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.

Who am I?

OK, stop me if you’ve heard this one. What do you call a Househusband that gets a full time, work from home job? No, no ideas? Nope, me neither. But whatever the answer is, that’s what I’ve become and now I’m suffering from an identity crisis. I’ve spent the best part of three years convincing people that a Stay at home Dad was a real thing, a real occupation, and now I’ve gone and blown it all by getting a ‘proper’ job.


Since this strange turn of events I’ve found that all the people from my old life, my running a pub doing a job type job, have found me a lot easier to deal with. They now seem able to talk to me about things other than my kids, like the kids were the only thing that defined me. They genuinely seem happier, almost safer, when they ask me how my day has been, safe in the knowledge I will be able to give them an answer they can relate to.

Instead of moaning about screaming kids decorating my carpet with permanent markers, I’ve found myself moaning about clients daring to have an opinion, stationery requirements and email etiquette. And while we’re on the subject of email etiquette, what’s with those people that add a P.S. to the end of an email? Are you really too lazy to move the mouse up a bit and insert the inane drivel you had momentarily forgot about, into the main text? Isn’t P.S. only relevant to the written word where you are unable to magically insert text?

Even worse than that, are all the bloody emoticons littering my inbox. I could barely cope with them on twitter or facebook, but aren’t we meant to be professionals here? Has the workplace changed so much during my brief sojourn into insanity? Imagine my shock when one of my male colleagues sent me an email that contained this sentence:

“I would <3 a beer right now.”

You want to stick your testicles in a pint of beer? Seriously? What kind of company had I started working for when not only do their employees manipulate their reproductive organs into inappropriate storage devices, but they openly boast about it as well? Then I started wondering how my female colleagues would appropriately respond. Would Rhonda from Customer Procurement reply thus?

“Me too, I’m going to % that bottle of beer as soon as I can.”

What’s scaring me the most is that I’m actually turning into one of them. I actually got excited about stationary today. I opened a new box of biros with the same excitement and anticipation that I used to reserve for a new pristine packet of wet wipes.

So now I feel like a bit of a fraud and it could not have come at a worse time. I have just been made the Class Rep at school, a fact that has shocked all that know me, no more so than ‘er-not-indoors. The head of the PTA collared me in the playground a month ago and asked me if I would like to take on this ‘pleasant responsibility’. The shock of one of the yummy mummies, sorry I mean THE yummy mummy actually approaching me, put me on the back foot, and my natural instinct to lie my arse off disappeared. The conversation went like this:

Yummy Mummy – How would you like to be the class rep?

Shocked Me – I really don’t think I’m the type of person you want for that kind of job.

Yummy Mummy – Of course you are, I see you chatting to people, you’re quite friendly, you’ll be fine. (Not perfect you’ll note, just fine.)

Scared Me – You may well have seen me chatting to people, but I’ll bet you haven’t seen many chatting back, they tend to avert their eyes like I’m selling The Big Issue.

Yummy Mummy – Don’t be silly, I’m sure lots of them buy The Big Issue.

Stumped Me - {gives a look of women’s logic incredulity}

Yummy Mummy – So I will put your name down then. (Also note the lack of question mark here)

Scrambling Me – Names, that’s it. I don’t know anybody’s names, I’m useless at them.

Yummy Mummy – You’re being silly again, of course you do.

Sardonic Me – Listen hon, I’ve known your for two years and whenever I refer to you I call you the tall blonde one. (She’s 7 foot 3 inches in Uggs)

Yummy Mummy – Well my name is Ann and you’ll be fine.

Surrendered Me – OK

So my rather long winded point being, is that now I have to speak to a load of Mums that I haven’t really had any dialogue with, and as sure as eggs are eggs they always ask me what I do for a living. I would normally answer with “I’m a househusband/Housebitch” and give them a ‘what of it stare’. That now feels like a lie though, and for reasons I cannot fathom makes me uneasy.

Am I, by saying that I’m able to do a full time job as well as my househusband duties, admitting that being a stay at home parent is really only half a job? Or am I telling the world that I am indeed Superman, and there isn’t anything I cannot achieve? Neither sit well with me to be honest because neither are true, as any real housewife or anyone that know my numerous failings (which is actually everyone that knows me) will testify.

Until I manage to figure this out I think I shall remain nameless. ‘The life and times of a Househusband’ may become ‘The life and times of a confused work from home, but what is work really when it comes to it, husband’. You can refer to me as that bloke that used to be funny but now thinks too much.

I have to go now, I have a wash to put on and a stationery request to file. Fluorescent Sharpies anyone?

P.S. My first responsibility as Class Rep was to organise and run the Bar at the Winter Fayre, hic, what a result.

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.

I know what you did last Winter

I know it's late, but I have been doing my own review of last year. A year with more hi and low lights than George Michael's hair in the Wham days. Anyone that reads these blogs or follows my Twitter feed can oft lay the 'Too Much Information' tag at my door, but I didn't tell you everything, well not yet anyway.

One of the biggest things I forgot to mention was that we moved house, a most traumatic experience at the best of times, and by God I wish we had picked the best of times. Instead, we picked the week before Christmas to move, the day after it started snowing, the day the kids broke up from school. Nothing like a challenge to get the blood pressure going. The move itself deserves a full blog devoted to it, but every time I try, my left eye starts twitching and won't stop until I mainline some Jack Daniels. Maybe one day, when the wound is not so raw, I will write it, give it another 14 years I reckon.

Don't get me wrong I love the new house, it has 3 toilets, the importance of this will become clear in a minute, a brand new kitchen, and a conservetory consevotery lean to (too many vowels, not enough time). All the kids have their own bedroom now, so I am looking forward to some sleep for the first time in five years. Unfortunately I got a fairly bad case of what I thought was food poisoning on the second day. Never has the extravagance of lots of toilets been such a practical blessing. Whilst everyone else has been discovering all the different nooks and crannies of the house, I have been discovering which toilet seat fits my arse the best. I also discovered that the previous owners must have been made out of a bendy rubber type substance, as you have to have arms growing out of your back to reach any of the toilet roll holders.

A few weeks later I was talking to my Brother-in-law about how ill I still was. He sympathised as apparently he had gone through the same thing three weeks before, then his work colleague had it, then his best mate Scooby (don't ask). His next statement was said with a straight face and no sense of irony, "There just doesn't seem to be any kind of common denominator." No mate, none at all, well none other than YOU, the man now to be referred to as 'The Sickness Reaper'.

As bad as the sickness was, I didn't let it curtail my drinking habits, especially on New Year's Eve. God, now that I'm a year older the hangovers seem to be a year worse. Although I've not yet found one I haven't been able to drink my way out of. New Years Day found me setting up camp in the toilet with a sink next to it, armed with only a book and a bottle of wine. Start the year as you mean to go on I say. I even invented a new word as I was sitting there contemplating the meaning of life (the answer to which is, buy more towels).

TANKERED (adj.) the state of being between getting tanked, and getting wankered. For use in polite circles.

Now I just have to find out the procedure for getting it into the Oxford dictionary, and how much they are going to pay me for it. Fame and fortune will be mine I tell you.

One of the other downsides to the move was losing my broadband for what was meant to be seven days, but ended up being 37 (see my letter to Rupert Murdoch on that score). I should have taken this opportunity to get some writing done without the distraction of Twitter and YouTube, but I didn't. I couldn't even bear to turn the PC on. It was the geek version of having a really hot girlfriend at the wrong time of month, pointless. I still had my iPhone, so I wasn't completely cut off from the world. I even developed modern day insanity, in which I would send myself emails instead of talking to myself.

I did end up doing a lot more Housebitch stuff, although that was more prompted by a comment made by my eldest, Dawn, than any sense of new house pride. On returning from school one day, she enquired as to whether the broadband was up and running yet. When I answered in the reproducing negative, she asked (with some concern I hasten to add) what I had been doing all day without the PC. I somewhat stupidly/hastily replied, "Loads, do you think this house cleans itself?" To her credit she did not burst into laughter, but the way her eyes darted left and right, surveying the pig-sty of a front room, betrayed her real thoughts.

I now have a garage as well as a shed, so I now have two places to hide my secret stash of beer. I have even given the beers their own code name, DW40. So when I am using WD40 to oil the squeakiest doors in the world, I can use DW40 to get well oiled myself. I have also found a light switch in one of the cupboards under the stairs (one is going to become Mate's punishment dungeon) that does not appear to lead to anything. I have visions of the neighbours TV turning on and off every time I flick it, which is a lot now I've had that thought.

Of course my normal way of dealing with the kids was thrown upside-down with the Wife having two weeks off. Our parenting routine is less Good Cop/Bad Cop and more Amnesty International Worker/African Despot. Every time I say "No" to Mate, he cries so hard it always produces the 'what have you done to him' look. I normally only have to put up with it at the weekends, but two weeks was murder. By the time January came around, the cocky little bugger was running the place, all with an indulgent smile from his Mum.

The year did end on a sad note, with the death of a very close and important friend. Our Sky+ box with its 90% full memory of all my favourite films, and half watched TV series', departed this world for tech heaven. The tears were flowing as I begged the Sky engineer to do something, anything. Eventually the life support was turned off, and the plug pulled out of the socket. I felt like I had been stabbed in the guts. Farewell old friend, I will miss you.

Housebandian Rhapsody

Is this just my life?
It's sure no fantasy
Caught in a timeslip
Of such endless banality
Open my eyes
And try to smell fresh coffee
I'm just a Houseband
Getting no sympathy
Because I'm "get this Dad", "take me here"
"where's my socks?" need a beer
Every day the same shit
Doesn't really matter to me, to me

Mama just ate some ham
Put some eggs upon her plate
Picked her fork up and she ate
Mama, breakfast just begun
And now you've gone and ate it all away
Mama, ooh
Didn't mean to make them fried
If they're not poached just right this time tomorrow
Have them boiled, have them boiled, it doesn't really matter

We're late, school bell has rung
Putting washing on the line
Body's aching all the time
Goodbye lazy mornings
I've got to sweep
Gotta find those dust bunnies and old cobwebs
Dusting, oooooooh (Every way the wind blows)
I just don't know why?
Sometimes wish I'd never cleaned up at all

[Air Guitar Solo]

I hear a moody teenage girl upon the stairs
Hair goes Whoosh. Hair goes Whoosh. Lost in a cloud of perfume
Purple nails and scrunchy, very, very trendy indeed
Where's my trainers? Where's my trainers? Where's my trainers and my coat?
Oh here we go-o-o-o-o
I'm just a young girl nobody loves me
She's just a young girl from a Twitter family
Sparing her nails from this monstrosity

Party please, ends at 12, will you let me go?
You're joking? No, we will not let you go
Let her go
You're joking? We will not let you go
Let her go
You're joking? We will not let you go
Let me go (Will not let you go)
Let me go (Will not let you go) (Never, never, never, never)
Let me go, o, o, o, o
No, no, no, no, no, no, no

Put that down Mate. Put that down Mate. Put it down before it burns
The A&E has a gurney put aside for thee, for thee, for thee

So you think that these spuds will just peel themselves
So you think that your clothes just appear on your shelves
Oh, children, can't do this to me, children
Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here

[Air Guitar Solo]
(Oooh yeah, Oooh yeah)

I do all the hard work
For a lousy fee
I do all the hard work
I do all the hard work for free

I deserve a beer now...

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.

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.

In Memoriam

Darling daughter No.2, Katy, has recently obtained quite an obsession with death. I know all teenagers go through that stage, and I myself remember spending 6 months wearing black and listening to nothing but The Cure and Leonard Coen. So the only thing slightly alarming in all this is that she has only just turned a precocious 4.

Her pet gerbils, Itchy and Scratchy, died 6 months ago without any real comment or emotion from her. In fairness they were pretty boring, and she had all but forgotten about them, so I can understand any lack of reaction. We dug them a grave (they were being buried in my vegetable patch, great compost I’m told), made a cross, and held a small service. Then nothing, until last week, when she has now decided she wants to dig them up to see what they look like.

She has also caught the ‘God’ bug, what can I expect when we send her to a Catholic school, and is very interested in heaven and meeting the great man himself. Getting her to look left and right, when crossing the road has become an impossible task. We point out the reasons why we look, but her excited reply is “but if I die I get to see God!” A sentence that is somehow cute and upsetting in near equal measures. Not, of course, that she wishes death upon everyone as a great way of meeting God. Every night without fail, her farewell warning is always “make sure you don’t fall down the stairs and die.” It is, without doubt, that comment and my stunned reaction to it that caused me to fall down the stairs the first time I heard it.

This all kind of leads me to the events of last Friday, when I took a phone call from my sister, who told me that Uncle John had died. John was not one of those far-away Uncles (although he did live a 4 hour drive away), that you hardly ever gave much thought to. Since he and Joan, and my two cousins Jonathan and Neil, moved down to Devon when I was 7, we had all remained really close, and spent most childhood summers and Easters down there.

He was a kind, but hard man. Strict, but fair. A favourite game as a child would be to call him “our John Willie” (a childhood nickname he hated as much as his middle name), and then attempt to duck and run from the inevitable whack that was coming. I don’t know why we continued to play it, as even when one of us managed to get away unscathed, he never forgot. Many a dinner time started with a vengeful clip round the ear, just as you were taking the first mouthful. Followed by his chuckle, and that of everyone else, as he left you to rue the idea of ever saying it again.

It was to John whom my Dad turned when I was 24 and going off the rails. I had just given up on my job and career in Insurance, just got divorced, and was drinking and partying way too much. John and Joan ran a pub called The Exeter Inn, and after a long conversation between all the “grown ups”, I was packed off to learn the pub trade from top to bottom for the next 2 weeks.

Every day started at 8.30am when I had to clean the pub (including the toilets, gross), and then do all the bottling up. Cellar management was next, and being a big real ale pub, there were always barrels to be tapped. This process involved hitting a small wooden peg into the keg, and with any luck you would miss your thumb, or even worse, avoid making the keg sending a gusher of beer everywhere. Then a quick change, before getting behind the bar to work till 3pm, a quick break, and then back from 5pm to midnight. Every night we had the same routine, cash up the day’s tills, and float them for the next day. Then the three of us would sit down, for the next 2 hours, with a huge bag of peanuts and a vodka and slim-line tonic and discuss the day’s events and gossip. I ended up staying 2 months not 2 weeks in the end, and those moments at the end of each night, are still some of my fondest memories (and the reason I still snack at midnight).

I was in the kitchen washing up, when Lucy gave me the news. I hung up the phone, sank to floor and just started uncontrollably sobbing. This must have disturbed Katy’s Disney viewing, because she soon trotted out to give me a hug and ask why I was crying. She had obviously caught me off guard, as my reply lacked the normal parent sugar coating. I explained that my Uncle John had died, and I was really sad and upset, because that meant I would never see him again. I may have added that it was just not fair, but I can’t be sure.

There was a pause whilst she digested this information, and I just knew she was going to tell me that it would be OK as he was with God now. Instead of which, she replied, “Well, I can be your Uncle John, or we can build another one!), and with that she gave me a kiss and went back to Mickey Mouse.

I am no longer that worried about her obsession with death and heaven; instead I worry that she might turn into a 21st century Dr Frankenstein.

To quote John’s favourite song from his favourite band “Fat bottomed girls you make the rockin' world go round yeah”.

John Frederick Salt 8/12/48-13/2/09 RIP

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.