Just call me Uncle

My son turned four a few months ago, which also meant that I will have been a househusband for almost the same amount of time.  A lot has happened over those four years, some of it good some of it bad, some of it printable, most of it not.  I have learnt a lot in those four years, and some of it is even useful.  I had an Uncle-in-law who always used to tell me that he had forgotten more than I had ever learnt.  He meant it as a taunt, but last year he fell up a kerb, bashed his head and developed amnesia, so maybe it was just a strange prophecy?

My rambling point being is that I have learnt quite a few tricks of the trade in these recent years and I feel I am honour bound to pass them on to the younger generation of Househusbands and Stay At Home Dads.  I think it is my destiny, nay my duty, to become an Agony Uncle to these fledglings who follow in my ever turbulent wake.

You may ask what qualifies me to dish out such far sweeping advice to my fellow brothers in arms.  Well firstly I have three children of mixed ages and all of them are in one piece.  Sure, one of them nearly chopped her ring finger off trying to get ice cream out of a tub with a carving knife, and I will freely admit that another took two years to grow bored of being a cat only to become a dog.  I will also hold my hands up to the fact that the youngest is so used to being mis-dressed that he cries when given matching socks.  These things don’t weaken my argument, they strengthen them. 

Do you want advice from somebody that centre parts their child’s hair, or from someone who knows what time the sun passes over the yard-arm in 57 different countries?

Do you want to listen to somebody that recycles and biodegrades their used nappies, or somebody that used an old Guns’n’Roses tour t-shirt as an emergency nappy then cried at the injustice of being a father?

Do you want relaxation advice from somebody who locks himself in the toilet with a copy of stamp collecting monthly and a packet of wet wipes, or from somebody who invented a Teflon coated toilet whilst sitting on the throne with a bottle of JD grabbing a moment’s peace from screaming kids?

There isn’t a mistake I haven’t made, a social occasion my presence hasn’t made awkward or a politically correct yummy mummy that hasn’t needed a long hot shower after speaking to me.  We Stay At Home Dads are the parents of the future.  Do you want to face that future standing on your own in the playground, whilst a group of well dressed and bad mannered Mums thumb their noses at you?  Or do you want to stand with me and proudly shout “I am a Man in a Woman’s world, but it won’t be yours for much longer sweetheart.  Now whose round is it?”

If your answer is the latter, then come take a seat around the fire.  Let us tell tall tales and swap pieces of slightly dubious in origin advice.  I tried to raid the letter bags of some of the more politically correct and lily livered Agony Uncles, but the pickings were slim, and by slim I mean none.  I spent 3 hours searching online for some sort of real Agony Uncle and I came up with zip, nada, nowt.  Imagine all the decent stuff I could have looked up in those three hours, or how many whining on-line Yanks I could have slaughtered on C.O.D. Black ops.  This is how dedicated I am to you fellas.

I guess in the age of equality and fairness, I really should also offer my services to all those lost and bewildered Mums as well.  Don’t worry, you can ask anonymously, your secret is safe with me.  Jemima, Lucinda, Arabella and Meredith will never find out that you had to ask a mere Dad how to deal with a snotty nosed bully or his even snottier nosed Mum.

So ask if you dare, send me an email at thelifeandtimesofahousehusband@gmail.com I can’t promise to answer them all, I definitely can’t promise not to laugh at the more stupid questions, but I can promise to read them all at least.  You will always be safe in the knowledge that someone out there knows your problem, and a problem shared is a problem halved.  Unless that problem is some sort of disease of course, then it’s a problem doubled and please wash your hands before you send me an email.

Ten rules for an Urban London Househusband

The lovely Heather over at www.rukakuusamo.com/notesfromlapland/ recently asked me to give 10 bits of advice to a woman moving to my part of the world. Living where I live is not just geography, it’s a state of mind baby, so here we go.

1. You need to learn to juggle. Not that ‘I can make a packed lunch whilst applying eyeliner and talking to my friend on the phone’ housewife type juggling, I mean the real ‘3 balls/socks/fish throwing in the air’ type juggling. It will instantly calm a bunch or unruly five year olds, especially if you set light to the socks whilst you do it.

2. Always know where the nearest pub is to any park you may visit, or worst case scenario an off-license. Nothing inspires drinking more than an hour at a park playground, and you don’t want to waste precious drinking minutes looking for a child friendly pub afterwards. By child friendly I mean it needs to have an outside bit, nothing special just somewhere to sit. The only good thing that has come from the Government’s smoking ban is that there are now loads of places to sit outside. Just make sure you empty the ashtrays first as my lot will eat anything.

3. Always make sure you have spare batteries kept in two separate places. In site A you have fresh new batteries for all the TV/DVD/Wii gadgets, nothing causes more panic than when the third parent gets stuck on Cash in the Attic or something else involving orange old people. In site B you keep all the old dead batteries. My lot have long since sussed out that when a toy stops working, it isn’t broken, it just needs new batteries. This way you can put the dead batteries in their annoyingly loud toy guitar (thanks Uncle Daniel, be expecting Anthrax from us this year) in front of them, and then claim that it must be broken. Peace and quiet restored.

4. Never, and I cannot stress this enough, ever come along to a play date at my house without beer or wine. You will not be welcome and your children will be locked in the rabbit hutch on their own, as opposed to the cupboard under the stairs with the rest of the children.

5. Make sure you own at least 5 T-shirts. Apparently the Mums at the school gates are quite observant and will notice when you wear your favourite iPope t-shirt, especially if your child goes to a Catholic school like mine.

6. Make sure you have a Smartphone to entertain yourself at the school gates. All the yummy mummys won’t be talking to you, so you need to entertain yourself somehow. iPhone says ‘in touch with the kids, fun and down to earth’. Blackberry says ‘desperate to get back to work and boring’.

7. If you see a Yummy Mummy looking like she needs to get somewhere else fast, avoid eye contact at all costs. You are not responsible enough to look after your own children, what on earth makes you think you could look after young Tarquin, even if it is for only five minutes. It is a well known fact that middle class children break easier than working class feral ones.

8. Make sure your house has a big empty wooden box, IKEA do a good sized one. This will save your bacon when you have been playing on the Xbox all day instead of cleaning up. Approximately 30 minutes before your spouse’s arrival from work, hold a lollypop per child and tell them to throw all their toys in the box, and themselves too if they are looking too grubby, before they can have it. This will enable you to play at least 2 more death matches, and the sugar rush should kick in just before the Wife walks in the door. This will make her appreciate what you have to put up with even more, and will also put off any boring work story as she will not be able to shout over the kids.

9. Encourage your children enjoy watching football from a very early age. There is nothing more upsetting than a child’s tears when you push them out of the way and turn the Toy Story DVD off because the Arsenal v Liverpool game is about to start. And yes dear, the pre match build up is important. And no dear, they couldn’t have just watched the last ten minutes of the film, I need to know the line-ups.

10. Always lower yourself to the children’s height. A man never stands as tall as when he kneels to help a child. This will also lessen the chance of a slipped disc or a kick in the gonads, and you think childbirth hurt, pah.

So there you go, my ten rules to live by, stick by them and you may just make it out of this god forsaken hellhole alive.

Ignorance isn't bliss

Today I unexpectedly found out why the Mum’s at the school look at me like I was an exhibit in a zoo. I did at first just presume that the majority of them had been dabbling in a bit of Botox treatment, but it has become all too apparent that it is actually their distaste for me that causes the expression, or lack thereof.

After 18 months they have just about got their heads around the concept of a stay at home Dad, so it’s not that. I’m no longer on my own in that respect anyway, there is another part time SAHD, a fine Mediterranean fellow. Although I’m not sure being in a constant between jobs flux counts, but in the cause of the brotherhood I will give him the benefit of the doubt. Every week I ask him with a chuckle, if he has seen the perfect Italian job yet, every week a nonplussed shake of the head.

Nope, I think it is some of the things that I say that leaves them somewhat bewildered.

I was having a conversation (and by conversation I mean I was being allowed to stand close enough to listen without being considered an eavesdropper but obviously not contributing) when one of the Mums happened to mention that she had been rushing around like a ‘blue arsed fly’ all morning. With that, a voice I did not recognise asked “Why do they call it a blue arsed fly?” I did not recognise the voice because it was mine, and it is seldom heard in the playground other than in its shouty variety when I have to holler at my feral children.

The stunned silence from the Mums emboldened me to continue. “Why not a red arsed fly, is it blue because it’s cold and needs to warm up? Or why not a brown arsed fly? It spends most of its time sitting in crap, so brown would make more sense.”

More silence. Eventually Wasp Mother replied “I rather think Google is the place for that kind of ponderment, rather than in front of impressionable five year olds.” With that she grabbed Jemima, Honey-Blossom and Pig-Tails, and flounced off. I had always thought that Wasp was an acronym for White Anglo Saxon Person, but in her case it’s because, like a wasp, she’s always buzzing around sticking her nose in and is of no discernable use to anyone.

It did make me wonder about my own ignorance though. I mean, I have only just got my head around the concept that when it is winter here, it is summer in the southern hemispheres, and vice-versa. The idea of Christmas on the beach is as foreign to me as the idea of drinkable beer is to an Australian. The thing that really clogs my brain up though, is what about the countries on the northern/southern hemisphere border. If we are in winter and Australia is in summer, does that mean the inbetweenies are in a permanent spring/autumn weather zone? Is there a band of countries around the globe where it is permanently raining, and if so, why do we still have a hosepipe ban?

I would like to think that the reason these thoughts blast around my noggin is because I spend the day without adult conversation. Or possibly because of the repetitive chores my day is full of, all requiring no thought, therefore leaving the brain to occupy itself with any old nonsense. I can literally spend hours, with what can only be described as a bemused confused look, looking at the PC wondering why if you Google Google you get 2120 million results. You cannot seriously tell me that 2,119,999,999 other people were just as bored as me can you?

I rage at the TV sometimes as well. I was watching a Mickey Mouse film the other day (with my son of course) when Minnie Mouse, playing the part of princess, announces that she has fallen in love with Mickey, and it is so perfect because “We even have the same surname.” I mean come on, seriously, what are the odds? Two mice both having the same surname of Mouse, who’d of thought? My youngest tends to back away from me when I get like this, and as well he might, he never has the answers anyway.

I don’t understand how my 16 year old daughter (I know, I don’t look old enough, thanks) can get up at noon, have breakfast at 1, lunch at 4, and still moan when there’s no dessert after her dinner at 6. Since when did Facebook burn off calories? Does rearranging her iTunes library really equate to a five mile bike ride? Is sarcasm this generations exercise? I need the science explained to me.

I consider myself a fairly educated and worldly wise type of fellow, but can somebody please tell me why, come the end of the day, my voice is so high pitched and shrill that only dogs respond to it? A fact I know to be true because the kids apparently can’t hear my umpteenth request to justbloodybehaveandstopthrowingyourfoodattheTVthebookcaseandeachother.

It’s not that I’m an illiterate dummy, I do know some answers, but they are mainly of the ‘because I said so’, ‘because you’re Mum said so’, and ‘because cats don’t like microwaves’ variety. I just don’t know where I am anymore. I’m ignorant of all the things I’m ignorant about, I don’t know what I used to know, and I question the unanswerable. So my final question is, if I’m this ignorant, where’s all my bliss?

A lot can happen in 40 years

It's my Mum and Dad's 40^th wedding anniversary this weekend. Forty years, man that's a hell of a long time, two years longer than I've been on this earth. Which is a good job really, I'd hate to be known as a proper bastard.

In 40 years the UK has had 8 Prime ministers and the Americans have had 8 Presidents. The Italians have had 25, whilst poor old Libya is still on the same one.
The population of the UK was 55 million, and with Mum and Dad's partial help, has risen to 61 million, busy bunnies.

In 1970 Simon and Garfunkel topped the charts, in 2010 it will probably be Jedward. In 1970 our Saturday night TV was about to be dominated by Bruce Forsyth, and well, the less said about 2010 the better.

In 1970 America were in the middle of an unwinnable war in a country that didn't want them there. In 2010 they still haven't learnt anything. In 1970 the kids were demanding 'Peace not Action'. In 2010 they just want a piece of the action

In 1970 they started producing Refrigerators that made ice. In 2010 we have realised those same Refrigerators are melting the ice caps. In 1970 a young couple in Barking were planting bulbs and sowing seeds. In 2010 the bulbs are still being planted, and my brain makes me stop that thought there.

In that time we have lost Elvis and gained Joe McElderry.
We have lost the Rat Pack and gained the Brat Pack.
We have lost James Dean and gained Colin Farrell.
We have lost Morecombe and Wise and gained Ant or Dec.
We have lost Opportunity Knocks and gained The X-Factor.
We have lost Nina Simone and gained Lady Gaga.
We have lost George Best and gained David Beckham.
We have lost John Lennon and gained Robbie Williams.
We have lost my nappies being changed and gained me changing nappies.

Who said change was good? Although to be fair, we have also swapped the Bay City Rollers for Take That, and Flares for Boot Cut Jeans, so it's not all bad.

In amongst all the change, trials and tribulations that the world has gone through, this young couple have gone through their own seismic changes. Two people, one from the wrong side of the tracks, the other most at home there. They have somehow managed to stay together, love each other, and bring up three kids. Fair enough, one of them was me, but the other two have turned out OK. I recently mentioned in passing that if one of them had killed the other, they would have been paroled by now. I hope it didn't give them pause for thought, like I said, the other two turned out OK.

So in their typical style there will be no big celebrations this weekend, no huge party, no extravagant gifts (we're not tight, just under orders). We will all go and join them Sunday afternoon for a few drinks, well quite a few drinks probably. Just us kids, our kids, and maybe the gerbil if Kaede gets her way. Forty years will turn into 40 years and a day, with only a hangover and a load of empties to remind us. It's their way.

Snowmen in the Sunset

That dreaded time of year is upon us again, the time of year that induces tears, fury, jealousy, and tantrums in most parents. That's right it's the Christmas School play season. The time of year where patient Mothers turn into impatient seamstresses, and weekend Fathers show their faces, and their suits, in public. The clever pushy Mum's who know the score, spend the whole of November cozying up to the Teachers, hoping to land their kids the plum roles. The political hierarchy of the Yummy Mummies comes out in full force, and the in-house cat fighting begins. I'm sure it's just a coincidence, but the Mum who organised the Teachers Christmas pressie (£5 per child, 30 kids in the class, you do the math) is also the proud Mother of this year's Virgin Mary.

The powers that be, wisely decided that my help was not needed in neither the costume nor the scenery department, so all I had to do was just turn up on the day and enjoy. Although that is easier said than done, if you get there too late then you won't be seeing much of anything. Promptness is King.

Bearing that in mind, the wife sent me ahead and I got there 25 minutes early. I still managed to find myself 20^th in a queue that was starting to get ugly, and I mean really ugly. The heat in the small reception room was making all the heavily applied mascara run, and the combined smell of the House of Frasier perfume counter was a becoming a bit overwhelming. When the door was finally opened, I was told that prams were not allowed in and had to be left outside the reception. Gee, thanks for the advance warning Ms Frosty the Receptionist. I battled my way outside, got Mate out of the buggy, and battled my way back in. This obviously left me way back in the line and way back in the 7^th row. I got the traditional 'Why in God's name are we sitting there' look when the Wife did show up, but I had started to learn how to deflect those. Years of sitting on the wrong side of church during various weddings had taught me that much.

I looked around and watched all the middle class Dads have their 'who has the biggest camera lens' battle. The kids were going to be facing greying, balding, paparazzi when they eventually set foot on the stage. The Headmaster stood up and announced that, due to Health and Safety reasons, all photography was prohibited during the performance. For parents that had sent their kids to a Catholic school, there sure was a lot of blasphemy in the air. The Dad sitting next to me promptly got his Blackberry out, and fired of an email to his Solicitor. The jist of which, was to see if he could get a quick injunction against the school for Copyright infringement.

I had initially worried when Katy came home from school saying she was going to be a snowman in this year's play. It couldn't be that big a part, as I was fairly sure there wasn't much snow around Jerusalem, and in no bible I had ever read, had it mentioned the 3 wise men making snowmen and having a snow ball fight. When I saw the play was called Snowmen in the Sunset though, I started to imagine Oscar glory for her after all. Unfortunately towards the middle of the 1^st act, the sun came out and melted all the snowmen, leaving us to ponder the real meaning of Christmas and the traditional nativity scene. I have to say though, Katy's head did look good for the 2 minutes she was on the stage, but I do wish I had remembered to comb her hair that morning.

The play went without much of a hitch, until one of the kids in their excitement knocked over one of the huge floor microphones. The resulting feedback screech and boom was deafening. This caused quite an upset to the children, and the air was full of the smell of tears and soiled under-garments. The teachers calmed them all down eventually, but by the time the performance was over, it wasn't just the reindeers with red noses.

The play finished at 2.30, but we were told we couldn't pick our offspring up until 3.15pm. I had no idea why, maybe they were having a wrap party? This left us with time to kill in a very cold playground. One of the more adventurous Mums suggested we walk around the corner to the nearby builder's café, and a few of us agreed. On the way there my wife remarked that to expect us to just stand outside doing nothing for 40 minutes was "Too hard." My unwise retort to which was, "Tell that to the five year old Indian boy in Delhi, knocking batteries apart for the chemicals inside." Whilst this raised a chuckle among some of the men folk, it also earned me a 'you wait till we get home look'. The ferocity of which had not been seen since I inadvertently let slip in front of the other Mums, that her Prada clutch bag was actually a fake. It's not, but I had consumed a few beers, and her genuine argument to prove it wasn't, only made her look guiltier. Actually it was after that weekend that I decided to buy a less drafty shed.

The highlight of the day came when Posh Mum and Even Posher Mum ordered themselves a Costafrapachino and a Mocahontas. The horror on their faces when told their options were black, white, sugar or not, was a joy to behold. Both sides of the counter examined each other as if they were an unknown species. The coffees were quickly consumed, and a hasty retreat was beat back to the school.

We arrived just in time to see a triumphant Katy bounce out of her classroom, arms, legs, costume and uniform akimbo. "Did you see me, did you hear me, wasn't I good." Not a question, just a statement. It was very hard not to agree with her, she was brilliant.

It’s our first day

This is it, this is the day, the day all our hard work and effort has been leading to. The day when at last, finally, Katy starts school. It seems like this day has been spoken about (in hushed reverend tones) since Katy spoke her first word over 3 years ago. It was "Pub" by the way, her first word. Made me proud, also got me a filthy look from her Mum, but you can't have it all can you.

Anyway the day has arrived, I am totally prepared, uniform, bags, PE kit, lunch snacks, all have been purchased, labelled and packed. I have even bought spare batteries for the camera, and have them hidden away in the case. I need to avoid a repeat of the first day of nursery fiasco, referred to as the 'You had to remember one effin thing Day' around these parts. Even the neighbours (on both sides) call it that.

I obviously can't be trusted to dress her for the first day, so am relegated downstairs to deal with Mate. You would have thought it may be a good idea to at least to watch how it's done, especially on the basis it will be me doing it from tomorrow onwards, but no. I imagine I may be given an instruction guide tomorrow, I do appreciate that school socks are that much more difficult to put on.

Mate seems quite happy though, he is wearing socks for the first time in 6 weeks, all the better for hiding those dirty ankles. I have spent a great deal of time planning my own appearance as well, you know how judgemental the Mums can be. I spent 10 minutes looking in the mirror deciding whether to shave or not. It's an important decision you know, you have to start as you mean to go on. Sod it, I don't want to spoil them on the first day. Plus if I raise the bar too high for myself, it will only lead to long term failure.

Have gone for the clean but scruffy look, like a Big Issue seller done good. Was quite proud of myself until I got sent back upstairs to change, "Quite frankly you are an embarrassment to be seen with". A bit harsh I feel, must be the nerves. OK, clean three quarter lengths and an un-ripped T-shirt this time, no socks though, not until winter anyway. I even remember to put on my special aftershave, the one that didn't come attached to a deodorant bottle. That should impress the Yummy Mummies, plus it does tend to keep the flies off me as well, which is good.

Time for the photos, she looks so beautiful, I think my heart is breaking again. I somehow manage to poke myself in both eyes with the camera, it has made me go all misty, well that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Trying to get Katy to pose for the photos is proving difficult. She managed to stand still and smile nicely for the first 50, but things aren't looking so good now. Although to be fair, I do wonder how easy it is to strike a natural pose when your Mother is screaming "smile properly" at you?

The first day starts later than normal, I guess designed to give you a less stressful start. It has also meant that I have had time for three cups of strong coffee, and I am beginning to think that this may have been a mistake. I can feel myself getting more manic and twitchy. I have been warned not to talk too much when I get there. When I get nervous I tend to joke a lot, it's my own Superhero Confidence Cape. Apparently this does not create the best first impression though. I will always be referred to by the nursery parents as 'that bloke who told Mrs Swithers her orange top matched her tan'. Maybe I should go stand in the corner and shout out random punch lines, get it all out of my system. This had just resulted in more frowns of disapproval, I fear I may be fighting a losing battle.

I have compiled a list of ways to behave on your first day of school. A kind of mixture of warnings and tips on how best to interact with all the new friends you will be making. So far it reads:

Be friendly

Don't interrupt people when they are talking

Always keep eye contact

Don't let anyone bully or intimidate you

If it all goes wrong, don't cry, just go and tell someone

I am hoping this will help me make friends with the Mums, am wondering if I should make a list for Katy.

Well that's it, it's time to go, there is nothing more I can do to prepare us. I am as ready as I can ever be. Be brave, be brave, I'll be fine, of course I will.

God, I want my Mum.

What we learnt this year

Well the summer break is now upon us and Katy has finished her first year at school. I know it was nursery and not real school, but it was attached to the school, and the same Parent and Child dynamics hold true. Next term will mean the start of Reception year for her, more tears from her Mum on the first day (not from me you understand, stiff upper lip and all that). It means a real uniform at last, resulting in one less thing to have to think of, pre-coffee every morning. It will also leave me and Mate to do boy things almost exclusively from 9am to 2pm, leaving 2-3pm open for cleaning up of mess and selves, before braving the gauntlet of impeccable Mums at the school gate.

I look back over this past year and wonder how on earth I survived it. I bumbled along from faux-pas to fashion disaster (mine and Katy's) like a drunken ape, and yet I still managed to learn a few things along the way. I will take these life lessons with me into the new school year, in the hope that forewarned is forearmed. So here are some of the things I have learnt this year, and in the belief that history is a lesson in how not to make future mistakes, this should act as my defensive shield for next term.

There are two speeds of stroller pushing Mum, and just by looking at them from afar, you should be able to tell if they are on the way to school, or on the way home. The school-bound Mum pushes with speed and purpose, stopping for neither man nor beast. The accompanying walking children will be half guided half pulled alongside the stroller and woe betide them if they stumble or drop something. Do not attempt to make eye contact if one is seen approaching. She will be employing the 1000 yard stare used by snipers, as she searches for the quickest route and will look straight through you. Whatever you do, avoid the impulse to attempt an overtaking manoeuvre. This will only result in you crashing into a tree at speed, your last sight of Mum being a backwards thrown sneer of contempt.

The home-bound Mum is a different beast altogether, not a care in the world has this Mum. The speed is reduced to a slow meandering crawl, normally two abreast, making any attempt at passing impossible. Your frustration levels will increase, and after 200 yards of this pace you will be forced to cough a polite "Excuse me". They will grudgingly make enough room for you to get by, but you will misjudge this gap and drop one wheel down a curb, resulting in yet another crash. Again your last sight of Mum will be one of a shaking head, combined with the tutting sound reserved for an amateur driver.

I also learnt how to receive a fake phone call. Mock-calls are always handy things to receive when 'Pushy Mum' is trying to gather volunteers to collect/paint/pick-up/distribute something. You turn your back to the group, put your hand in your pocket to retrieve your phone, and in a semi loud voice say "Hello Darling, what's wrong?" You do not need to say anything else, just nod a lot. Whatever you do don't talk otherwise they will realise that you are faking. They know as well as you do that husbands are not allowed to talk during these types of conversations, and you will be busted. Most importantly of all, switch your phone to silent. Can you imagine what would happen if someone was to ring you in the middle of your fake call, a Guns and Roses (Sweet Child of Mine) ringtone blasting through your nodding dog impersonation. I could tell you but I am too busy handing out PTA flyers, then I'm off to dig up the school vegetable patch.

Never, ever, offer a divisive opinion, just don't do it. You have spent the whole year trying to get the Mums to talk to you, and then you weigh in with a sound-bite that then results in Mummy carnage. It could be the most innocent of topics, say for instance, should the nursery trip be to a Zoo or a Farm. Do not answer, this is the perfect time for a Mock-call (don't forget to switch the phone to silent). If you have no alternative but to reply, then sit on that fence until you get splinters. Do not under any circumstances say "I think the Zoo will be better, but to be honest they are both crap ideas. Let's go to the Forest and teach them to climb trees." You may think you were helping, but trust me, you weren't, and your Wife will find out what an idiot you were, eventually.

The last thing I learnt took me until the last day of term to realise. Mums have a weakness. Oh yes they do, and between you and me, don't tell anyone else, do you want to know a secret, I know what it is. They love nothing better than to gossip about each other. Not in a mean spirited kind of way, perish the thought, but general nosiness and gossip keeps their conversations going. We had all chipped in to buy a present for the teachers, to be given to them on the last day of school. For reasons best known to themselves, the Mums decided I would be the one giving the speech. I had spent the whole year trying to get them to listen to me to no avail, and now they wanted me to give them a speech. I am fairly sure 'Irony' was not part of their vocabulary, but I agreed anyway.

The present was an ornamental rose bush (don't ask, I have no idea how that would split 3 ways), which I handed over. I said all the usual platitudes about kids growing up, you have been such a help, inspirational, blah blah blah. It was then I went into mischief mode. I said "I would just to finish on a personal note, if you will indulge me for a few moments more." I could see I had their attention, the idea that I might be giving up some kind of secret had them gripped. I continued "It would not have escaped your notice that I am the only Dad in the group, (pause for polite chuckles) and I must admit it has been hard work learning how to ingratiate myself into your world. It has also been quite a challenge to learn all the things that just seem to come naturally to Mums." They were all smiling and nodding to themselves, a collective agreement in my failings. I then delivered my Coup de grâce, "I would like to thank the Mum, who I won't embarrass by naming, for all those endless cups of coffee whilst she listened to me moan and groan, and for generally putting me on the right track re everything else. I will miss our coffee mornings over the summer, but I won't forget what you told me. Thanks for everything." I then nodded my farewells, making sure I gave a couple of the alpha Mums a hug goodbye, and left them to figure out who the figment of my imagination was.

As Walt Disney said "Always leave them wanting more", and who would know parents and kids better than him?

Flirting by Numbers

I was not sure what to write about this week, as it has been a fairly slow news day in our house. There have been no (major) injuries to report, no real discord of note, no gossip. Mate learnt to say thank you, well what he actually said was “Ta bob”. He used to always end every garbled sentence with “bob”, and this became his nickname for a while, but the thanks were new. I know there is a whole “Ta versus Thank you” argument and the Thank you camp bristle at Ta, but I would rather my children express their thanks aged 2, than remain silent, and say a very nice Thank you aged 3.

There was one incident with the Mum’s at school. Alpha Mum left her son with me for 10 minutes on Tuesday. That’s right, with me, The Dad, the Odd one out, the colour blind fashionista. I am not making this up just to fill space, it’s true, I didn’t imagine it, it really happened.

She needed to get away quickly for some urgent Yummy Mummy-type appointment (hair, nails, gym, who knows), and asked if I would watch Julian, and take him into Nursery, if they ever bothered to open the doors. There were other Mums available for this task, admittedly not Premier League Mums, just the 2nd Division ones that I am allowed to talk to, but she still picked me to look after this precious cargo. For those 10 minutes, my two could have been building weapons of mass destruction for all I knew or cared, I was looking after Alpha Son. I kept all ruffians away from him (including, nay, especially my own), and escorted him into Nursery safely and in one piece.

I spent the rest of the morning basking in the glow that I may have cracked it, and made it into the big time. Could the group that every Mum wants to be seen with, actually be welcoming me into their midst. I realise my invite would only be out of a sense of charity and bemusement, as I had been on great form the last few weeks. I had not told them any of my stories from the collection my Wife calls “Oh my God you didn’t?” I had cut down my swearing to a “not within sight of the school” level, and I also had not trod on any of the children, not strictly true as I did tread on Mate once, but I just pretended his back teeth were coming through, and they must be playing him up, poor love.

I had also started trying a new tactic that I picked up from the National Geographic channel. It was about Lions, and the tactics they used when hunting a herd of Gnu (these animals must have been right at the back of the name giving queue). The Lions would not attack all the Gnu at once, they would pick them off one at a time, until their appetites were sated. I guess the moral of the story was, that even the most powerful of creatures could not expect to take on an entire herd and win, the trick was to take them out one at a time. Flirting by Numbers was born.

I am told that I can be quite charming and funny when I try (if you are into a bit of rough that is), so I dusted off the cobwebs from my flirting head, a la Worzel Gummidge, and proceeded with the plan. I would pick one Mum, and use all the wit, humour, and flattery at my disposal to charm them, but only for 2 days. Then I would move onto my next victim, I mean Mum. I figured this would confuse them enough to miss the attention I had bestowed upon them, and thereby seek it, thus falling into my carefully laid trap. It was a cunning plan, and I figured even Baldrick must have got it right eventually. One of the phrases Dawn hates me using the most is “A broken clock is right twice a day”. Well I was that broken clock, and my time was a coming.

My plan went well, I swear at one stage Alpha Mum 2.0 (a younger more streamlined version, with more pointless gadgets) fluttered her eyelashes at me, and was that a trace of moistness in her eyes. Actually it wasn’t. The nanny picked her son up at lunchtime, due to her boss’s severe Hay fever attack, never mind.

On the whole though, all seemed to be working well, I had been receiving a few more smiles, it might have been my imagination, but there seemed to be an extra whiff of expensive perfume in the air, all was good.

Anyway, I returned to school for the pickup, ready to make my acceptance speech, and take my rightful place with the Elite. I could not have read the situation more wrong. Alpha Mum completely blanked me, and joined the rest of the “Witches of Eastwick”. Apparently her appointment was with her accountant, who had advised her that she would need to start making some cut-backs, and skiing twice a year would no longer be possible. I was now no longer keen to remind her that I had done a sterling job looking after her son that morning. I backed away from the gaggle, and kept quiet.

After all, who wants to be remembered as the person that enabled her to receive bad news?

You break it, you keep it

It was our son Mate’s second birthday this week. A very joyous, but lets be honest, boring age to celebrate. The first birthday is all exciting because it’s their first, and everyone takes an interest. The third birthday is always good for a laugh, as by then the kid knows the score and is really into his pressies, cake, and the whole day in general, but the second is a bit of a non-event, and what the hell can you buy a 2 year old anyway.

I remarked upon this to my wife as we were wrapping his present (just the one, what’s the point wasting money if he hasn’t got a clue, it will be the last ever time we can get away with it), and she strongly disagreed with me. I pointed out, that if this was not true, then how come we were wrapping his present with newspaper. Her curt reply included the phrase “because you forgot to buy any”, and some other, in my opinion, harsh, questions doubting my parentage. She was also not blown away by my “well it is the Sunday Times which technically costs more than wrapping paper!” defence either.

We started the morning with a glass of Cava for me and the good Wife. This was a tradition that had started the morning after I had been on a huge bender with the boys. The hangover was horrific, but heeding my Dad’s advice of “hair of the dog”, I had poured myself a beer to help everything along. The Wife came downstairs at 8am to see me drinking said beer, and was understandably disturbed. I informed her it was (imaginary) Uncle Pete’s birthday and it was a tradition in my family to offer a toast for a good day. I have had to continue the tradition ever since. This is also why Katy celebrates “Odd sock Friday”, much to her teacher’s confusion.

The rest of the morning came and went, he really did not have a clue but enjoyed playing with the newspaper. His Mum sang Happy Birthday every 10 minutes, just to drum into him the importance of the day, but in my humble opinion he looked just as non-plussed the 8th time as he did the 1st.

The next highlight of the day for him was going for a walk (well, being walked in his buggy) with his Oma. Oma is my wife’s Mum, and Oma is German for Grandmother (I think?). She’s not from Germany, but she feels that being called Granny makes her sound old, and so if you translate that to German, Oma doesn’t sound as old. Now I’m 38 next month, and the German for that is “Achtunddreiβig nächsten Monat” which makes me feel loads older and slightly scared, truth be told, so I can’t say I’m in total agreement with the theory.

Anyway, his other Nan and Grandad (call me anything, just call me darling), came over for lunch, and they gave him a toy that my Grandad (we called him MOG which was Nasty Child speak for miserable old git), had made me when I was 2. We had a nice lunch and a few beers, and that was pretty much it for the rest of the day.

Much later, after the kids had gone to bed, after the wife had gone up and resettled them, and after I had gone up again and resettled them, it was time to relax and reflect upon this most historic of days. My wife offered up the toast “Congratulations, we made it.” I obviously looked confused, for she continued “we made it to his 2nd birthday without breaking him, or our relationship!”

This was the most sage-like thing I had ever heard my wife say, and I must admit to being quite impressed. I was less impressed when, judging by the empty bottle I found, I realised she had been toasting herself out in the kitchen a fair few times already. Minor gripes (or grapes), aside, it did get me thinking on how far we had come with him. It also made me think about all the things we had broken in those 2 years.

In that time we have broken 3 car wing mirrors, 2 were knocked off whilst our car was parked outside our house, and 1, according to my wife, just fell off? I can just imagine bringing Mate home from the park with 9 fingers, and getting away with saying “one just fell off”, but don’t get me started. I have killed my entire crop of leeks, and potatoes, although in fairness they would have been killed at some time, but obviously being roasted to death would have tasted better. Two really nice houseplants have bit the dust, and one of them was a bonsai tree, whom I named Le Fi Guy. I miss that wee fella.

The children have not been without their mishaps too. We had the shampoo drinking episode with Mate. The “look no hands”, trampoline incident with Katy. Dawn is off breaking hearts somewhere, but until hers gets broken, I am adopting a head in the sand kind of attitude. There was an incident at London Zoo, but as the Wife does not know about that, it will remain between me, my sister, and an on-looking Lion.

So I guess my Wife was right to raise a toast, because with our track record, it is an absolute miracle he is still in one piece, kind of. So I raise a toast to all parents out there, especially those with a 2 year old. Well done for not breaking them.

My Mum

I have the best Mum in the world. No seriously, you may think yours is better, but she’s not. Now don’t get upset now, your Mum is obviously the second best Mum in the world, and that is no mean feat. There are probably 1 billion Mums out there and yours is No.2 on the list. Still not happy, well would you like to be the second richest person in the world? Can we move on now, this is meant to be about my Mum and we have done nothing but talk about yours. Will it help if I said that if I could not have my Mum, I would want yours?

I feel I have to prove why my Mum is the best now, so let me trawl through the old memory banks. Did your Mum buy you everything you ever wanted, mine didn’t, but she let me lick the bowl every time she made a cake. Seriously, cake mix actually tastes better than cake, and did I mention that Mum used to make cakes, from home, for a living. That’s about 3 cake mix bowls a week, and don’t even get me started on icing mix, mmm pure sugar.

Did your Mum walk you to school every day, and when you got too old for all that kind of nonsense, about 8 in my case, walk you to the corner and let you walk that last bit on your own, so your mates would think you’re cool. Mine did.

Did your Mum always play the “good cop” to your Dads “bad cop”, always making sure that after the rollicking (this was not the word I wanted to write here, but Mum keeps telling me off for swearing) Dad just gave me for smashing something or other, I had someone to run to, to comfort me, and my God, that Mum apron smell. Mine did.

Although there was this one time, in band-camp, (could not resist the American Pie reference), that I had wound Mum up so bad, and for so long, that she chased me upstairs with her slipper in her hand. I dived under my duvet and hid and waited. Mum burst into the room and started whacking me, through the duvet, with her slipper. Unfortunately for her, she had supplied us all with 15 tog duvets, as she would not want one of her little darlings to freeze, so each whack felt like a gnat hitting you with a gnat-sized golf club. The more she whacked, the more I laughed out loud, until she finally gave up and went downstairs. It is only now, as a parent, I can imagine the frustration she felt. So whilst I am somewhat ashamed of my actions, I still laugh like a horse every time I tell that story.

Did your Mum let you move back home every time you split up with a girlfriend, or get divorced (only once), or come spinning off the rails in a spectacular style, even if you was 25 by then, and seriously, can’t you just pick a stayer. Mine did.

Did your Mum teach you how to cook by phone, and not get the hump a few years later, when you would attempt to give her advice on the best oil to cook with (I was going through that Extra Virgin Olive Oil stage). Mine did.

Did your Mum look after your Dad when he got ill, and keep track of all the appointments in the four different hospitals, and all the 26+ tablets (he likes to boast about this) he has to take at different times, every day for the last 4 years. Never moaning about how ill she might be, ever. Mine did.

Does your Mum look forward to every grandchild that keeps popping out, and spoil them (in a good way), and wishes she could spend even more time with them, but not want to hassle you about extra visits. Always having advice when asked for, rather than when you could really do without it because you are elbow deep in poop. Mine does.

Does your Mum have this absolutely wicked sense of humour that you did not even have a clue about, until you was a proper 30+ adult. On a regular basis, my Mum can slay me with a one liner of such Stand-up quality, I don’t even know where it, or the capacity for it, came from.

Have you seen your Mum jive, or laugh, or get tipsy, with a look on her face that makes you realise that once upon a time, she was a young woman with hopes and goals and dreams of her own, and that hopefully you have either fulfilled, or lived some of those dreams for her. I have.

I am not the type of person that takes compliments easily (that might be because I don’t do much to get them that often), but when someone tells me they think my Mum is great, and that I must be so proud of her, I reply “Damn right!”

I once asked her (whilst in a sulk), that if there was a Mothers Day and a Fathers Day, when was children’s day? She replied that every day was children’s day. She was right, and she has made every day feel like my day since.

Thanks Mum, I love you loads.

The only Dad in the village

It was all quite exciting when Katy, our 4 year old started Pre-school last September. She had been counting down the days with the constant chorus of “Is it school day today?” Actually I need to pause the story here and explain a few things. When I refer to pre-school, what I really mean, is the nursery that is part of the Infant and Junior school, and that she attends every morning from 9am to 11.30am throughout the school term. I know most people refer to this as Nursery, but she was so excited to be going to big school like her sister Dawn, that we did not have the heart to refer to it any other way. Anyway, the big day came and went without any real fuss or bother, and my wife accompanied me for that first week, with persistent moist eyes repeating the mantra “my little girls is getting so big, sob, sob.”

There were a few other Dads who hung around that first week, and we all exchanged names, football teams, and handshakes, and shook our heads at the Mums who looked like they were at the Wailing Wall every morning. This all seemed so easy, we would all exchange pleasant chit chat and then be on our way.

Week 2 was a whole other proposition. I would stroll in with Katy and Mate (our 2 year old) and all was kind of fine, a few nods and hellos, and a little bit of friendly banter. Keen to make a good impression, I had been writing down the names of the Mums and their offspring’s, on a piece of paper that I kept in the car. Every morning before we walked in, I would get some quick revision done, so I could quite confidently name at least 4 children and 2 Mums. I felt that slowly but surely I was starting to fit in.

As a regular reader of Lucy Sweeney’s column in The Times I had even started to identify some of the different species of Mum. I had recognised the Alpha Mum, the Yummy Mummy, the Yumski Mummy, and a couple of Slummy Mummies. I quite fancied myself as Sexy Domesticated Dad, but since giving up smoking (2 years and counting, hating every moment), I think my wife would liken me to (house)Husband on a Short Fuse.

Week 3 was what I now refer to as “Interview week”. The questions were coming fast and furious, most subtle, some just plain obvious. Did I work, how long had we been in this arrangement, was my wife happy with it, what do your friends think? I felt like one of the animals in the zoo that had actually learnt to talk. Don’t get me wrong, I loved all the attention I was getting, and I must admit comments like “I wish my husband would do something with the kids” did go to my head a little, but hey I’m only human, and the male kind.

This caused me to lower my guard a bit, and behave a little bit more like the real “what a funny guy” me, rather than “serious responsible Dad” me. In hindsight comments like “Calpol Night, the middle class sedative of choice”, or “sound-proofing their bedroom is a great investment” or my particular favourite “I wish this global warming would hurry up, as I’m looking as pasty as a polar bear’s butt”, would have been best saved for my friends who really knew me and my slightly twisted sense of humour. I had shown them too much me, and without even knowing it, failed the interview.

Being the astute type, it took me another 3 weeks to realise that poor little Katy was missing out on play-dates and birthday parties. In my defence, there were at least 4 or 5 Mums that would really talk to me on a regular basis, so how was I to know I had not become part of the inner circle. It was only when I stood back and looked at the offspring of these Mums that it dawned on me what had happened. These kids were super loud and super boisterous. I now belonged to the parent equivalent of the gang of kids that used to smoke behind the bike sheds at school. A social outcast amongst the good clean folks, that was me. I could have accepted it if it had been because of Katy’s bad behaviour, but because of my “maleness” was a different story.

I revisited everything I had presumed to be true and was quite shocked. I thought “You always dress her so colourfully” to be a compliment, but it wasn’t, it was Mum speak for “blue socks, purple trousers, red top, that’s child abuse that is”. Or when at Christmas the nursery suggested that instead of giving out a card to each child, we should put a pound in the special Christmas card charity box. I remarked to Alpha Mum and Co. that “what a good idea it was, and how I was not looking forward to writing 24 cards.” Total agreement from them all, until the last day of term when Katy came home with 20 Christmas cards from most of her classmates. How could I of been so blind? I had been thoroughly outsmarted and out parented (?) by them all, me of all people.

I had only ever lost a game of child poker once before, so how had I not seen the signs. Ok, an explanation is needed. Obviously I do not use my children as markers when playing Texas hold’em. All parents play child poker, just most of them know it as “patronising the less experienced parent”. It normally happens to me when I am out with my 2 year old. He could be being cute or naughty, it doesn’t seem to matter which, when a Mum will remark “Oh just wait till they hit 3 like Phoebe here, then they are trouble.” Ha, I take your 3 year old and raise you a 4 year old. “Yes,” I reply, “I remember when his sister was 3, now she has hit 4 she seems to have calmed down a bit.” That normally ends the conversation, but sometimes you get a re-raise with “Mmm, Tabitha is 8 now, such a lovely age.” That is normally a Full House statement, but they are never ready for my ace-in-the-hole “I just wish they would stay that way. My eldest is 15 now, and let me tell you, you don’t know trouble until they hit that age.” Straight Flush, the game is mine, always a satisfying moment beating Mrs Smug. Like I said, I have only ever lost once, but how could I have ever seen the ‘20 year old twin boys’ coming, Royal Flush, game over.

I would obviously have to rethink my strategy regarding these wily and cunning Mums, but that is another story for another day.

Am I being unreasonble?

This week I set myself a task to find out what Mums talk and moan about. Now obviously I know what my wife talks and moans about, but as I find those subjects boring, I presumed you would too, so I had to look further afield for inspiration. There was no point listening to the other mothers at the school gate, as they all seem to turn mute whenever I am near. I secretly wonder if the government has pulled a master-stroke, and employed all these women to spy for MI5, as I don’t even know the names of half of them, let alone any decent gossip. Seriously, my wife has dropped Katy off 5 times this year, and yet when I tell a story about Daniels mum she replies “Susan, you mean, did you know she lives opposite our Dentist?”

Desperate times lead to desperate measures, so I ventured onto the Internet looking for Mum’s discussion boards. I decided to keep clear of the one my wife uses, as who wants to read how insensitive I was being the last time I did all the washing, ironing, and cleaning, and then wanted to sit down with a beer, God forbid. I had contemplated signing on as a Lady (would that make me an inter-tranny?), just to gee the conversations along, but found there was absolutely no need.

I hit pay-dirt quite quickly (which just proves I do listen sometimes), and found a “Mums on the net” site that my wife had previously mentioned, and seemed very popular. So I went to the topic boards and found the most staggering thing. What I thought would be the most popular topic, “Parenting”, had a whopping 14,572 posts. With subjects ranging from, ARE YOU THE KIND OF PARENT YOU WANT TO BE(65 posts), IS BEING ABLE TO COOK FROM SCRATCH A NECESSITY FOR A PARENT(49 posts), to my personal favourite CAN I PUT MY CHILD ON EBAY(11 posts?), it seemed to cover all the bases needed to be today’s perfect Mum.

I continued my search, and to my absolute astonishment found a subject more popular that “Parenting” on a “Mum’s parenting site”. I feel like teasing you for a bit, and not letting you know what all Mum’s seem to be talking about, but with the presumption that the majority of people reading this will be women, you obviously all know the answer anyway. “Am I being unreasonable?” is this year’s No. 1, straight in with 16,940 posts. That is almost 2,500 mothers moaning more about being unreasonable, than wondering if dropping a 4 year old on the head really does cause them to forget parts of the alphabet (42 posts).

I spent the next 3 hours reading these posts with a wide range of emotions and reactions, incredulous being the main one. TO WANT TO BUY UNISEX CLOTHES (19 POSTS) Why? TO NOT WANT MY KIDS TO GROW ANYMORE (17 posts) Have you entered them into a dwarf throwing competition then? TO WANT A NEW FRONT DOOR (8 posts) This is not the B&Q website! TO HATE MY BANK (16 posts) The equivalent of quite liking oxygen. TO THINK MY SON IS A SPOILT BRAT (71 posts) You’re right, he is, get off the computer and take his toys away.

I only managed to get through the first 6 of 85 pages so whilst I’m sure this list will change as I work my way through, here are my top 5 in reverse order.

5. TO FIND THIS USERNAME OFFENSIVE (275 posts) The user name in question was ANYF***ER, and in the replies that followed, I can honestly say, I have never ever seen so much swearing in print in my entire life. One person obviously decided to attempt to give this poor old prude a stroke, by inserting C**T or F**K in between every other word. Ladies, ladies.

4. TO TELL DS TO HIT THIS LITTLE BOY BACK (324 posts) Now if it was not for the fact I had to ring my wife and ask what DS meant (darling son FYI), I would have thought this post had been wrote by a Dad. I think the Mum in question had added half the chat room to the list by the time the discussion had finished.

3. DRUG USE – WHAT DO YOU FIND ACCEPTABLE (322 posts) I have always been of the opinion that if your child’s hands are too small to roll a joint, then they are probably too young to smoke it, call me old fashioned. Upon further reading I discovered they meant for the adults once the children had gone to bed. It seems Merlot is no longer the middle class Mum’s drug of choice.

2. NICK CAVE (266 posts) That is all it said, honestly. Further in, she explains that she heard a rumour that his wife was pregnant and could anyone living in Hove confirm it. The first 10 replies mocked her for being in the wrong section (I could not find the celebrity stalker section either, to be fair); the other 256 had a discussion about his moustache.

1. TO BE SECRETLY CHUFFED WHEN TEENAGE BOYS SHOUTED M.I.L.F. AT ME WHEN I WALKED BY(391) This woman was so pleased with herself, and received many congratulations from her fellow “I feel so fat” Mum’s. A few people needed the term explained to them (but as a newly discovered DH or OH, who am I to mock). All was nice and polite until a very straight talking Mum advised her that “I have a 15 year old son, and I can tell you they get turned on by anything, and often get an erection when the wind changes direction!” As I read this, I could feel the gust of a deflated ego, brush over my tear streaked cheek. I could not stop laughing for 10 minutes. I hear the resulting cat fight, is still spoken about in hushed voices.

At the start of this quest I expected to find out what our lovely wives and girlfriends really thought about us evil men folk, but what I found instead is so much more entertaining, and has replaced the latest Warren Ellis book as my bedtime reading material.

So, I guess my next quest will have to be…..is there anything you don’t talk about.

Daddy Day Trips

Standing on the edge of the mothers chat groups, and believe me, as a Male, this is the place you usually are, you get to listen with awe at the places Mums take their children. Kids Space, Bumps R Us, Bouncy Tots, Ruff’n’Tumble Tears, the list is near endless. Having visited a few of these places, and by visited I mean dragged kicking and screaming by the kids for best friend Joe’s party, it does seem that anyone with some spare office or barn space can create one of these day-glo accident emporiums. The common safety feature of these places seems to be enough foam lagging to make a gang of plumbers mmm and ahh and shake their heads.

Don’t get me wrong, I did enjoy my time there, right up until the moment I stepped back and trod on poor Joe. My ears are still bleeding from the high pitched scream of the 4 year old birthday boy. Remembering the stares I received from 15 disgusted mothers, still sends a shiver down my spine. I am also fairly sure that my daughter Katy telling Joe to “man-up” in her best Dad impression did not help to smooth the waters of hate and distaste I seemed to be drowning in.

Herein lies the problem, fathers are only really tolerated in these places, when accompanied by their wives. The majority of the mothers will look at you and think one of two things. The first being, there goes the divorced dad, is that the only thing he can do with his kid every other weekend. The second thought is either slightly sinister of slightly paranoid (depending on how many cups of coffee you have had). Who is he, where is his child, you don’t think he is one of those perverts you read about in The Sun do you?

All of this has resulted in me having to invent some of my own day trips. The forest is always good, but you seem to spend more time cleaning up afterwards than you do at the actual place. Ditto the local parks, plus 2 tonne of dog poop, and a gaggle of local mums, thrown in for good measure.

My current top 3, in no particular order are:

Nan and Granddad’s. What more can you ask for, my mum will spoil them rotten whilst I join Dad in his green-house for a beer and a moan, followed by the perfect sandwich (how do they make them so thick, tasty, and healthy?).

Football stadium tour. Not from the inside obviously, as this would be far too expensive, and would also need some modicum of planning. No, the best way is to chuck them all in the car and tour from the outside. First stop Highbury, listening to me choke back the emotion as I describe old memories from the glory days when you could stand on the terraces. Next stop the Emirates, cheaper to build than Wembley, and looks even better in my humble opinion. A fast drive past White Hart Lane with the windows up, and I try to keep all swearing to a minimum. Upton Park always interests the kids, but I think this is due to the new stand looking like huge Lego blocks. Finally our tour ends at Leyton Orient, our local team. I would love to take them to a game but seriously Barry, £18 for kids, not likely.

Thames water treatment plant (from the outside looking through the fence). This might need some explaining. Darling Katy is fascinated to where all the poo poo and wee wee goes. We begin with Katy sitting on the toilet and getting the process started. A quick flush and then a rush downstairs to see the stand pipe in the back garden. Back through the house, out the front door to look at the drain covers, and then bundle into the car. A 15 minute drive through the Walthamstow back streets brings us out to the locks, and the treatment ponds. Fifteen blustery minutes, and one slightly scientific explanation later, and we are back in the car, with sweets and pop, to get the whole process started again.

So there you go 3 original trips, with an additional bonus during these credit crunch times, all totally free. Who said Dads can’t multi task.

Just to expain

Just to get a few things straight, right from the off. I am a late 30's house-husband who finds it easier, and more amusing, to refer to himself as a housewife. I stay at home and bring up our 3 kids Dawn 15, Katy 4, and Mate (as Katy calls him) 2. My wife pretty much works full time in a fairly decent job, and I do a few part time bits and bobs that fit in around the kids. I have been a housewife for about 18 months now, and in my own humble opinion, I'm not doing a bad job. Which means I haven't broke one of them yet.

My wife and sister in law (not the same person, me no hillbilly) asked me to write a few articles about a Dad's perspective on Kids, and the schoolgate mum type of thing, for a website they are creating for Mum's (watch this space for news).

I had written the first three, and kept them on the PC to be used when the site is up and running, and there they were to stay, until I read the paper this morning and got upset. There was an article in it, that was nothing like mine in substance, but had a similar title and had been sourced from a place I had used as research. So I have now decided to publish and be damned, because I don't want any future pieces to seem to of been influenced by anything else. I guess all this is my version of the small print at the end of the car adverts so just bear with me a tad longer.

These pieces are just meant to be a bit of fun, and an alternative take on the whole Mum/school thing. I change most of the names, and if you recognise any of the people in them, then you are obviously wrong. Please excuse any grammar mistakes, as, if I am not sure about something, I just throw in a comma or a pair of brackets, until it looks right.

Feel free to respond or criticise, as I am big enough and ugly enough to take it.

Enjoy,

goonerjamie.