Lionel Richie and the Christmas cockroaches . . . .

The B&G make for a colourful Christmas.....

Christmas stinks.
Not the entire event, you understand.
In fact, it's just the tree that smells bad, on reflection an inevitable occurrence given that it has been standing in the same stagnant water for almost a month.
The 2011 festive period on the other hand, a success all round.
Perhaps one or two turkeys en route, it's true, but that's to be expected.
The good stuff too much to mention, so here are @homedad's Five Christmas Crackers from recent days:
1) Boxing Day on the beach.
Climbing cliffs, making sand angels, death-defying leaps from the rocks (The B&G in particular), a close call with the tide, it had it all.
2) The Christmas crackers themselves.
Homemade, The W's handiwork, each one personalised (The B's had an Octonauts theme, The G's Peppa Pig), the highlight to be found inside, a colourful electronic cockroach, sourced from a bargain shop, 100 pence apiece, pound-for-pound Christmas's greatest hit.
3) The W's new Lionel Richie album.
Santa showing his smooth side here, this greatest hits double CD is proving popular, The B liking it almost as much as his favourite Bee Gees album, although he doesn't like me singing along and is adamant that Lionel has a superior singing style, showing himself to be lacking in manners but a shrewd judge of musical talent all at the same time.
4) The G's festive artwork (pictured above).
Produced using her biggest Christmas present, Ikea's finest easel, she has spent several hours during recent days with a paintbrush (or sponge, or special rubber finger painters) in her hand and a contented expression on her face.
5) The presents.
Some good ones this time out, including (but not limited to): the aforementioned easel, The B's big green tram, a water pistol (The B's) and giant pink rubber duck (The G's) for the bath, Chloe the doll, countless Octonauts and Peppa-themed puzzles and books, exhaustive painting supplies, games, the Charlie and Lola complete DVD collection, an Octopod and a little Lego to add to the collection.
Too much, as usual, the inevitable consequence that some presents are still being opened.
This afternoon, for example, The B discovered Tag Tails.
The concept, that each player dons a special animal-themed belt, to which tails (tiger, monkey, lion or zebra) can be attached.
Tugging the animal appendage detaches it from said belt, the simple premise of the game, in effect, chase with tails.
The belts are designed for the smaller waistline and when it came to my turn, I had a little trouble fastening it.
"You're just too fat, Daddy," The B informed me.
I'm allowed, I replied.
It is still Christmas, after all.

Silent Sunday 25.12.11

Fiction Fridays #7: The Night Before Christmas . . . .

"Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse......"

FF#7

The Night Before Christmas: Clement C Moore (1822).

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From one crisis to another: the fat Santa shortage

Santa Claus is coming to town (hope he's not too thin)........

Panic over, Christmas crisis averted.
It's The G's Santaphobia.
It appears to have been cured.
The antidote, regular and repeated exposure to numerous St Nicholas's, the breakthrough coming during our latest (and, hopefully, final) Grotto outing, our third so far this festive season.
The unusual location - Santa agreed to meet us in a local lighthouse - might have helped, although, right from the off, The G seemed to have overcome her Father Christmas fear.
From one extreme to another, in fact, as it seems as though she might be staking a case for a supporting role alongside the elves and reindeer in the North Pole next time out.
Yesterday, asked if there was anything she'd like to say to the latest Santa to grant us an audience, she thought for a moment and then replied, 'Ho ho ho!'
He didn't say much, but you could tell that the Big Man was impressed.
Some other Christmas odds and ends:
1) I might have just refered to him as the Big Man, but the truth is somewhat different.
You see, as far as I can make out, Father Christmas appears to be shrinking.
The fake ones that inhabit grottos at school fairs, garden centres, lighthouses and the like, at least.
I'm still hoping the real deal is as rotund as ever.
Yesterday's must rank amongst the skinniest working the 2011 Santa circuit.
Let's just say, should he ever be required to slide down the chimneys in his local neighbourhood, it shouldn't present too great a problem.
It's not just him, though, for all three of this year's Santa stand-ins have been a little on the thin side to be plausible.
For anyone out there able to boast a rather more (ahem!) generous size, there's a definite opportunity knocking for next year.
2) Speaking of all things fat, The G has a new habit.
She's not overweight, far from it, in fact, her limited diet (fishfingers, baked beans, Rice Krispies and yoghurt) ensuring that unlike me, mince pie addict that I am, she remains in good shape.
That said, it doesn't stop her pulling up her T-shirt and thrusting out her tummy, as far as it is able to go, several times a day.
"I've got a big fat tummy," she likes to tell anyone listening.
Perhaps she's thinking about auditioning for her own Santa slot for next Christmas.
3) No-one loves Christmas quite like The B&G.
Except, perhaps, the electric companies.
Lights everywhere here, switched on all hours, our house able to be seen from Space during the festive season.
Little Blackpool, I used to call it.
Until, that is, I watched King of Christmas Lights, the Cutting Edge documentary, on Channel 4 the other night.
No judgement to pass, but it puts our own efforts into perspective #needshelp.
4) Present most requested this Christmas: an umbrella (The B).
5) Present most required this Christmas: an effective cough medicine (The G).

Santaphobia and stocking deployment strategies . . .

Ho Ho Nooooo..........

Christmas coming, T-minus six days and counting, a rather unfortunate development here.
It's The G.
She has developed Santaphobia.
Given the season, it's perhaps not the best time to decide that one is frightened of Father Christmas, but there it is.
Prior to the festive period, The G's greatest fear was Buckaroo (for the record, nothing scares The B more than Vikings), but even that has paled into insignificance of late.
Fat man, long beard, red suit, large bag?
Creeping into her bedroom?
In the dead of night?
Put like that, I can understand her anxieties.
Heck, I share them to a certain degree.
That in mind, it has been agreed that The G's stocking is to be deployed, for strategic reasons, in our bedroom on Christmas Eve.
The B isn't bothered, his due to be hung on his bed, although as I've been reminded in recent times, he too experienced significant Santaphobia at an earlier age.
Informed that Father Christmas liked to enter the premises via the chimney, he thereafter gave the fireplace at our previous house a wide berth for several subsequent months.
So there is hope, although time is running out for this Christmas.
It seemed she might be overcoming her issues at the weekend, The G even agreeing to enter the grotto to receive a gift during the nursery Christmas Party.
Not so.
You see, having started watching the Peppa Pig Christmas special a little earlier, it had to be turned off after Father Christmas made an unexpected entrance.
"He's scary," The G squealed, burying her face and refusing to look at the screen.
Definite Santaphobia, and an acute case at that.....

Silent Sunday 18.12.11

Santa's smoothie and Rice Krispies for reindeer . . . .

Sorry, Santa: nothing stronger here this Xmas...

The B&G briefed on the need to keep Father Christmas fuelled during a long seasonal shift, time this morning to restart the mince pie production line.
The second batch better than the first, less filling, fewer boiling-over-in-the-oven incidents, improved pastry, easier on the teeth, our baking session an all-round success.
It turns out that said snacks are not intended for the Big Man's consumption, however.
You see, refusing to let tradition dictate our Christmas Eve protocols, The B&G have, in recent days, rewritten the rulebook in regard to appropriate nibbles for St Nicholas.
For a hard-earned tipple during his forthcoming visit, for instance, it seems as though Santa might have to settle for nothing stronger than a smoothie (The B's choice).
Rudolf and his colleagues can forget about carrots too, for The G has decided that, here at least, it's going to be Rice Krispies for the reindeer.
The food choice for Father Christmas is still under discussion, although mince pies have been ruled out.
Several options on the table but needless to say, as the debate intensifies, The W and I are pushing hard for a Chocolate Orange.....

Fiction Fridays #6: The Polar Express . . . .

FF#6

The Polar Express: Chris van Allsburg (1985).

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Tangerines, trampolines & a fear of festive fruit . . .

No satsumas in our stockings please, Santa................

The Cbeebies Christmas specials all the rage here in recent days.

First up, Octonauts.

Timmy's turn next and then, last night, time for Charlie and Lola.

During the latter broadcast, the eponymous pair speculating about possible stocking contents on December 25.

"Father Christmas might leave us a tangerine," suggested Lola at one point.

Hearing this, The B's ears pricked up.

"I hope Father Christmas leaves me a trampoline," he said.

There then followed a discussion centred on the obvious differences between tangerines and trampolines, the conclusion reached that the former is a miniature orange that isn't suitable for bouncing on.

The B confused, I attempted to explain Santa's penchant for distributing citrus fruits during the festive season. 

Cue great distress, a little squealing, and time once again to use the Christmas Tree chocolates in an attempt to restore the status quo.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas . . . . . . .

There's nothing quite like a little festive fun, The B&G-style.......

The @homedad Christmas Checklist.....

1) The Christmas Tree.
Bought (me); put up (me); decorated (The W); not much assistance (The B&G).
2) The Mince Pies.
Baked (me); eaten (me); better make some more (me, or perhaps the baker at Sainsburys, truth be told, he tends to do a better job).
3) The Presents.
Bought (The W); need to be wrapped (anyone but me).
4) The Excitement.
Unbearable (The B&G).
5) The Exhaustion.
Suffering from (me and The W); channelling into anti-social behaviour (The B&G).
6) The Drinks Cabinet.
Stocked (me); soon to be raided (me and The W).
7) The Calpol Cabinet.
Stocked (The W); could use something stronger (The B&G).
8) The Christmas CD.
Being played on a constant loop (The B); bleeding from the ears as a result of (me).
9) The Christmas Tree chocolates.
Hung on branches (The W); removed from branches (The B&G); eaten (The B&G).
10) The Letters to Father Christmas.
Handwritten (me); posted (The B&G).
11) The Decorations.
Put up (me and The W); pulled down (The B&G); put up again (me and The W); pulled down again (The B&G); ad infinitum.....

I don't think I've forgotten anything......

Help the aged . . . .

I'm losing control here.....

Feeling a little old here.
It's not the disappearing hair or the failing eyesight.
It's not even the fast-diminishing ear function (something that I suspect I've caught from The B).
It's more that, more than ever, I'm finding myself unable to keep up with The B&G, their development too rapid for me, he-who-can-be-easily-outwitted, or as The B likes to call me, Slow Coach.
Things that have made me feel ancient in recent days:
1) The other day, en route to collect The B from nursery, me and The G.
The G decided to travel sans buggy, preferring to go on foot.
This in mind, I thought it best to depart a little earlier than normal, thinking that our progress might be a touch slower due to The G's little legs.
Not so.
In fact, I found it difficult to keep up, The G setting off at an impressive pace that forced me to trot along behind like the small child in the partnership.
2) I'm no longer needed to operate the remote control for the TV.
This used to rank high on the list of my most-important SAHD duties, but it seems such services are surplus to requirements these days.
You see, The B&G have both figured it out.
The B can turn on the TV, pull up the menu and select a programme for his viewing pleasure, be it Octonauts, Fireman Sam or Mike the Knight.
The G hasn't mastered all the functions as yet, but if The B finds Peppa Pig for her, she is quite adept at scrolling through and choosing her favourite episodes.
Yesterday, I turned on the TV and asked them what they'd like to watch.
"Just leave the remote, Daddy," came the response.
3) The B has discovered word processing.
I find it difficult to use the laptop these days because The B is always on it, doing, as he calls it, his 'work'.
In the main, this involves opening up the word processing programme, and using the keyboard to make words.
Some are real words, albeit variations on 'poo'.
The other day, though, he held down the S key for several seconds, calling me over to admire the subsequent ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss on the screen.
"That's what a snake says, Daddy," he told me.
Genius.
4) I'm suffering from a cold.
I know, it's just a cold, but still, it's quite a bad one, the kind I like to call flu, a habit that is guaranteed to make The W sigh and shake her head.
Yesterday, I came downstairs and, as I like to do, began to complain about said illness.
The B came over and cast me a sympathetic look.
"You just need a good sleep," he said. "That'll do you good."
Like I said earlier, feeling a little old here.

Silent Sunday 11.12.11

Ear muffs and misunderstandings . . . .

Fur goodness sake, just listen.....

It's getting cold here, The B&G requiring as much protection as possible from the extreme elements.
Hence the rather spiffing ear muffs that The W brought home two or three days ago.
The B's in black, The G's pink, thick fur, a nice tight fit, the ultimate head-based draught exclusion device, just the job.
The B is the most pleased at the latest addition to the winter wardrobe, not least because his favourite staff member at nursery, it's not her real name but I'm going to call her Dora, has a pair just the same.
For The B, there can be nothing finer in life than earning Dora's approval.
That in mind, I thought it best to remind him to take them with him just prior to leaving the house yesterday morning.
"Don't forget to take your ear muffs to show Dora," I said, thinking he'd be pleased.
Instead, The B squealed and looked in great discomfort.
It turns out that he thought I'd said 'Don't forget to take your ears off to show Dora,' a different proposition altogether.
In hindsight, as I pointed out to The W a little later, given that his ears are not 100% operational at the best of times, covering the offending organs in thick fur might not be the most sensible plan after all.

Fiction Fridays #5: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory

FF#5

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: Roald Dahl (1964).

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Spreading Xmas cheer, Northern Gas Network-style...

Big hole: I'm not digging this......

It's December.
It's freezing cold.
The perfect time to start digging up the gas mains and replacing all the pipework.
Not.
Season's Greetings from Northern Gas Networks.
Oh, one more thing, there'll be no gas for the next two days.
You didn't need central heating or hot water, did you?
You did?
Not our problem, I'm afraid.
It's orders.

Inconvenience? What inconvenience?

Oh, there is one more thing.....
You don't need the car, right?
You'll struggle, because we've just dug an enormous hole right behind your vehicle, neglecting to inform you first, thereby denying you a chance to move it.
Not that it matters much.
Even if the car could be moved, there's nowhere to drive it.
The street looks like a plastic fence convention and there are holes everywhere.
Debris too.
It's like post-invasion Iraq out there.
You'd require a 4x4 to negotiate that little lot.
The one thing that could make things a little more unpalatable for us: a little light illness.
So here it is, thrown in for good measure, nothing serious, but just enough to complicate an already-challenging situation.
Leave The G alone for more than a minute and she looks as though she has been dunked, head-first, into a barrel of snot.
The B is full to the brim with Calpol, although from time to time, his temperature shoots right up and he gets the shivers.
In such situations, we cuddle him tightly, making the most of his warmth given that he has become the household's number one heat source thanks to Northern Gas Networks and their unique brand of festive cheer.
Still, to look on the bright side, I don't think they'll be here much longer.
You see, the man outside, after much dicking about on his little digger, just pulled up some gas pipes, scratched his head for a minute or two, and lit an ill-advised cigarette.
I'm starting to think they're not taught anything at Gas School these days.

 

Reading schmeading: it's the Bookless Generation . . .

You might have heard of these things: They're called books.....

There's a great deal in life that I don't understand.
The reason that aeroplanes don't fall from the sky, for instance, or why some motorists don't feel the need to indicate when turning left at a roundabout, or the science behind cheese becoming so much tastier once in its melted form, or Alan Carr.
Here's something else that - for me, at least - is beyond comprehension: In the UK, 3.8 million children don't own a single book.
That's one-in-three children.
I find that startling, and then some.
But it's true, this the finding of a report conducted at the National Literacy Trust that has also discovered - surprise, surprise - that a child's reading ability is directly linked to the number of books that can be found in and around the home environment.
I can take comfort from that, because The B&G have got books coming out of their ears.
Not literally, of course. That'd be painful.
There are, though, books aplenty, all around the house, as those enjoying our regular Fiction Fridays feature are sure to appreciate.
Here's the thing, though: There has never been a conscious decision to provide suitable reading matter.
It's just that that's what you're supposed to do as a parent, or at least, so I thought.
For me, books are as much a part of the essential child-rearing kit as wet wipes, anti-bacterial hand gel and fromage frais, so this I find staggering.
Baffling too, rather sad and more than a little shameful.
There are one or two other expressions that I'll not use here for fear of sounding like a Daily Mail columnist and let's face it, no-one aspires to that.
Just to say that, last month, I authored a blog post about Bookstart, another child literacy charity, in which I might, perhaps, have come across as being a little flippant in regard to their over-enthusiastic efforts.
I still contend that such initiatives are not for us.
But it's clear that there's a real need for this stuff: 3.8 million reasons, in fact.

Girly-boys, buzz-cuts and some barbering basics . . . .

No more close shaves: The joy of six............

Earlier this morning, time for a haircut.
The B, that is.
I don't have enough as it is.
His hair having reached its all-time shaggiest state, The B had long since assumed The G's mantle as the household's foremost impersonator of scarecrows.
The time for action, passed long ago.
But for such a herculean task, immense courage required.
You see, The B doesn't do hairdressers, never has.
That means that for all his barbering needs, it's down to us.
Neither parent in this particular relationship can claim significant scissor skills so, at such times, out come the clippers.
Our speciality, the buzz-cut, US Marine-style, number two all over, no finesse, no messing.
You'll all have seen, I'm sure, the occasional pre-school skinhead.
Post-haircut, that, I'm afraid, is The B.
It's fine in the summer, but come December, it seems a touch harsh to send him out and about next-to-naked on top (trust me here, I speak from experience), hence our decision to let it get a little longer.
For a time, the experiment had been going just fine.
But in recent days, there has been no escaping the truth: That it needed a cut, the sooner the better.
So I tackled it a little earlier today, the compromise being that I didn't do it quite as short as normal, no number two this time, instead I plumped for the number six attachment.
The end result: Generous length, nice and neat on top, awful around the ears as per usual but, on the whole, just about acceptable.
It's an improvement, that's for sure, and it ought to put an end to the type of conversation that prompted me to dig out the clippers and just get on with it.
It took place over the weekend, The B telling The W that he intended to let his hair continue growing until it was as long as hers.
It was suggested to him that, with shoulder-length hair, there would be a danger that some people might mistake him for a girl.
"But I'll still have a willy," he countered.
The point impossible to argue, I hoped we could move on, but The B was just warming to the debate and had a further point to make.
"I could be a girly-boy," he suggested.
Time to find the clippers, not a moment to waste.

Silent Sunday 04.12.11

Talking tuna & the communicative conundrum . . . .

Talkative children? Use this button to turn them off..............

I used to find the pre-speech days rather frustrating.
Strange to think, that.
Now, I often think I'd give anything to have them back.
You see, improved communication comes at a considerable cost: That is, once in speech-enabled mode, it's impossible to get The B&G to stop talking.
Invent an off-switch for children, instant billionaire.
I might be being a little unfair, because, between us, me and The B and The G do have some good chats.
But it's not all cute conversation, far from it, in fact.
There are all the admonishments, for instance, The B&G doing all the telling off, me, as a rule, on the receiving end.
Yesterday lunchtime, for example, I put on a CD to provide a little low-level background listening.
The B bit into his sandwich and shot me a disapproving look.
"Turn that radio off," he barked between chews, making me feel like the child in this particular relationship.
The G is just as bad.
Just a short time ago, feeling a little festive, I found myself singing a favourite Christmas number.
"No!" cried The G.
I continued for several more bars, The G far from amused.
"No! No! No! No! No! No!" she shouted, full blast, refusing to stop until I had first.
That's not all.
There are also the insults to overcome.
So far this week, I've been 'a silly' several times.
I have also been 'a poo' and 'a wee wee' and, on one harrowing occasion, 'a poo wee wee poop poo poo wee'.
Traumatic stuff, no doubt about it.
The most said three words here in recent days: 'I', 'got' and 'snot'.
Not far behind: 'more' and 'biscuits'.
There's rather more to it than that, of course, and if I'm honest, The B&G's communicative capabilities do far more good than harm.
Earlier this morning, for instance, I sat down for stories and rather than me reading them to The G, she read them to me.
Then there are the misunderstandings and amusing questions.
Prior to yesterday's ill-fated radio switch-on, one such occurrence, The B paying close attention as I began to make lunch.
The B: "Daddy, what's that?"
Me: "It's tuna."
The B: "Yuck."
Pause for thought.
The B: "Daddy, what's tuna?"
Me: "You tell me."
The B: "Is it a fish?"
Me: "It is a fish."
The B: "Is it a big fish?"
Me: "It is a big fish."
Pause for further thought.
"The B: "Daddy, is a tuna bigger than a whopper?"
Position revised: Sometimes, it's true, it's good to talk.

Fiction Fridays #4: Little Red Train . . . .

FF#4

Little Red Train, Race to the Finish!: Benedict Blathwayt (2006).

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December disappointment: it's snow joke . . . .

The adventure tree: one down, 23 to go.......

Disappointed this morning.

The B, that is.

He'd been looking forward to it for some time, December 1st.
In the end, though, it failed to live up to his great expectations.
The other afternoon, in Boots to collect a prescription, he spent several minutes bending the poor pharmacist's ear.
"It's going to be December 1st on Thursday," he informed her, as earnest as anything. 
"It's almost Winter. Yippee!"
He even performed a little jig for the assembled old ladies.
I feared there and then that he might be building it up a little, and so it proved.
Reporting for breakfast detail this morning, he peered into the garden and his face fell.
"So is it going to start snowing soon?" he enquired.
The remainder of the day, he kept a close eye on the skies but still no sign that snow is imminent.
The wait for Christmas has always been interminable for the impatient (ie, The B&G). 
In these depressing days of shops being stocked for the festive season from September onwards, the longing is greater than ever before.
It's a relief that we're getting there and, at least with it being December 1st, there is at last some perceptible progress for The B&G to chart.
The chocolate calendars, for instance. 
Obligatory, I'm afraid. For The G, Hello Kitty; for The B, Cars 2.
Then there's our favourite festive feature, hung overnight, granted pride of place in the playroom, a welcome find during the disappointment-tinged post-breakfast period.
It is, of course, our rather spiffing Advent Tree.
Or as The B&G both seem to be calling it this year, the adventure tree.