.644-08:00Is Calpol the answer?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Ah, Winter. Season of Christmas lights, starry nights, frosty mornings and (overhyped) snowfall warnings. And nasty bugs... Yup, those too.<br />
<br />
Yes, indeed. Shares in Kleenex are rocketing and we've all suddenly remembered that the only reason we really eat soft-scoop ice-cream during the Summer is because the empty containers make very handy, erm, vomit receptacles during the Winter. The season of sniffles, sneezes and sickness is back again and our family has not proved exempt. Unsurprisingly. When did it ever? <br />
On this occasion it was Gilly who succumbed and has subsequently spent a day-and-a-half in bed trying to get over it while the rest of us (me anyway) tiptoe around wondering who will be the next to go. It is why I never moan about sharp frosts. They may ice up the car but hopefully they're all doing their bit to kill off a few germinating germs, and that's worth quite a bit of de-icing spray and/or screen scraping.<br />
<br />
We all react to illness in different ways. We may carry on regardless, we may skulk about waiting for the pangs to begin or we may exhibit a childlike confidence in medicine to get us through. Isaac's response to being informed in the still-dark hours of the morning that Mummy couldn't get his breakfast because of sickness, was a simple prescription straight from the pages of the three-year-old's-medical-manual.<br />
<br />
"She need Calpol, I think."<br />
<br />
It would be useless to explain that adults aren't allowed to take infant-suspension Calpol and that it would be helpless against the onslaught of a sick bug anyway. Calpol to a child is the sweet-tasting answer to all life's problems. From colds to coughs, sickness to petulance, Calpol's got it covered.<br />
<br />
It's a shame that this faith in simple remedies rarely survives into adulthood. When you consider that around 30% of the adult population apparently suffers from insomnia (according to a 2011 survey) wouldn't it be wonderful if those problems could all be solved by cuddling a 'magic teddy-bear' rather than a dose of sleeping pills? Or what about travel sickness? If everyone who suffered from this were to sit on a piece of newspaper believing implicitly in its ability to ward off nausea then it's possible that fewer travel sickness tablets might be required as well.<br />
<br />
Alas, such things rarely work. Our logical adult self overcomes them. We remind ourselves that the teddy-bear is inanimate and therefore powerless to help when wakefulness absorbs us. We scoff at newspapers as being merely an old-wives'-tale, with no scientific basis and consequently no chance of usefulness. And so we cast old comforts aside and swallow a few pills instead, trusting in Science to do its thing.<br />
<br />
So, is Calpol the answer?<br />
Well, that depends. Our logical adult self would inform us that, when it comes to vomiting, high temperatures and a dislike of broccoli the answer is 'NO'. We would remember - sad but true - that Calpol has definite limitations, as well as benefits, and should be viewed accordingly. <br />
<br />
But all the time our irresponsible three-year-old past is yelling at us from within.<br />
"Is Calpol the answer? Yes, oh YES!"<br />
Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-36376962655579106592017-11-23T12:13:00.000-08:002017-11-23T12:13:54.061-08:00Why Thirty-Something Dads Can Never Win<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It is only now that I have launched into my early-thirties that I realise the error of being a sports fan.<br />
It is at this age that it becomes apparent that sport is mainly an occupation for youth (golf and darts excepted); for vibrant young things in their teens and twenties, with bright futures and pasts that haven't yet materialised. For those who are older it seems as though time ticks faster. The gossip asks how much longer they can go on. Commentators question whether they have the same zip and verve as of yore and the deadly word 'Retirement' hangs above their heads like a ghostly axe just waiting to fall. Few people commence (or even re-commence) upon distinguished sporting careers in their thirties. If a footballer is picked for the national team at 34 people wonder why (just ask Jermain Defoe). "Has the well run dry?" they ask; "The bottom of the barrel been well-and-truly dragged?"<br />
<br />
And for those of us tooling along at roughly the same age it clouds our point of view. We suddenly see our sporting contemporaries disappearing from the field of play and reappearing in the commentary box; firmly and irretrievably retired. It makes us feel elderly, as though Old Father Time was plucking at our sleeve and whispering 'Carpe Diem' into our ear. <br />
<br />
We grasp at straws. Rafael Nadal is still world tennis Number 1 we argue, Usain Bolt was still 100m World Champion at the age of 30, Gianluigi Buffon still one of the world's best goalkeepers at the age of 39 and (going back a bit) cricketer Jack Hobbs made half his 197 first-class centuries after the age of 40. But hope has qualifications. Nadal may be Number 1, but he is the oldest man to be so. In his last race the recently-retired Bolt lost his 100m World Champion status to the even-more-aged Justin Gatlin (clearly the supply of young sprinters has dried up) and the even-more-recently (internationally) retired Buffon had his Italy team kicked out of World Cup Qualification by Sweden. Proof is minimal, but even so we find ourselves wondering darkly whether Hobbs' post-forty success was due more to opposition bowlers' respect for his grey hairs than real cricketing prowess.<br />
<br />
"Ah, well," we say, "at least we can still beat the kids..."<br />
<br />
But can we?<br />
<br />
It is a fact, as a parent, that you can never win. The rules dictate this. If you run a race against your infant child the possibility of victory should never enter your head. Whatever their sporting ability and the disparity in your respective speeds, the child must win - if you don't want to provoke one tremendous sulk that is. And it doesn't matter how many times you tell yourself that losing occasionally will be good for them, you can never bring yourself to do it. My worry now is that, after years of 'losing' to avoid the tantrums, the day is rapidly approaching when I will be losing because I can't help it. After all, it can only be a few years before my children enter their sprinting prime and leave their labouring parent puffing behind them. The temptation is to win as many races as possible now so that I might savour the memories in the arid years ahead - but... I can't do it. Not every time anyway...<br />
<br />
And, worryingly, even now there are some things at which my elder son can beat me, even without any manoeuvring from me. He and I were playing a game of 'Matching Pairs' the other day - a simple game which rewards a retentive memory - and I knew that a bit of careful 'forgetfulness' would be necessary to ensure that I lost. It was only when I rapidly found myself two games to nil down, without any intentional 'forgetfulness' on my part, that I realised I was in a battle. Strenuous mental effort contrived to draw me level, the fifth game, I believe, was halved and I lost the decider, humbled 3-2 by a six-year-old. No doubts: the writing is on the wall. How long is it going to be before he's beating me at chess and Chinese chequers as well? Tick, tick, tick...<br />
<br />
There is one solution. I need to find an alternative reference point. <br />
<br />
Sportspeople, whose careers operate exclusively in fast-forward, are an exceptionally unsuitable method of charting the ageing process. For those in search of comparative youth it would surely be better to align oneself alongside civil servants, business entrepreneurs, Governors of National banks and politicians where age and experience can often be seen as more of an advantage than an impediment. Upstarts like Emmanuel Macron may be trying to change the face of world politics but surely it can't be often that a thirty-something politician is viewed as anything other than a talented apprentice, who may have a bright future. An MP who enters Westminster at 30 must be forever fending off suggestions that they have left their Nanny in the car and queries as to whether they need a mid-afternoon nappy-nap. <br />
<br />
Sports or politics? For longevity it has to be politics.<br />
<br />
There is one problem. I'm not interested in politics and I do want to know how England are doing in the Ashes. After all, 32-year-old England batsman Alistair Cook is a father too.<br />
<br />
So I still can't win.Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-12713178441122442142017-10-31T13:04:00.001-07:002017-10-31T13:04:19.666-07:00Growing Children: Grasping What's Going. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
You're a new parent. Greetings cards are stacked up on the dresser, celebration balloons are floating by the ceiling, there's a dirty nappy nestling behind the bathroom door and you've just crashed back into work with vomit on your collar and a strange gleam in your eye, to receive the congratulations of your colleagues.<br />
John says he's pleased to hear your news and says he bets you aren't getting any sleep.<br />
Janet says she's pleased to hear your news and asks whether Mummy is getting any sleep.<br />
Janice says she's pleased to hear your news and asks whether the baby is sleeping well.<br />
<br />
Then Jack comes over. Jack is in his fifties. His tanned face is lined and his eyes twinkle with the wry glint of one who knows what it is to sit up into the wee sma' hours over the bottle. The baby's bottle that is - for Jack has three children of his own and has just recently become a grandfather. He pauses at your desk and then leans over you with the benign authority of one who is about to impart a bit of news. His mouth quirks up slightly at the corners.<br />
"Make the most of it James," he says, wisely. "They soon grow up..."<br />
"Yeah," you say, meaning "Yeah, right!" Soon grow up! It's a baby, dude! The kid's only two weeks old!<br />
<br />
But, blow me down, there's some truth in the man's words after all. Even though our two boys are still firmly in the 'infant' bracket they are, nevertheless, defiantly working their way through the 'growing up' process. I'm already finding myself grasping vainly at a vanishing past, trying to preserve tottering toddler adorability before it's gone and gone forever. Why, I could have wept when Isaac started calling his brother 'Graham' instead of 'Baymam' and I can absolutely assure you that if he ever begins to say 'animals' instead of 'aminals' it won't be because I approve of the change.<br />
<br />
And yet, we parents are contradictory creatures. While wishing that the cuddly cuteness could last forever we are simultaneously searching hungrily for each and every sign of progress. We exult over baby's first word without considering that this now means we need to teach them the etiquette of polite conversation (i.e. it ain't okay to keep saying 'Mummy' until she gets fed up, sunshine). We teach them to cycle and then want them to cycle more slowly so that we can keep up. We encourage them to run and then find ourselves wishing that they would occasionally walk. We want them to be the best, biggest, brightest and brainiest without considering that this may require a corresponding reduction in appealing childishness. We want them to stand on their own two feet and not be always bothering us to build them Lego models but live in secret fear that one day we're going to wake up to find that the tootling toddler has changed into an acned teenager, slouching downstairs in his pyjamas at midday mumbling something about his iPhone.<br />
<br />
It is a conundrum that could conclude in a lifetime of constant dithering...as though one had drunk deep from an enfeebling cocktail of unfulfilled ambition and regrets. <br />
(And that's hyperbole for you...)<br />
<br />
There is only one, two or maybe several solution(s): Embrace the Inevitable, Appreciate the Present, Face the Future and Savour the Past.<br />
<br />
Oh, and get as much of it down on camera as possible. Your son's voice isn't gonna stay unbroken for always, you know, and a childhood rendering of 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Lickle Star' is absolute dynamite for a best man's speech.Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-57027688632324867762017-10-03T13:37:00.001-07:002017-10-03T13:37:09.216-07:00Goodbye Summer. Hello Hamsters!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Well, that's it folks! Summer's over... although with the sun streaming down outside from a blue sky populated with woolly white clouds it would be hard to tell. <br />
<br />
In fact, were it not for the marked absence of swallows, the marked presence of darkness at 8pm and a glittering of gold in the hedgerows, there have been several days recently where we might have been forgiven for thinking it was still early June, rather than late September. It isn't, by the way, it's October; the leaves are turning, the conkers are cracking open and if you went in search of blackberries you would find only the withered remains of glories past. Autumn is truly here and some people are probably already starting the countdown to Christmas.<br />
<br />
So, just for a moment, let us cast our minds back to those halcyon Summer days; happy times spent hunched on a beach, ice cream in hand, in the teeth of a biting wind, or trying to work out how to spell 'Llangollen' on the postcard home. Not that I did either of those things. My days at the beach involved a younger son (who shall be nameless) attempting to drop a rock on someone's head and the whole family running for cover at the sight of a thunderstorm. There was also that idyllic three-night camping trip which somehow morphed, via torrential rain, howling winds, soggy soil and a torn tent, into a night in a Premier Inn at Rochester. Not to mention a certain younger son (who shall remain nameless) pinching my pudding at Frankie & Benny's.<br />
<br />
We had some good times too, of course... Let us not be too dispiriting.<br />
<br />
And then there were (or should that be 'are') the hamsters.<br />
<br />
Strictly speaking, I suppose the hamsters don't really come under the heading of 'Summer' because we bought them once school had begun but they were purchased before the Autumn equinox so I'm going to bung them back into Summer anyway.<br />
<br />
The hamsters, like our abortive camping trip, have suffered a few transformations in the months and moments leading up to their eventual purchase. They started out as two cats - in January when we had a problem with rats. The rats, however, departed and, consequently, so did our fervour for feline companionship. The cats then became a rabbit, a cute and cuddly pet rabbit for Graham (when Mummy was willing to let him hold it) but once we realised how much effort and expense went into bunny care it wasn't long before Bugs went flying out the window after Mog. <br />
<br />
So we settled on a hamster, one of those adorable Syrian hamsters with white and golden-brown blotches and Gilly spent many happy visits to pet shops and the internet gazing at them admiringly, so attractive and friendly did they look.<br />
<br />
The girl in the pet shop was less starry-eyed.<br />
"Have you ever kept hamsters before?"<br />
We admitted our nigh-on-total ignorance of hamster care.<br />
"Syrian hamsters can have rather a nasty bite. If it's your first pet you would probably be better off with a dwarf hamster." <br />
She led us round a corner to another cage, where tiny mouse-like creatures were curled up trying to catch forty winks. Opening a door she rudely grabbed one teensy bundle of fur, crouched down and let it run over her hands and arms. Graham after a brief hold, was charmed, which happily relieved us of the duty of trying to explain why a finger bitten by a Syrian hamster was not the best start to a long and happy career in pet care.<br />
"If you have two hamsters they keep each other company and take less looking after," our kind assistant volunteered. <br />
"Provided they're not one male and one female," I mumbled, with visions of our family home suddenly and unexpectedly becoming the site of a teeming hamster production line.<br />
The assistant looked at the first hamster, then hoiked the other occupant out of the cage and examined it. They were both girls.<br />
"Right," Gilly said, in business-like tones, "what else do we need?"<br />
<br />
And so it was that two cats became two Russian dwarf hamsters. Two female hamsters, although Graham - in defiance of prevailing genetics - was adamant that one of them was going to be a boy and christened it 'Jack'. I sneakily suggested 'Jackie' as a more appropriate alternative and so 'Jackie' she became. 'Violet', the co-inhabitant of our new purple, deluxe hamster palace, suffered no such problems and so we bought the pair home in a cardboard box with self privately wondering if I had foolishly put myself back a couple of years and whether caring for two young hamsters was going to be as time-consuming as caring for a newborn baby. All that feeding, all that cleaning out...<br />
<br />
Happily, it isn't. As pets go, our little ladies are, so far, agreeably simple to look after. A daily change of food and water, a daily clean of the little house where they sleep (and defecate!) and a more intensive weekly clean of their cage suffice for the more mundane duties. Hamsters are nocturnal so they sleep for most of the time that we are awake, meaning that 'playtime' (which involves the hamsters running all over your hands, arms and legs and is an absolute daily necessity) usually takes place just before the boys go to bed, or sometimes first thing in the morning. <br />
<br />
There are other, unforeseen, problems. There are the droppings on your clothes, the midnight exercises on the hamster wheel which sounds like a large truck rumbling through the house, the occasions when our pets empty the breakfast stored in their cheeks all over the floor and the antics of hamster bedding. The shredded paper that hamsters sleep on has an almost uncanny ability to spread itself around in places where it shouldn't ever be. It gets on your clothes and then all over the house, wriggling across the carpet like flattened paper worms and congregating in tangled clumps under the desk in the study where our new friends spend most of their nights. <br />
<br />
But the big point, obviously, is 'Is it worth it?' Will owning a pet increase our children's sense of responsibility, encourage them to realise the importance of mundane tasks and inspire in them a lifelong love of animals?<br />
<br />
Or is it just a way for their parents to have a pet with the added benefit of a bit of 'voluntary' child labour to help look after them?Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-23177692277509605232017-06-26T13:09:00.000-07:002017-06-26T13:09:02.775-07:00Competitive Sports Days...Go, Go..!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The school sports day season is with us again: a sunlit extravaganza of running, skipping, baton-exchanging, jumping and 'Good Try' stickers for children who got their legs tangled in the skipping rope just after the start line and couldn't catch up afterwards.<br />
<br />
Possibly.<br />
<br />
Then again, we could be all set for a bonanza of 'team events' where winning and losing are bad words, 'Good Try' stickers simply aren't required and the laurels of victory have been forever consigned to the "so-twentieth-century" dustbin. "Failure is not an option", say the reformers. "We must strive for equality and sweet, harmonious concord, lest the dark waves of bitterness and woe embrace the hearts of those whose misfortune it was to attain only unto last place in the annual egg and spoon race."<br />
<br />
Smoothly put. But isn't there a better way?<br />
<br />
I have always had a problem with such 'no-winners, no-losers' sports days. Sure, there are problems with traditional sports days too. There will always be that one kid who comes in last in every race and for whom the day is complete torture from beginning to end. Fortunately, that kid was never me but, from other personal experience, I can imagine the sheer agony of what they go through. And yet, to counteract that argument, we have to admit that winning and losing are part of life and at some point children are going to face failure and will need to learn how to deal with it. Their personal feelings can't be cherished forever. A child who has been cossetted throughout primary school is, I would suggest, going to have one mighty shock when they reach secondary school and finds out that winning and losing are suddenly accepted norms.<br />
<br />
The other question is, does it work? 'Team events' are not necessarily an effective method of promoting equality. Kids aren't stupid and they will be well aware that even when 'working as a team' there are some members of that group who are more talented than others. When I was at primary school I was a member of both the school's football and cricket teams; an equal member, you might say - one of the boys. I wasn't that stupid. It was pretty clear, most of the time, that I was in the team mainly due to lack of players than for any more worthy reason. I was the kid who felt good about himself if he managed to hit the ball with the bat, the one who stood helplessly in defence while other, more highly-skilled classmates got on with the important business of scoring goals. Sometimes I didn't even make the starting eleven but was forced to stand shivering on the sidelines while we won game after game after game. Our school football team was one of the best in the area but I was under no illusions that our success had anything much to do with me.<br />
<br />
This view was brutally confirmed when I started secondary school and encountered some of my former opponents. On my first or second day a stocky, blond-haired boy came over, looked me up and down and said bluntly, "You used to play for such-and-such didn't you?<br />
I admitted my former allegiance to the jazzy blue and whites. He remained unsmiling.<br />
"You were c***," he said.<br />
<br />
This from a boy whose school our team had once pummelled 8-0!<br />
<br />
As a sportsman, therefore, I was accustomed to failure and it wasn't nice. But there was one day when all this changed: the school sports day. I may not have been much good at football but on the racetrack there wasn't anyone who could beat me. It was about the only time all year when I had the undiluted support of my classmates - at least, those who were in the 'red house'. Those eighty metres represented sun-drenched payback for all the wet and windy hours spent shivering on a football pitch or standing hopefully in a line at lunch time waiting my turn to be picked. And this is my point: without that shot of old-fashioned 'competitive' sport I would never have got that payback. That, and the even bigger event when we raced against other local schools, were some of the highlights of my year.<br />
<br />
There will be children who don't have that payback though. There will be children for whom sport as a whole, team sports or individual ones, represent unpleasantness bordering on torment. So surely the best type of sports day is not one where competition is everything, nor one where competition is completely banished, but one where every child has the chance to do something they enjoy and feel they can succeed at? With the wide range of activities available and the ingenuity of the modern school surely such things should be possible, at least to an extent, if only to provide some success and eliminate failure wherever possible.<br />
<br />
What we shouldn't do is remove individual competition completely. Not only because children need to understand that winning and losing are part of life and aren't necessarily the sole yardstick for personal self-respect but also because somewhere there may be another little boy, with spindly legs and hands all thumbs who can't kick a football or stack cups but who knows that, given eighty metres of track and an equal start, he can enjoy his day in the sun as much as anybody else.<br />
Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-73506643546860698802017-05-17T13:47:00.002-07:002017-05-17T13:47:16.295-07:00The Fogged Father<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It's a funny old life, full-time parenting. The dream job laden with negative stereotypes: long hours, no rest, broken sleep and zero pay, all carried out in an atmosphere of perpetual chaos. The same tasks have to be carried out again and again - washing, tidying, cleaning, cooking - only for messy children to produce more muddy clothes just as soon as they get in from school demanding their tea. Seen in this light parents could be forgiven for feeling that they are modern embodiments of Sisyphus, the mythical Greek king who was condemned, for eternity, to continuously roll a boulder up a hill only to see it roll back down again just before he reached the top.<br />
<br />
They would be wrong, of course. The point of the punishment of Sisyphus was that there was no point. His boulder-rolling was a cruel exercise is pointlessness and unending disappointment; parenting, for all its repetition, is anything but that.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the good bits often get hidden in the fog of housework chores - those essential but sometimes unfulfilling activities that keep the home running. Perhaps there are people for whom the sight of a basket of dirty washing and muddy footprints on the toilet floor brings nothing but unalloyed pleasure. I salute them but I can never join them. The most I can claim is a grim satisfaction at seeing a floor clean that was once ankle-deep in gunge and grime and last weeks' banana smoothie. It is always more satisfying cleaning something really dirty rather than something that is clean already. This is where parents, should they be likeminded, have an advantage: there is never any shortage of dirt to clean away.<br />
<br />
But there you have one parenting dilemma aptly displayed in all its infuriating-ness (farewell grammar). For those of you who are confused (and well done to the man who isn't) let me just say that I am now on my fourth paragraph and haven't yet mentioned children other than in not-so-oblique references to the amount of mess they produce. There have been no remarks made concerning the joys of family life, the excitement of seeing your child come home from pre-school with their first painting (as I did last week), the random conversations that children have which we adults would never dream about or any of the other many things that children bring glittering in their wake. We see not the glitter for the gloom and the thankless trudge of never-ending housework.<br />
<br />
To take yesterday as an example. I spent an entire day, more or less, on my feet. I spent the morning washing dirty clothes and folding clean ones; I spent the afternoon washing dirty clothes and cooking dinner which neither child liked and which one of them refused to eat. In the evening I went outside and collected the washing off the line. I couldn't work out how a person could spend so much time rushing about apparently for no real purpose. My list of household chores had barely diminished. All I had really done was fill a washing line. Well, so what? I'll probably be doing the same thing again a couple of days from now. Bemused and befogged, I retired to bed full of the gloomy self-reproaches of the frustrated underachiever.<br />
<br />
I am well aware that, when it comes to housework, I am one of life's plodders - the stay-at-home-Dad stereotype, the tortoise to my wife's hare. I instinctively assumed that it was my own slowness and time-wasting ability that was at fault but, while it is undeniably true that they would have been large factors, they were not the only ones. What I had failed to take into my calculations was the impact of two active children. You see, as well as doing a few loads of washing I had also been required to get children ready for school, then take them there and pick them up again. I had taken them to the park. I had spent part of my lunchtime patiently helping a small boy fill up a toy watering can from the sink in the downstairs toilet and carry it outside to water the patio (several times, whilst simultaneously trying to gulp down a sandwich). I had changed nappies and run baths. I had read the children stories. <br />
<br />
But none of those things counted.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, all I had done was a bit of washing. My wife arrived home from work to a cluttered house and no tea. I was a frustrated failure, though Gilly did her best to comfort me.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, both children had been (partially) fed - it's not my fault they didn't want their omelette - bathed and dressed for bed. They had enjoyed their time at the park, even though going there had robbed me of the chance/saved me taking the trouble to empty the dishwasher, and they had enjoyed the bedtime stories. Shouldn't those things count for something in the final analysis? <br />
<br />
So far as housework goes, my list is growing and, as long as the tortoise is in charge at home, it will continue to do so. But if the children are happy and properly looked after does that really matter so much? There may be food trodden into the carpet, a kitchen floor with sticky deposits (some undefinable) splashed over it and piles of clothes stacked higgledy-piggledy around the house but surely I get some sort of plus mark for ignoring these things so I can push my children on the swings, right? Right? OK...I leave it with you. Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-79011250729459967352017-04-15T13:50:00.002-07:002017-04-15T13:50:11.185-07:00Photo of the Month: March 2017With the warmer Spring weather already making itself felt and the evenings barrelling out at an appreciable lick it is inevitable that many parents will dig out the back door key and shoo the kids out into the garden. Some children, of course, like to be outside all year round but from a parent's perspective it is much easier to let them roam when you don't have to spend hours putting on coats, hats, scarves, gloves (which will soon get lost anyway) and wellingtons only for the little dears to reappear five minutes later complaining of cold and wanting to be let back in or, even worse, demanding that Daddy comes out to play with them.<br />
<br />
We had a friend round with her two children one sunny-ish day in the middle of March (that is to say, it was cloudy and cold while they were here and the sun came out immediately once they were gone) and, in the intervals of pacifying small children who both wanted to use the same toy at once, spent a bit of time talking about the best children's garden toys. She has a small garden, which makes it a bit harder, but I was fulsome in my praise of trampolines, slides, swings, sand pits and push-along cars. I was less enthusiastic about pedal-powered tractors, which are very good at going downhill but impossible for little ones to propel uphill again and therefore appear to have been designed exclusively for country mansions with acres of nice, flat patio space. I added that many of our garden toys had been purchased second-hand, there always being a ready market for used kids' toys and a multitude of space-strapped parents who are only too glad to get large and unwieldy objects out of the garage and off their hands.<br />
<br />
We have a garden shed crammed with outdoor toys: scooters, toy spades, wheelbarrows and watering cans, bikes and a variety of other weather-worn articles many of which have been designed to allow them to be used in the wet - which is fortunate when they accidentally get left out overnight in a thunderstorm. However, it wasn't until our friend had departed that I remembered that sometimes children don't need all of this stuff. It's well-known that they can derive amusement from even the simplest things; they will unwrap an expensive Christmas present and have more fun playing with the wrapping paper than the toy inside (this will subsequently be advertised for sale on Facebook and snapped up by voracious bargain-hunters like me) and they can spend ages entertaining themselves with a plastic spoon and a colander.<br />
<br />
So when it comes to garden toys, all you really need is a bit of mud and an old plant pot...<br />
<br />
...and a hot bath afterwards.<br />
<br />
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Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-4266135186912432612017-04-06T13:09:00.002-07:002017-04-06T13:20:00.060-07:00How We Survive Life Without TV<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZiULmrI6UCMLmkP0ZG2i42PMmlA3gjCbbZHKZQZB2RfZC6NpefWdV9RzDQdehiGda8h32C6trtr5W-cB6shNR7YWJK9Qu4V5yJDV2LTcN6RmqtguyTib3nxIX35cbaHDA7XgWxe74-w/s1600/children-403582_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZiULmrI6UCMLmkP0ZG2i42PMmlA3gjCbbZHKZQZB2RfZC6NpefWdV9RzDQdehiGda8h32C6trtr5W-cB6shNR7YWJK9Qu4V5yJDV2LTcN6RmqtguyTib3nxIX35cbaHDA7XgWxe74-w/s320/children-403582_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not our house - obviously...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Lunch time. The boys are sitting at their little table in the kitchen; I'm perched on a chair alongside.<br />
<br />
"Daddy," the eldest pipes up, "for my v-d-e-o-s today I want: eight <i>Blaze</i>s, eight films, eight <i>Bubble Guppies </i>and eight <i>Penguins of Madagascar." </i><br />
"What's that?"<br />
"For my [piercing whisper] videos, I want [etc, etc]...!"<br />
"That's not how you spell videos," quoth I, playing pedantic. Thinking that his demands were pretty steep - that amounts to approximately twenty-two hours of screen time, after all - I continued sarcastically, "I think that you're existing in a parallel universe."<br />
"What's that mean, Daddy?"<br />
"Which has accentuated your delusional tendencies."<br />
"What's it mean?"<br />
They say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit so sarcasm against small children, using long words that they can't understand must be the lowest of the low - which is perhaps why only low-life like myself think it's remotely funny. No matter. I repeat my statement, adding the word 'exponentially' (which not even I know the meaning of) for good effect.<br />
At the sound of the word 'delusional' a light breaks across my son's furrowed brow. <br />
"Oh, you mean I'm going to lose it!"<br />
<br />
Sarcasm. What's the point?<br />
<br />
<u>Where's Your Flatscreen?</u><br />
<br />
There may be some of you wondering why I didn't just turn on the TV and tune into <i>CBeebies</i> for an hour. Why was my son requesting those particular shows? Let's face it, some of them don't have much in common: <i>Bubble Guppies - </i>infant gooiness, laced with double-helpings of ga-ga, juxtaposed with <i>Penguins of Madagascar - </i>pointless, comedic mayhem involving lots of explosions and cartoon violence in the traditions of <i>Tom and Jerry. </i>Well, this isn't to say that we have anything against more 'normal' shows, (don't you just love <i>Octonauts</i>?<i>) </i>it's simply that they aren't available to us. This is because - drum roll please - <u>we do not have a television.</u> Not one. <br />
<br />
Nor do we have a TV licence. Once the BBC started demanding a licence fee for watching BBC iPlayer back in September, this family's use of BBC catch-up TV halted, forever (unless they change the rules back again). Now we watch only those things which are available without a TV licence - and unless you want to spend a fortune on DVDs that makes choice a bit limited. It's why we've never used the word 'TV' in this house - we say 'videos' because nothing that we watch is ever 'live TV'. We have an Amazon subscription and there's always YouTube. Netflix and Now TV are other examples of services who don't require a TV licence for catch-up TV. The BBC are out, though - which is a shame because I did so enjoy my daily dose of <i>Baby Jake. </i>(Did I just admit that publically? Whoops!)<br />
<br />
<u>Life Without The Box</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Remarkable though it may sound to many people, I don't regret not having a TV. The saying goes 'What you've never had, you don't miss' and I have never had a television in my life. The closest I got was having a set in the lounge in a shared flat during my time at university, which only served to demonstrate how terrible midday TV is and show me that I will never be a fan of <i>EastEnders.</i> <br />
<br />
When I was young I suppose I kind of missed having a TV. It was a very mild feeling - like the regret I might feel at never having hitchhiked New Zealand - the kind of woe that I can very easily live with. It made my occasional TV experiences all the more exciting. I still recall the wonder of watching the 10 o'clock news on the TV set in our B&Bs during our annual family holiday - delayed by my parents spending whole minutes trying to work out how to bring the apparatus to life. "Is it that button? No, I'll try this one. Oh that didn't work either. What next...?" It was like a glimpse into a secret world - even the way that each correspondent signed off their report was magical.<br />
<br />
It is a magic which most people with a TV set will never experience.<br />
<br />
People react in various ways when I explain that I do not have a TV, have never had a TV and don't expect to ever have a TV. Some think it's funny and laugh at me ('what does your furniture point towards?'), some shrug, some don't say anything and quite a few say something like, "I don't really need a TV either - it's mostly background noise and I hardly ever watch it but the wife likes <i>Emmerdale</i>". The last group is a remarkably large one, which I find comforting.<br />
<br />
Growing up without a TV allowed me to do other things like building camps, lighting campfires, reading books and making up stories. It was healthier, more active and required and inspired a far better imagination than 'the box' ever will. The advent of internet catch-up for the new generation will probably change this. Even without a TV my children are still watching way more videos and films than I ever did. I could probably count the number of films I watched by the age of fifteen on my fingers and toes - I might even have a few spare. To combat this we try to limit the amount of screen time our children have - ideally three days a week for approximately one hour a day, set against an average of around 2 hours of TV time a day for 5 -15 year olds nationwide. Our time is flexible - we have to ensure that both children have a choice of what they want to watch and they will get extra video time when they're sick, for example - but it gives a firm base to be flexible from. <br />
<br />
It also ensures that as the responsible adult who has to manipulate the laptop to make it work we get full power of approving what our children are watching. We are therefore (hopefully) unlikely to ever come into the lounge and find our little ones immersed in a gore-laden episode of <i>The Last Kingdom. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
On this occasion my son's request for multiple videos was denied, as are his [very occasional] pleas for us to buy a TV licence. The BBC can keep their bits of paper. Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-72628541107992473342017-03-14T12:31:00.003-07:002017-03-14T12:33:29.786-07:008 Great (But Flawed) Parenting Philosophies<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Additions and extra time will be required.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I am aware that this list is endless...<br />
<br />
However, just to get things started, here is a random selection containing eight of my pithy personal parenting observations. I say 'personal' - by that I mean 'universal', of course.<br />
<br />
1. When a toddler is eating dinner it is best to leave them to their own devices as much as possible. It causes you less distress and doesn't increase the resultant chaos all that much.<br />
<br />
2. When a child explains that they have put their clothes into the laundry basket "because they were dirty", this actually means that they couldn't be bothered to fold the clothes up and put them back in the drawer.<br />
<br />
3. The amount of strength that children have when getting toys out of the toy cupboard is directly proportional to the amount of strength they claim to lack when asked to put them away again.<br />
<br />
4. My children have fingers. They have been given a fork to use but this wasn't part of the original design. Fingers were. They choose to use the original.<br />
<br />
5. Despite much effort and a great deal of thought, I haven't yet found a simpler way to say, "no!"<br />
<br />
6. If a father's word was law, my children would spend most of their time behind bars.<br />
<br />
7. It is remarkable how a child who refused to eat their dinner at 5pm suddenly becomes ravenously hungry when told, one hour later, that it is time for bed.<br />
<br />
8. Our family's 'Book of Rules' states that the parents have absolute authority and control. What a pity that my children can't read it yet.Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-48503553694610240322017-03-02T05:32:00.002-08:002017-03-02T05:39:25.647-08:00Brylcreem or Sudocrem? The Boy's Choice<b><u>Just One of Those Days</u></b><br />
<br />
It had been a difficult day.<br />
<br />
A trip to the park, which ended before Isaac was ready to go home, finished with Gilly having to carry a screaming, kicking two-year-old up the main road, watched with interest by the queue of cars waiting at the temporary traffic lights outside our house. This was the same queue (but different vehicles) that had caused Gilly problems earlier in the day when she had returned home in the car. She had found our driveway blocked by a bin lorry and as she waited for him to edge forward to let her in an enraged motorist behind her pulled up alongside and hurled abuse at her through his window, with accompanying hand gestures. Not the sort of behaviour guaranteed to put you in a sunny mood, particularly when your youngest son follows it up with a tantrum of his own.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Bath Time</u></b><br />
<br />
But Isaac wasn't finished yet. I was reading Graham his bedtime story when I heard a cry for help ring out from the bathroom where Gilly was giving Isaac his bath. The pair of us scampered along the landing to find a scene of saturated chaos. Isaac, accidentally one hopes, had succeeded in tipping an entire jug of water over the side of the bath. Some had gone on the floor, some on the mat and a fair portion of the remainder had gone over Mummy. From the waist downwards she was fundamentally waterlogged.<br />
<br />
I helped, of course but in leaning across the bath to pull out the plug I somehow managed to wrench a muscle in my left arm. The arm went into a (brief) spasm and I hurried heroically away, moaning quietly, leaving Gilly to squelch around as best she could.<br />
<br />
Despite these problems we were still managing to get the children ready for bed in record time. It wasn't even 6.40pm and I had already finished Graham's bedtime story, Isaac was bathed and in his pyjamas and we had a decent chance of getting both boys tucked up before 7 o'clock - a very rare achievement for us. So as Graham and I trotted back to the bathroom to clean his teeth I feel I can be forgiven a small glow of satisfaction. It had been a trying day but it was ending well.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Thunderstruck!</u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b>
As I neared the bathroom door I was surprised to see that the light in Isaac's room was still switched on. I thought that Gilly had already got him into bed and I glanced curiously in at the open door to see what was happening. And there I halted in my tracks, horrified, eyes bulging.<br />
<br />
"Gilly!"<br />
<br />
Gilly had been tapping away at the laptop in our bedroom but she stopped straight away when she heard the agonised cry and came running. She looked into the bedroom, gasped and then reeled away, shrieking, her hand clasped over her mouth.<br />
<br />
"Oh! Oh! Oh!"<br />
<br />
It took me a few seconds to realise that she was actually...laughing.<br />
<br />
Sitting on the battered changing mat in the middle of his bedroom floor was Isaac. On the floor beside him was a pot of Sudocrem, extra-large size, which we always leave in a little basket in his room in case we need it. We'd had the pot a while and it had been getting low; now it was nearly empty. <br />
<br />
A few years ago Graham had found a pot of Sudocrem left unattended in his bedroom and painted his face with it. Worried about possible ingestion we'd phoned up the Doctor's to make sure that Sudocrem wasn't poisonous. The reply we got was that Sudocrem tasted so bad that he was unlikely to have eaten it anyway and we went away comforted. We<br />
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thought at the time that Graham was very naughty and we vowed to keep Sudocrem well out of his reach from that time forward. We know now that we hadn't seen anything.<br />
<br />
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Because what Isaac was doing made Graham's face-painting look preposterously mild; tame, even. Not content with slapping Sudocrem on his face Isaac had also plastered it in his hair. His whole head appeared to be coated a creamy white. Flashes of white adorned his lips and trickled down onto his pyjamas. Blonde locks, dyed prematurely a snowy white, stuck out over his right ear. His hands were caked in white, for he had scooped up great handfuls of the stuff and smeared it over his cheeks and under his chin. He laughed happily through a gooey white mask, blinking painfully when he rubbed his fist into his eyes. It looked as though he'd walked under a ladder and a tin of whitewash had fallen on his head - or like Lady Gaga having a bad hair day.<br />
<br />
"And he's only just had a bath!" I said, disbelievingly.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><u>The Slow Cure</u></b><br />
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<br />
He may have been fresh out of the bath but there was obviously only one thing to do and, rejoicing openly, it wasn't long before Isaac was back in the tub and watching the water rising around him. At least, he was trying to watch in the intervals of having his head vigorously scrubbed by his Mummy. The result was disappointing. Gilly poured soap, water and a fair amount of effort over her son's sticky scalp but the Sudocrem had been well rubbed in. The bathwater turned milky, so much so that we had to drain it away and put in a fresh supply, but Isaac's hair remained persistently matted. Whatever failings Sudocrem may have as hair gel it sure is wonderfully adhesive. The manufacturers would be proud of the way it resisted stubbornly everything that could be thrown at it. <br />
<br />
Eventually, we were forced to admit defeat. Isaac's hair still had the appearance of overcooked spaghetti but we put him to bed in the hope that Time and Sleep, those two great healers - as well as the absorbent qualities of his pillowcase - would succeed in completing the job we had begun. They did - although it took several days before Isaac's hair was back to its light and airy self.<br />
<br />
<b><u>And the Answer Is...</u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b>
You never stop learning. As I finally collapsed into bed that night - having got the children to sleep considerably later than planned or expected - there would have been several lessons that I could have drawn from that day's experiences.<br />
First, that children are unpredictable. Isaac had never displayed the slightest interest in Sudocrem before then suddenly he uses it to turn himself into a living work of art.<br />
Second, that however smoothly things appear to be going, I should never take it for granted that my family will get to bed early, or even on time.<br />
Third, that the most remarkable things can be funny.<br />
Fourth, that we all grow as parents. When Graham plastered his face in Sudocrem we were horrified and rang up the doctor for reassurance. When Isaac went a step further we simply shrugged our shoulders and got on with clearing the mess up.<br />
<br />
As it was I probably drifted off to sleep with only one thing firmly set in my mind. Namely, that I am never again going to let Isaac near a pot of Sudocrem, Brylcreem, suncream or any other sort of cream until I am confident that he can be trusted to use it responsibly.<br />
<br />Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-46940529500794057372017-02-25T11:52:00.001-08:002017-02-25T11:52:10.099-08:00The Dangers of Dogs, Kids and High Speed Racing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgavt9eRLFz7O7gt1yQy4MOaJ-exPEhsJaiF_Qq5ZCwtTZjDrlr3KG9aN0-AanimwxvlxEYdYYCJ567KOF_uLOwB1I__O6ZcSFIswRT40Bth4gvGmCi-aLrNV9p-0_KBQ8wbNe9qLiAA/s1600/labradoodle-1499231_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgavt9eRLFz7O7gt1yQy4MOaJ-exPEhsJaiF_Qq5ZCwtTZjDrlr3KG9aN0-AanimwxvlxEYdYYCJ567KOF_uLOwB1I__O6ZcSFIswRT40Bth4gvGmCi-aLrNV9p-0_KBQ8wbNe9qLiAA/s320/labradoodle-1499231_1920.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dog lovers, look away now!</td></tr>
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<u><b>Snarling Terror</b></u><br />
<br />
We all know that dogs can be dangerous. All those sharp, gleaming teeth, that terrifying snarling and blood-curdling barking; it's enough to make anyone into a cat-lover. Granted, there are undeniably nice dogs - I know and have known a few myself - but there are also dogs that convince us, even from the other side of a 10 feet-high chain-link fence, that their sole aim in life is to rip you apart and see the colour of your guts. Anyone who has ever watched <i>Beethoven </i>knows that. But did you know that it is also possible for dogs to be the means of pain and anguish without baring one tiny tooth - without even looking at you? No, neither did I, until last week...<br />
<br />
<b><u>The Race Is On</u></b><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5RnpCJsz075rtjGr6FJZs64LqP3ngL23dwfEpoLWPEVJ3TcduBXweNguFRrA0Pwb5EgkQgHY9ihDR8ciO83GThA8YJNdBwoLZzC2OKDDgv_jog1l1i1_2Ya6yQS5y5zaHYdTJoQHASF0/s1600/20170217_145347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5RnpCJsz075rtjGr6FJZs64LqP3ngL23dwfEpoLWPEVJ3TcduBXweNguFRrA0Pwb5EgkQgHY9ihDR8ciO83GThA8YJNdBwoLZzC2OKDDgv_jog1l1i1_2Ya6yQS5y5zaHYdTJoQHASF0/s320/20170217_145347.jpg" width="180" /></a>We recently purchased our oldest son a 'new' second-hand bike. He had outgrown his previous one and we promised him that as soon as he could set himself going without needing a push from either Parent we would upsize his machine. We found him a fresh bike just in time for some half-term trials and on Saturday afternoon he and I set out for a quick spin around the block, Graham astride his bicycle and me sailing along on a scooter behind him. The scooter is a relatively new innovation: I used to travel on foot but as Graham's speed increased so did the amount of effort required to keep up - there is only so far that you can run without getting puffed out - so I got a new scooter for a Christmas present so that I could whizz along at the same speed and thus far it had proved more than capable of mixing it with the juvenile pedal-pusher.<br />
<br />
Not far from our house is a wide tarmac footpath, nice and flat and therefore ideal for cycling practice. Graham, as usual, wanted a race which generally involves some contrived stalling on my part to avoid leaving him trailing far behind. I am well practiced in giving the appearance of maximum effort whilst actually popping along in third gear but it soon became apparent that this race was following a different script. Those new, larger, 16" wheels had turned the tables and it wasn't long before Graham was surging ahead and I was having to exert some serious effort - actual effort this time - to remain in his slipstream. <br />
<br />
The tarmac on the path is formed from two different surfaces. The central strip is quite smooth but either side it is more bumpy, therefore giving it more friction. Either side of that it falls away completely into mud and rotting leaves. Accordingly, to increase speed I took the middle strip which was also the route that Graham was taking. The trees flashed by on either side. Graham had found his stride and was pulling away, legs whirling. For the first time ever I was in danger of being honourably defeated. Only a determined attack would salvage my pride. I bent low over the handlebars, right foot kicking forcefully at the ground, and began to close the gap. Then, just as we were rounding the first corner Graham cried out.<br />
<br />
"Daddy! There's some dogs!"<br />
<br />
<b><u>Danger! Dogs!</u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b>
With typical infant variability Graham has transformed over the years from a child who eagerly strokes the noses of slavering, white-fanged Alsatians to a child who runs in fright from the teeniest Dachshund. No amount of coaxing has any affect. Dogs, with a few exceptions, are <i>Bad. </i>Looking up now I could see a family with what looked like at least one small, white dog about thirty metres ahead. I couldn't tell whether they were walking away or towards us but, either way, they posed no immediate threat and I was just beginning to tell Graham this in my most reassuring tones when I suddenly glanced down and realised that he had slammed his brakes on, stopping dead in the middle of the path and that I was about to crash straight into him.<br />
<br />
The next few seconds are imprinted on my memory in a glaze of whizzing concrete and spinning wheels. Avoiding disaster of some sort is clearly impossible. The front wheel jerks sideways even as I realise that I am going too fast to keep my balance. I daresay my fingers grope for brakes but this is a scooter not a bike and scooters don't have brake levers on the handlebars. The rear brake isn't good enough to stop me anyway, even if I remembered it. Panic. A solid figure, helmeted and sitting on his bike looms stationary at my left kneecap. Grey tarmac, split by a million tiny lines, streaks away beneath me. The darkness of despair. Then, the inevitable. Self and scooter abruptly part company and I go soaring through the air.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Crash Landing</u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b>
It wasn't a long flight and followed an exclusively downwards trajectory. As I watched the runway come rushing up to meet me the one clear thought in my mind was that I was about to feel some pain and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I crashed to earth, apparently taking most of the impact on my outstretched left hand and then rolled over, coming to rest sprawled in the middle of the path, facing back the way I had come.<br />
<br />
Somehow, I had shunted Graham through ninety degrees and into the grass verge and as I watched I saw his face crumple. "Oh no!" I thought. "Must be scared at seeing his Daddy go flying like that. Poor kid."<br />
<br />
I had overestimated the infant well of sympathy. "Daddy!" he gulped through the tears. "You banged into me and hurt my ba-ack!" I could have pointed out that his sudden stop had also caused me a bit of suffering but I managed to bite my tongue, figuratively speaking (my tongue was one part of me that wasn't injured in the crash) and scrambled quickly to my feet. My left palm was slashed with angry, red grazes, my chest hurt, blood oozed from my right hand and I could also detect some discomfort on the big toe of my right foot but, to my relief, that seemed to be all. In the grand scheme of things my injuries appeared to be quite superficial. Although I was hardly able to use my left hand for 24 hours after the fall and still have pain in the base of my thumb a week later there was no evidence of broken bones. As the doctor said when she examined my left hand a couple of days afterwards, I had apparently "got away with it".<br />
<br />
Graham soon stopped crying when he realised that I was in pain and begged permission to see the gory wounds. He was suitably impressed and made no demur when I told him that we had to go straight back home (where he subsequently made it his personal responsibility to cheer me up, bringing me presents and even offering to serve me breakfast the next morning). As I picked up my scooter and chided him, as gently as I could through gritted teeth, for stopping so suddenly his simple answer was, "But I don't like dogs, Daddy." It was childish logic that not even I could argue with.<br />
<br />
Aching, bleeding and with me unable to grip the scooter with my left hand, we turned for home. Behind us, the little family and their deadly dangerous dog, unwitting cause of the entire calamity, were just disappearing round a bend in the path, having heard and seen nothing.Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-80023618618845506142017-02-21T11:57:00.001-08:002017-02-21T11:57:05.933-08:00Photo of the Month: January 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCpbWLOgqzXL60ySNdg879iZ7plp-ko2tDmYTnWZFU0gkyztt8JSmkT_K5crhDG_mB5uSHU4jVpEjT2uw3-5Jii1E3B7o1sILJO5RtV2Mz-blVI4BEhHmSxlvF_C26PMp3jAnbr0IoDM/s1600/20170113_145521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCpbWLOgqzXL60ySNdg879iZ7plp-ko2tDmYTnWZFU0gkyztt8JSmkT_K5crhDG_mB5uSHU4jVpEjT2uw3-5Jii1E3B7o1sILJO5RtV2Mz-blVI4BEhHmSxlvF_C26PMp3jAnbr0IoDM/s640/20170113_145521.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />
Remember the Winter of 2009-10? Boy! That was something! Snow, followed by snow! Days off work, drifts, hillsides chequered white and black with snow and sledges. In Folkestone, where I was living at the time, we even had snow on the beach! Imagine that! Snow on the beach! Talk about Artic conditions, dude!<br />
<br />
And then, hey! Remember the next Winter? We were walking in snow on Christmas Day that time! OK, so we didn't actually have any snow fall on Christmas Day, as far as I can recall, so that torpedoed my first real white Christmas but, frankly, who's caring? We had the white stuff! Crunch, crunch!<br />
<br />
I am now going to go easy on the ! marks for a bit...<br />
<br />
Because, the thing is, the thing that really needs to be mentioned here, the thing that really made those horrendous, but horrendously fun, snowfalls stand out is that they were really, really rare. I had a childhood where one inch of snow was exciting and you had to ignore the fact that you could still see the grass through the slush. I spent <i>hours </i>staring out of the classroom window at the whirling flakes hoping that there would be enough snow for the school to close and all of us to be sent home. But in vain. There never was.<br />
<br />
So, I had fun - what kid doesn't? But the fact still remains that I had to wait until I hit my mid-twenties before I had a decent bit of snow that I could actually claim (without guilt) a day off work for. But it was guiltlessness mixed with regret because, well, it looks a trifle stupid for a grown man to be out building snowmen in the street unaccompanied by children. Or to play snowballs for that matter. Actually, it looks a trifle undignified for a grown man to show marked approval of snow in any way. He should be moaning about his car getting iced up, hurling insults at the TV because all the airports are closed ("Ridiculous!!! They can cope in Sweden!!! Why not here!!!" - Sorry, more ! marks - my bad...) and rushing to the shops to stockpile food and other essentials in a vaguely panic-stricken way against the monumental 3ft snowdrifts that are predicted hourly. That's the dignified, manly thing to do.<br />
<br />
I think...<br />
<br />
Now that I have children of my own, of course, I can build snowmen and hurl snowballs as energetically and enthusiastically as I want; all the in the name of positive parenting. (Bouncing on trampolines, stroking rabbits at children's farms and going down the slide at the park are also examples of positive parenting, by the way.) Except that I can't, because after a mad couple of years the supply of snow has dried up again. Every year the red-top papers predict arctic blasts and mind-numbing cold and every year they are pretty much wrong ("Yeah, well, who actually believes anything they read in the <i>Mirror </i>anyway?").<br />
<br />
So we endure, or manage with (depending upon your point of view) what we have. We had snow in January and a bit more in February. Today, as temperatures soar and the skies become bluer and more Spring-like I leave you with a photo of the January instalment, as a reminder of my own childhood. It will probably be twenty years before we get anything like 2010 again and from now on it'll be our kids gazing longingly out of the classroom window waiting for the blizzard that never comes while we responsible adults make stern remarks about the evils of snow and secretly wish it would come down a bit harder so we can go home too. Never can anything be so simultaneously adored and detested. Roll on Spring; at least everybody likes that.<br />
<br />Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-37808496960477938042017-02-02T12:16:00.004-08:002017-02-02T12:16:53.122-08:00Another One Fights The Dust!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7aPU1dAaatpSzQI6HKp1t5PaJcvga1BFRVg8r0OjMXh0RGZTgbCUaBiEZRhdb5NzD64ae5aWX3pRPRfIq5wYfwtAZgLK9FDeMKkDbXOC_FkYGePBYeD-qTGYkUICR3IpTtpQUJlxEI5Y/s1600/P2029259+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7aPU1dAaatpSzQI6HKp1t5PaJcvga1BFRVg8r0OjMXh0RGZTgbCUaBiEZRhdb5NzD64ae5aWX3pRPRfIq5wYfwtAZgLK9FDeMKkDbXOC_FkYGePBYeD-qTGYkUICR3IpTtpQUJlxEI5Y/s640/P2029259+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<b><u>Let Battle Commence!</u></b><br />
<br />
They say that an Englishman's home is his castle<span style="font-family: inherit;"> but it often felt to Dudley Ambrosius Dolittle (aka 'Dad') as though his own fortress was in a constant state of siege. That terrible trio of Dust, Dirt and Disorder were continually attempting to wreak unauthorised havoc wherever they could gain a foothold. Raiding parties of spiders festooned the kitchen in cobwebs. Hordes of crumbs spread themselves across the dining room and arrogant armies of dust marched in full battle array over every surface and made alliance with filthy, bacteria-ridden dirt behind the washing machine and tumbledryer. Even the garden wasn't safe, as bands of persistent weeds encamped on the veg patch and vicious ivy tried to infiltrate the house through the doors, windows and even underneath the roof.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When you add in insubordinate behaviour from Private Possessions who refused to be confined to the Toy Box Barracks and sustained campaigns on the part of General Clutter, assisted by his unscrupulous sidekick Major Mess, you were left with one embattled custodian. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was, 'Dad' thought gloomily, rather too much for such a sensitive fellow as himself. Here he was, simply looking for a quiet life, yet forced to endure perpetual bombardment from every quarter, nook and cranny. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u>The Fightback</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, 'Dad' had not been idle through all this. Well, that is to say, he had been idle because it was part of his nature, but he occasionally made half-hearted efforts to stem the encroaching tide. First of all he'd sought help from Henry, a cheerful young warrior with a red, jolly face and a happy smile. Henry was an all-rounder in more ways than one; not only was he excellent at destroying cobwebs and removing dust and crumbs but he was also physically round, being cylindrical in shape. It was a family trait that he shared with his sister Hetty and brothers George, James and Charles, although they all dressed in different colours.</span><br />
<br />
Unfortunately, good though Henry may have been at eliminating cobwebs he wasn't much help when it came to resisting General Clutter. Plus, he couldn't act without direct supervision from 'Dad' himself. Left to himself he would just sit in one place and hum noisily. Other enlisted soldiers - stubby-nosed 'Handheld Vacuum', slim 'Feathers Dusty' with the blue rinse hair and even 'Mopan Bucket' (a bit of a wettie) - were similarly deficient. 'Dad' had tried asking his own sons for support to combat the General but they were seldom much help. 'Dad' occasionally suspected them of being Fifth Columnists, so ready did they seem to aid and assist the Menace in his mischief. <span style="font-family: inherit;">It was bad enough when your own children threw their food and toys at you; it was ten times worse when they refused to pick them up afterwards. Perhaps they simply hadn't had sufficient training.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was just as hard in the garden. 'Dad' had put in quite a lot of spadework to combat the invading weeds and had even tried populating the vacant veg patch territory himself but whenever he returned to check on his dominions (and its minions) the weeds would be back - in force. They were like the heads of the mythical Hydra: for every one cut off two more would grow in its place. It was enough to make even the keenest gardener think about chucking it all in and turning the place over to grass and 'Dad' was not the keenest gardener. That involved far too much effort. As it was, he crawled home after each offensive, tired in body and mind, to be greeted by a chaotic house and a wife back from work and demanding to know why he hadn't tidied up yet. There must, thought 'Dad' wearily, be a better way.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then, quite suddenly, he thought of it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u>The Final Campaign (?)</u></b></div>
<div>
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div>
The house was quiet, or nearly so. Both children were watching a DVD, the remains of a simple tea consisting of jam on toast spread out over the table, chairs and floor around them. Remarkably some of the toast was jammy side up; the rest was gathering dust and oozing into the carpet. A pile of saucepans and plates was tottering in the sink, more plates were sitting on the worktop and one or two had rolled onto the floor, where they had been joined by a knife, two forks, three spoons and four plastic cups. From the safety of their well-developed webs, high on a dusty cupboard, five spiders looked down with interest. Had they wished they could have turned and peered into the hallway where the overspill of toys from the lounge was creeping across the muddy carpet like a slow-moving tidal wave. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Comfily seated on a sofa in the lounge, having carefully cleared himself a space among the shredded remnants of a clothes catalogue, Dudley Ambrosius Dolittle seemed completely unaware of the confusion around him. He was reading a book, a silent Henry acting as a footstool.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There was the sound of a car pulling into the drive. Then a key rattled in the lock. Something dragged across the mat as the front door was forced open.</div>
<div>
"You'll have to push a bit harder," 'Dad' called helpfully. "There's a few toys on the floor!"</div>
<div>
He could hear heavy breathing as the door was heaved back. Then it slammed shut. His wife appeared, looking hot and dishevelled. There was a piece of uneaten toast, jammy side up, stuck to her shoe and a smudge of something white on her elbow. She looked around her, eyes wide, then jerked her head up as a sudden burst of music came from the dining room where the children were watching <i>Thomas The Tank</i> .</div>
<div>
"Are they not in bed yet?" she gasped.</div>
<div>
"What? The kids? No."</div>
<div>
"Why not?"</div>
<div>
"They're watching a DVD."</div>
<div>
She stared around. "This place is a mess! It looks like a bomb's hit it!"</div>
<div>
"Yes, I haven't tidied up yet."</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Why not? Have you had a bad day?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"No, it's been a very relaxing day actually."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Then why haven't you cleared up?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ah, I was coming to that," 'Dad' said easily. He closed his book and stood up, carefully avoiding the toys scattered around him, and stretched. "Truth is, I'm feeling a bit tired at the moment so I thought perhaps you could clear this lot up, put the things in the dishwasher and get the kids to bed and I'll make us both a nice cup of tea. " He smiled at her encouragingly. "How does that sound?"</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The events that followed are unedifying and do not show wedded bliss in its best light. Dear reader, let us draw a veil over them and, like a defeated army in the hours before dawn, slip quietly away.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(Most of the above is fictional. My wife is lovely. DD)</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-75690583586227673372017-01-19T11:56:00.001-08:002017-01-26T13:33:18.364-08:008 Great Books For Babies and Toddlers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLGkaTBJDgdg0ChAXM4v9Kd7p5SK-mZgJKJSMTQJj2ndSltl2i_N9zyTCP_WNczDdCDOe4ke0xgJxSQE8IvSr1own46T__llZ4t5HY6ib9K6RYKg9UQ4zHaWkXBsoFKCdVqTKTXfDgg0/s1600/DSCN3639.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLGkaTBJDgdg0ChAXM4v9Kd7p5SK-mZgJKJSMTQJj2ndSltl2i_N9zyTCP_WNczDdCDOe4ke0xgJxSQE8IvSr1own46T__llZ4t5HY6ib9K6RYKg9UQ4zHaWkXBsoFKCdVqTKTXfDgg0/s400/DSCN3639.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
If books did sport these would be the ones playing rugby, American football and ice hockey. Life in the danger zone. Existence with thrills, spills and an awful lot of violence. All that sticky tape isn't there for decoration - it's the only thing holding most of these books together. Sometimes even that isn't enough.<br />
<br />
Welcome to 8 of the best - and bravest - books in existence. Your toddlers will love them so much they'll want to eat them!<br />
<br />
<b><u>1. '<i>my first' </i>series</u></b><br />
[Dorling Kindersley, also printed by Sainsbury's]<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheeXRnn9570YmYbcgwxxIAOXPIB59jl9nYESTHnQRjzTQx4Q2K57uhPOnY3GvxrSK80el6eqjm2FYlZ-Gb_WvEndz3kP0t5LhJ8Wgwtzuko2Ts67LpzEOuuvrsahJvzCTzu1oIgose5sU/s1600/DSCN3667.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheeXRnn9570YmYbcgwxxIAOXPIB59jl9nYESTHnQRjzTQx4Q2K57uhPOnY3GvxrSK80el6eqjm2FYlZ-Gb_WvEndz3kP0t5LhJ8Wgwtzuko2Ts67LpzEOuuvrsahJvzCTzu1oIgose5sU/s320/DSCN3667.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Packed with colour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
'Simple but effective' are the best words to sum up this series, which include such titles as <i>My First Words, My First Animal Book </i>and <i>My First Farm. </i>These board books are divided into subjects such as 'Food and drink', 'At the seaside', 'Minibeasts' and 'Farm vehicles' and contain loads and loads of photographs - as many as 20 on a double page spread - with the name of each picture written underneath it to be individually pointed out to your child. Many pages also have questions that you can ask your child about what they see in front of them: 'Which tractor would you like to drive?' 'What do you like best about the seaside?' They are attractive, colourful<i> </i>and have so many different pictures that toddlers will never get tired of them. Big tabs with an appropriate picture makes it easy to find which page you want to look at.<br />
<br />
<b><u>2. <i>Noisy Baby Peekaboo!</i></u></b><br />
[Dorling Kindersley] <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdr6V-M-N4b2PHQCSF7k_tFXle_LbjuoELRs8GTqxt8bIm1qF7d3Fhmaqj_iFnnh3CsBETvTDUBvK7-RtsmN_vZxzBy5q4K3Oz8m1qKVuawK2HWSWO4YMTbVS3A7Gq1Vr2qt1qiT6yZ4o/s1600/DSCN3664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdr6V-M-N4b2PHQCSF7k_tFXle_LbjuoELRs8GTqxt8bIm1qF7d3Fhmaqj_iFnnh3CsBETvTDUBvK7-RtsmN_vZxzBy5q4K3Oz8m1qKVuawK2HWSWO4YMTbVS3A7Gq1Vr2qt1qiT6yZ4o/s320/DSCN3664.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full of happy baby sounds</td></tr>
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Another book in a series, this board book has large flaps inside for children to open. When they do a little sensor is revealed which recognises daylight and makes sounds, such as a baby laughing or a goodnight lullaby. Babies love looking at pictures of other babies, which already makes this book a winner as it has lots of photos of babies playing and doing all the things that your baby does. Throw in some sound effects and you're just increasing the enjoyment.<br />
<br />
This is a book for reading in the daytime only, though, as my experience indicates that the sensors don't pick up on artificial light, only daylight. So always make sure you're reading this near a window!<br />
<br />
<b><u>3. <i>Who Said Moo?</i></u></b><br />
[Parragon]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7a7V_ltQjMcfeQE63DtRJF1fOsHjaUdXmxoMnh3eh2pM4Qsnvd6wsiCapD66IQq5X8Sk2pl3iAhcfo6q4lR4Uu-B_ct6P8A8Nhwd3sIPSnLS8h4BI1z8WoW8Yz0SNc2w7tKygikEOqZ4/s1600/DSCN3671.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7a7V_ltQjMcfeQE63DtRJF1fOsHjaUdXmxoMnh3eh2pM4Qsnvd6wsiCapD66IQq5X8Sk2pl3iAhcfo6q4lR4Uu-B_ct6P8A8Nhwd3sIPSnLS8h4BI1z8WoW8Yz0SNc2w7tKygikEOqZ4/s320/DSCN3671.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A noisy trip around the farmyard</td></tr>
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Our first copy of this probably came from a charity shop. When it finally disintegrated we bought another second-hand. Not the easiest to get hold of then but well worth the effort. This board book tells the story of a cockerel who finds himself supplanted when a loud 'moo' wakes up the animals on the farm before he gets the chance. He tours the farmyard to find out which animal is responsible but all deny it by demonstrating the noise that they make instead - until he gets to the last one... This book has buttons to press with the sound each animal makes (and unlike many buttons they're quite easy to push for little fingers). Experience shows that this is a story that will be read again and again and again...<br />
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<b><u>4. <i>Dinosaur Roar</i></u></b><br />
[Ragged Bears Publishing] <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFpBEnLCwI-VIfnoKvQchPROvcSbZyNiM_lKOnlklaE0L8zSAF-0J59cKNTVq_kAQEy2BV9FnY8mnSsRWwNqgNzNBL61z6qu8EdNkPHu6LghurEIQkXoKuWKY4sCAQ2dU4cWiqSJoc5V8/s1600/DSCN3666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFpBEnLCwI-VIfnoKvQchPROvcSbZyNiM_lKOnlklaE0L8zSAF-0J59cKNTVq_kAQEy2BV9FnY8mnSsRWwNqgNzNBL61z6qu8EdNkPHu6LghurEIQkXoKuWKY4sCAQ2dU4cWiqSJoc5V8/s320/DSCN3666.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crunch, munch, dinosaur lunch</td></tr>
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Simple, catchy rhymes, crazily imaginative drawings and lots of roarsome dinos. What not to like?<br />
"Raar!"<br />
(That's what the kids will say.)<br />
<br />
<b><u>5. v-tech <i>Peek-A-Boo Book</i></u></b><br />
[v-tech] <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-I6z4No-gAPEwmJA80RLrvgC2C9rmLeL9sZohPPyjvOpWliV-qO5Ggole76G7pUvY52SyKrwoW4y1A-lOFpl190Uqgj6bpK2HLIOESvTlI_ACzVu6PuD6PGzHLfoTmEzVzdZDQrNyJk0/s1600/DSCN3669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-I6z4No-gAPEwmJA80RLrvgC2C9rmLeL9sZohPPyjvOpWliV-qO5Ggole76G7pUvY52SyKrwoW4y1A-lOFpl190Uqgj6bpK2HLIOESvTlI_ACzVu6PuD6PGzHLfoTmEzVzdZDQrNyJk0/s320/DSCN3669.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toy or book? Who cares?</td></tr>
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This is probably branded as a toy but it's a pretty good book and practically indestructible as well. Made from hard plastic, this brightly coloured toy/book plays a selection of nursery rhymes as you turn the pages. There are things to twiddle, push and pull inside too so lots of things to keep little ones interested.<br />
Only one problem: there isn't an 'off' switch. Be prepared for 'Hey, Diddle, Diddle' from morning through 'til night.<br />
<br />
<b><u>6. <i>Farmer Duck</i></u></b><br />
[Walker Books]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYR22I2HOyGIaN8AtwsiBDDn-oY6NnNhS48bvR844rrIlyPyQDjQHdLiI3JSSu-SJXaJaDUImP3wA7r85e29p0bzklL96lrwHs55tK1vI2EFAykrgSNzrSI10uCgBVu3bNoQR6kLzmYDw/s1600/DSCN3672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYR22I2HOyGIaN8AtwsiBDDn-oY6NnNhS48bvR844rrIlyPyQDjQHdLiI3JSSu-SJXaJaDUImP3wA7r85e29p0bzklL96lrwHs55tK1vI2EFAykrgSNzrSI10uCgBVu3bNoQR6kLzmYDw/s320/DSCN3672.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A touching tale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A modern classic(?) this is the story of a downtrodden duck whose life is made a misery by a lazy old farmer. The duck does all the farm (and house) work, while the farmer lounges in bed eating chocolates. That is, until the other animals take a hand...<br />
The plot may be highly improbable (but there are lots of children's books with improbable plots) but this is a good read nonetheless. The big selling point as far as toddlers are concerned is all the animal noises that you can make. You'll have them 'mooing, baaing and clucking' until the cows come home. Enough to drive you quackers!<br />
<br />
<b><u>7. <i>Say Goodnight to the Sleepy Animals!</i></u></b><br />
[Macmillan]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5qGophhy_JQVYYYcP73gvGc9jg0xPaL-_RmYnkuNdOPFToCRPWfuiufvqTpdC9mCSxAKxP0O6VK7SOH8R5BHl9nZUx1iDqV0hBfishvVP03t4KXUYc_2-j07rKOm7k9bsQXXaaz57mg/s1600/DSCN3662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5qGophhy_JQVYYYcP73gvGc9jg0xPaL-_RmYnkuNdOPFToCRPWfuiufvqTpdC9mCSxAKxP0O6VK7SOH8R5BHl9nZUx1iDqV0hBfishvVP03t4KXUYc_2-j07rKOm7k9bsQXXaaz57mg/s320/DSCN3662.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Say "night-night"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Another brilliant story for animal noises as cat goes on a tour of the countryside saying goodnight to every animal he meets. Great bedtime book.<br />
<br />
<b><u>8. <i>Hippo Has A Hat</i></u></b><br />
[Macmillan]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCk1Ur_36h4bGdnO2LAnq8iaDk_z6vON6XukwXg6ZjEkaQbZS4Rp7wf8y_u_gJ7lblwXW57ISH-g6bHsbm5bq8yD4RHm1eeE5At-v7VyUixt4U8NR38NRMZyfveFHUlzyBY0kPVHbMKs/s1600/DSCN3661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCk1Ur_36h4bGdnO2LAnq8iaDk_z6vON6XukwXg6ZjEkaQbZS4Rp7wf8y_u_gJ7lblwXW57ISH-g6bHsbm5bq8yD4RHm1eeE5At-v7VyUixt4U8NR38NRMZyfveFHUlzyBY0kPVHbMKs/s320/DSCN3661.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hats off to you J.D. & N.S.</td></tr>
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<div>
A list of children's books wouldn't be complete without at least one Julia Donaldson creation and I've chosen this one to finish with, although <i>Chocolate Mousse For Greedy Goose </i>is equally worthy. This is the rhyming story of the day that a party of animals go into a clothes shop and start trying things on. Want to see what a gorilla looks like in blue fluffy slippers with rabbit ears? Or a pig trying to get into a pair of jeans a size too small? Wonder no longer. The answer is here.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Happy reading! </div>
<br />Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-43576945606083212622017-01-14T13:56:00.002-08:002017-01-14T13:59:05.511-08:00Photo of the Month: December 2016<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4tLu1FXCX2Ymek0K4V4lVitC2bC8QgxCEEHSjqqHZj433SLltKpkHMzXCwNtHJ_3Ew9dT_ZyIRX5H_p57sY0XR86EM17RFElcUzr45Wpl4tBNYB34EBKueq0_AIXGzTODzU-y3yx3ps/s1600/PC278917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4tLu1FXCX2Ymek0K4V4lVitC2bC8QgxCEEHSjqqHZj433SLltKpkHMzXCwNtHJ_3Ew9dT_ZyIRX5H_p57sY0XR86EM17RFElcUzr45Wpl4tBNYB34EBKueq0_AIXGzTODzU-y3yx3ps/s640/PC278917.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Face-to-face on Dartmoor</td></tr>
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Our family like Dartmoor. We like its brutal and majestic scenery, we like its emptiness, we like its moodiness, we like the cafe in Widecombe and we like having lots of rocks to climb around on.<br />
<br />
What we don't like is having to share all this 'emptiness', etc with several thousand other people which is exactly what we had to do on the second bank-holiday after Christmas. Being winter, and cold, we thought that the place might be pretty much empty. How naive! The place was packed. People swarmed over the rocks and paths in their hundreds. All the car parks were full and we drove helplessly around trying to find a place to stop that didn't involve driving into a ditch. Eventually we managed to squeeze into a tiny car park near Bonehill Rocks and popped out for a modest scramble and a picnic.<br />
<br />
It seemed as though the place was a bit of a magnet for rock climbers, which we thought was a bit odd as the rocks were fairly puny in comparison to some other sites around Dartmoor. But then, I'm no climber. Perhaps these rocks were peculiarly suitable for the sport in a way that other places aren't. As well as shoes, chalk, large mats and various other climbing paraphernalia it appeared that an essential part of every climber's kit was a dog, either individually owned or shared among several people. While the owners climbed, their pets - including the one above - went walkabout.<br />
<br />
Not sure who's most curious here...Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345585526533156585.post-67556508566402859712017-01-10T15:00:00.000-08:002017-01-11T10:01:14.290-08:00Little Brother Copies Big Brother<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0D8cGdyeIKl3SDlJy5XAb9jIyRbYmpSsgoAYVj_myOgqE2U6DU2WTWLPlqFcsLrXgZsRPWt-8B87Em-yTXIUFTMqJKJITd_yFvcA7pw2yJskjIh1UzuuRiL6o9RojQehCrEzbMGe_dQs/s1600/20160811_115026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0D8cGdyeIKl3SDlJy5XAb9jIyRbYmpSsgoAYVj_myOgqE2U6DU2WTWLPlqFcsLrXgZsRPWt-8B87Em-yTXIUFTMqJKJITd_yFvcA7pw2yJskjIh1UzuuRiL6o9RojQehCrEzbMGe_dQs/s400/20160811_115026.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You did it, I'll do it!"</td></tr>
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As a younger brother I know what it's like to look up to your older sibling. Three years' seniority means a lot, particularly in one's formative years and there are many gems of wisdom imparted by my older brother that have stuck in my brain down through the ages. Sagacious pearls such as, "it is better to wash your hands in cold running water..." <br />
Or was it hot running water?<br />
Anyway, something like that.<br />
<br />
Wherever he went, I followed. I began by following him into the world (debatable - unkind 'friends' may suggest that I normally inhabit a little world of my own). I followed him to the same primary school, the same secondary school and the same university. Being four academic years ahead he'd left university before I got there but he did me the honour of visiting me occasionally. Finally, as if all that wasn't enough, I followed him to work. There our paths diverged. While he was given a comfy chair and trained in how to fix complex electrical items I was handed a broom, sent out into the rear yard and told to 'look busy' - a feat that I managed with such self-effacing competence that my overseers forgot to give me a lunch break.<br />
<br />
So it has come as no surprise to find Isaac copying Graham sometimes. This can be:<br />
<br />
<b><u>Useful</u></b><br />
Isaac has gone through the usual fussy-eater toddler stage. Having an older brother to demonstrate just how tasty cold cornish pasty can be is extremely handy. Sometimes it even persuaded him to eat it.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Noisy</u></b><br />
It isn't often that Isaac and Graham have baths together. When they do it is always advisable to leave your fingers free in order that you may plug them securely into your ears. First one screams, then the other one screams. Number one screams a bit louder, number two follows suit. Each successive scream gets a bit louder and more piercing. We only have a small bathroom. By the end of thirty seconds it begins to sound as though a whole herd of pigs were being brutally murdered in there.<br />
Then number one begins to throw water about... It is mainly for this reason that I refuse to bath any small child unless liberally draped in towels. The floor just has to look out for itself.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Active</u></b><br />
We have a good game in our house. It's called 'Running up and down the hallway as fast as possible'. We've got a nice long hallway but even so it can take a long time for them to get tired out. Very useful if they've had a day cooped up indoors and haven't been able to wear off any energy outside.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Inspirational</u></b><br />
I'm not sure that's quite the right word but it's certain sure that an effective way to get Isaac to move forwards on his trike is to place Graham on his scooter in front of him and say 'follow Graham!' Saying 'follow Daddy!' never seems to work quite as well, however encouragingly uttered.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Hilarious</u></b><br />
Dancing, jigging and all other unco-ordinated movements are generally that little bit more humorous when the smaller participant doesn't really know what's going on but is trying to have a go anyway.<br />
<br />
But then, as Darth Vader didn't quite say,<br />
<br />
<b><u>The Student becomes the Master</u></b><br />
There are so many things that younger brothers are better at than their older siblings. Compared to my brother, for example, I am an absolute master at body-boarding. He's never actually tried body-boarding, which helps, but I reckon I still get the bragging rights. Currently Isaac is better than Graham in at least two things: babbling in a cute way and eating. The despiser of meat pie has become the devourer of meat pie, usually culminating in second and even third helpings. Graham is normally content with one helping, washed down with ice cream, cake, biscuits and sweets.<br />
<b><u> </u></b><br />
Haec est vita, dessert is sweeter!Daddy Do-littlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06774608706544867161noreply@blogger.com0