@homedad

Catching the maps and Metros bug . . . .

2012-01-29T18:59:00.000Z

Better than an Ikea store guide............

I fear I've caught something from The B.

I hadn't considered this particular condition to be contagious.

I might have made a mistake.

It's not the ailment that sidelined him last week, that has passed, although The G's fight for full fitness continues.

This, more an obsession than an illness.

You might perhaps recall that The B has a long-standing interest in buses, trains and trams.

In recent times, this has manifested itself in a fast-growing collection of timetables, route maps and other assorted transport-related leaflets.

It's not unusual for The B to choose the timetable for the 306 to read at bedtime.

It's not behaviour that has ever been encouraged.
Until now, that is.

You see, strange as it might seem, this is the part that has proved to be so contagious in recent times.

I never thought it possible, but I've started to find such things rather fascinating myself, so much so that I've bought a book.

It's called Metro Maps of the World.

The work of writer and transport aficionado Mark Ovenden, it is a compendium of maps and diagrams from transit systems all over the planet.

Subways, Undergrounds, Metros and U-Bahns, 200 cities, the most obvious ones (London, New York, Paris, Tokyo), and those a little more unexpected (Jerusalem, Dnepropetrovsk, Calcutta, Birmingham).

Needless to say, it's proving rather popular here, The B enjoying it almost as much as I do.

His own collection, incidentally, continues to grow, although its contents are becoming ever more eclectic.

The latest addition, joining all the bus timetables and rail network maps, an Ikea store guide, acquired during an otherwise-unexciting shopping expedition just after Christmas.

It's strange the things that appeal sometimes . . . .

Silent Sunday 29.01.2012

2012-01-29T07:30:00.000Z

Coffee and TV (and Calpol) . . . .

2012-01-27T13:34:00.000Z

This lot should do it......

You couldn't make it up sometimes.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, The B unwell, The G fighting fit.

Thursday, The B gets better, The G becomes ill.

The timing remarkable, the smoothest handover imaginable.
The most astonishing thing, that at no point were both in good health at the same time.
Rather, the minute The B's condition recovered, The G's deteriorated, as though it had been pre-arranged.
Her illness is nothing like as bad as his, I'm glad to say, nothing serious, no need for Banana Medicine, the fight well within Calpol's capabilities.
In isolation, no sweat.
But following The B's six successive broken nights, not the best, it has to be said.
He slept through last night, for the first time since January 19.
The G did not.
She's making up for it now, flat out on the sofa, sleep the thing she needs the most.
That and Peppa Pig.
Perhaps a little more Calpol.
For me, it's caffeine and paracetamol all the way, and copious quantities have been consumed already.
I'm sticking to the stated dose on the latter.
I can't make the same claim in relation to the coffee.

Fiction Fridays #11: The Very Small . . . .

2012-01-27T09:26:00.000Z

"One day, when Giant Baby Bear was playing in the woods,
he found a very small..........something!"

FF#11

The Very Small: Joyce Dunbar and Debi Gliori (2000).

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THIS WEEK at The Children's Writer: Legitimisation, my mystery mentor and a shot in the arm for the publishing project.....

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Top Trumps: the ideal illness indicator . . . .

2012-01-25T21:37:00.000Z

Top Trumps: no longer a guaranteed laugh.......

Clearest indication so far that The B has been feeling unwell.
Earlier, I suggested playing Top Trumps.
For the first time ever he didn't snigger.
Not even a smirk, unquestionable evidence that poorliness had taken a firm grip on a four-year-old for whom nothing can be funnier than a little flatulence-based humour.
That was this morning.
Since then, I'm relieved to report, significant improvement.
That due, no doubt, in no small part to a little Haribo therapy, an unscheduled morning nap and the astonishing amount of pharmaceutical products swilling around his system.
The average human body, around 60% water.
The B, right now, around 60% medicine.
The results of this morning's cutting edge experiment have medicine beating Peppa Pig, the final scoreline 12 spoons to 10 episodes, quite a contest.
It's obvious that I have chanced upon a formula for success, because ever since a trying post-lunch period, he has been almost back to normal.
There are still ups and downs in the pipeline, of that I have no doubt, but the signs are that we're getting there.
Just one more thing required to nail it: a good night's sleep, and I don't just mean The B.

Peppa v Medicine: The Great Experiment . . . .

2012-01-25T09:30:00.000Z

It's raining (inside the Channel Tunnel)......

Today, I shall be conducting a unique experiment.

In the name of medical research, that is.

The aim, to examine the complex relationship between pharmaceutical products and Peppa Pig during sustained periods of childhood illness.

The question I hope to answer, this: Over the next 12 hours or so, will I dispense more spoons of medicine than I watch episodes of Peppa?

Yesterday, between 7am and 7pm, 15 spoons, split between Calpol (the undisputed favourite), Junior Ibuprofen (not so keen) and Amoxicillin (disgusted by, requires bribes).

I didn't think to count the Peppa episodes.

For reasons of sanity, I'm hoping I didn't sit through 15, although I suspect it's a close-run thing.

Pleased to report that progress is being made, the Banana Medicine - despite its appalling flavouring - doing the job in its own inimitable style.

Tiredness the real enemy, so much so that The B and The G (not ill herself, but pleased to support The B in his own attempts to get better) both fell asleep on the sofa during afternoon stories yesterday.

On Monday, I went for a drive, the pair flat out in the back, just like old times, me cursing each pothole and level crossing, the sun's position determining our route as I battled to prevent dazzle that might disturb invaluable slumber.

The efforts are paying off, The B getting there, the improvement marked.

Starting to feel a little better, he has managed a little Lego, enjoyed his trains and cars and even done some drawing.

From the latter activity, the above picture, a brilliant scene from inside the Channel Tunnel.

I chose to overlook the rain and clouds, content to accept that, on this occasion, the undersea network could have its own weather system.

Chuffed to bits, it made him feel better than all the Calpol in the world.

Speaking of which, he must be due another dose, maintaining the correct medicine-TV ratio perhaps the most important job I'll have to do over the coming hours.

Right now, the scoreline is Medicine 3 Peppa 2.

The final result is too close to call.

Australia: around the world in 80 words . . . .

2012-01-24T22:05:00.000Z

Dangerous place, Australia.......

Thanks to Grandpa Pig, The B&G have heard a little about a time that he likes to refer to as The Olden Days.
The problem here, that applying knowledge that has been acquired from Peppa Pig episodes can sometimes prove a stretch too far in real-life situations.
This, a case in point.
The B was born in 2007, The G in 2009, and, at times, I find myself unable to convince them that life existed prior to their respective arrivals.
In a bid to prove that myself and The W had a life during the pre-B&G era, I've spent recent days showing them photographs from our honeymoon.
Looking at these got me thinking about SAHDandproud's Around the World in 80 Words project and his kind invitation to me to submit a follow-up to the fond recollection of Edinburgh, The B's second birthday, that I posted earlier this week.
The challenge, to describe a favourite place, holiday, outing or travel-related experience.
In 80 words or less.
It's an invitation I'm delighted to accept again so, in a nutshell, here's a land Down Under:

Honeymoon, B&G-free, 2006, Australia, glorious.
The works: Sydney, Harbour Bridge Climb, bushwalking in the Blue Mountains, 48-hour sleeper train, Uluru (right to the top), rainforest, the Great Barrier Reef. Feasting on kangaroo and crocodile, a drunken didgeridoo lesson, the highlights captured on camera.
The B&G like the photographs.
Their favourite? The bridge? The reef? Ayres Rock?
Not a chance.
It's the enraged ostrich attacking me one morning at the zoo.
Like that's funny.

Peppa on prescription and marvellous medicine . . . .

2012-01-23T19:12:00.000Z

Carlsberg don't make medicine.......

Our regard for certain medicines is on record.
There are some ailments, however, that even Calpol and Haribo can't cure.
On such occasions, time to bring out the big guns.
Our favoured pharmaceutical heavyweight, Amoxicillin, or, as The B&G like to call it, Banana Medicine.
Bright yellow and brilliant, nothing I've ever taken can be considered quite as potent.
Not for the first time, Amoxicillin came riding to our rescue this morning.
You see, The B is unwell and, earlier today, having battled through the weekend, no longer able to sustain his brave efforts, he suggested that it might be time to consult a GP.
I've resorted to begging doctors for Amoxicillin in the past, but thankfully, because it is a humiliating experience, there was no need to plead this time out.
This particular physician, our kind of doctor, very much on our wavelength.
Not only did he give us the much-hoped-for Banana Medicine, he also offered us a giant bottle of Calpol (our previous GP had refused to prescribe infant Paracetamol products, claiming - for some inexplicable reason - that such a practice contravened his ethics).
But that's not all.
You see, just before ushering us from his consulting room, the doctor suggested that several hours spent watching Peppa Pig might help.
Needless to say, having heard this, The G, despite displaying no symptoms herself, claimed this afternoon that she too might be ill.
Nice try, I told her as I dragged her off the sofa.

Edinburgh: around the world in 80 words . . . . .

2012-01-22T18:09:00.000Z

Not quite Phileas Fogg......

I like a good challenge almost as much as I like a good blog.

That in mind, I'm grateful to SAHDandproud, because this afternoon, he has provided both.

The challenge that he has set, in a nutshell, to describe a favourite place, holiday, outing or travel-related experience.

In 80 words or less.

He calls it Around the World in 80 Words.

You can take part, or read other posts on this topic, here.

Needless to say, like most things that SAHDandproud does, I wish I'd thought of this first.

It just remains for me to thank him for reminding me about a cherished time........ in Edinburgh:

The B's second birthday, 2009, overnight in Edinburgh.

Scotland in September unpredictable, this one unseasonable, conditions perfect.

The main attraction, Waverley Station (The B train obsessed, buses not yet on his radar).

Lunch at Garfunkels, the 1980s inside, but child-friendly, then the zoo (penguin parade good, elephant absence less so), The B&G sleeping in the buggy, somewhere near the zebras.

Sunbathing in Princes Street Gardens.

Bare-chested.

The B, not me.

Birthday or not, no-one needs to see that.

Silent Sunday 22.01.12

2012-01-22T07:30:00.000Z

Limited success for the Ryvita eater . . . .

2012-01-20T09:15:00.000Z

Is it lunchtime yet?

The Floorboard Preservation Programme has been going according to plan.
So I thought, at least.
In recent days, I have stood up to the greatest challenge a dieting stay-at-home dad can face: a fourth birthday party buffet.
Sausage rolls, chips and pizza slices everywhere, crisps galore, a snack lover's Paradise, fragile willpower tested to breaking point.
Just looking at it gave me the shakes.
I did it, though.
There have been other tests en route.

Yesterday, for instance, making chocolate Cornflake cakes with The B&G, I didn't so much as lick the spoon.

I even had a Ryvita for lunch.
No-one can say that I'm not working hard to stick to my New Year's Resolutions, number four in particular.
I had thought that the results spoke for themselves.
Until this morning, that is.
You see, just after breakfast, The G did her best puffer fish impersonation, inflating her cheeks and thrusting out her stomach, making herself as big as possible.
"I've got a massive tummy," she announced. "Just like you."
Seems I might need to rethink this.
Biscuit tin, here I come.

Fiction Fridays #10: I am not sleepy . . . .

2012-01-20T08:00:00.001Z

"I have this little sister Lola. She is small and very funny.
Sometimes I have to keep an eye on her......"

FF#10

I am not sleepy and I will not go to bed: Lauren Child (2001).

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Best of the blogs: Last week's Fiction Fridays official favourites:

Child-led Chaos: The Tough Princess.

Musings of a Stressy Mummy: Elephant Wellyphant.

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THIS WEEK at The Children's Writer: It's not about the money, money, money, and Wise men say, only fools rush in.....

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Sweet success and being just a daddy . . . .

2012-01-19T15:38:00.000Z

Sweets: a cure for all ills.............

Swimming this morning, The B somehow managed to injure himself.
He'd been lying on a float, face down, sliding around the pool.
It looked like fun.
Until he slid right off, that is.
The pool floor quite rough, I presume for optimal grip underfoot, the result a painful-looking stomach scrape.
The B red-tummied and tearful, it seemed best to end our session and head for the changing room for cuddles and a closer examination.
In these situations, I find sweets cure most ills and so I decided to prescribe Starmix, just a small dose, just right for such injuries.
"Is this going to make it better?" The B asked as I produced the packet.
"Trust me," I replied. "I'm a doctor."
The B thought about this for a moment.
"You're not a doctor," he said. "Mummy's a doctor."
I opened the sweets for him, the tears gone already.
"So what am I?" I asked.
Further contemplation.
"You're just a daddy," he said.
That's good enough for me.

The Star Song, The Ba Song and CDVDCDs . . . .

2012-01-18T22:57:00.000Z

Ba ba ba, ba ba black sheep..........

Lionel Richie is getting less and less airtime these days.
You see, The B is expanding his musical horizons.
He has just about mastered the difference between a CD and a DVD, unlike The G, who, no matter whether she'd like to listen to something or watch it, has begun to ask me to put on a CDVDCD, or some other random combination of those letters.
The B is a little better at technology, so much so that in recent days I've introduced him to the iPod.
I've even created a playlist for him, songs I feel he can process, not too loud, not too much guitar, the lyrics sung not shouted and, above all (it's important, this one), not Eminem.
Listening to it in the car this afternoon en route to the museum.
"I like all the songs on this," he announced.
Some, though, he enjoys a little more than others.
His favourites, There's a Star by Ash (or, as he calls it, The Star Song) and Barbara Ann by The Beach Boys (nowadays known as The Ba Song).
The G, not interested, she'll take it or leave it, no matter the choice.
I suspect, deep down, she's hoping that, one day, I'll put on the Peppa Pig soundtrack album for us all to listen to.
Now there's a frightening thought....

BigJigs and The B . . . .

2012-01-15T21:56:00.005Z

No puzzle here, BigJigs is the best........

Favourite brand, a close-run thing, but BigJigs just claims it from Orchard Toys, Calpol and the ever-popular McCoys.
You can't move here for The B's fast-growing wooden railway, the house brimming with trains, trucks, tracks and all the assorted accessories.
He's got the lot: stations (in small, medium and large), bridges (in all shapes, sizes and styles), straights (short, long and even longer), curves (two different lengths), all the different junctions, points systems, and everything else imaginable.
There are some other things that one might not imagine also.
There's the coal mine, for instance, the docks too, and even a car park that can boast a rather splendid helipad.
Favourites items in the collection: the train washer (mine); the signal box (his).
This is a collection that has been growing for just over four years, ever since The B received his first pieces during his maiden Christmas Morning, in fact.
Since then, pardon the pun, it has been full steam ahead for the BigJigs-B relationship.
Total pieces: innumerable.
Hours spent engaged in rail-related activities: countless.
It used to be the trains themselves that held the appeal, The B spending hour after hour crouching down in the classic little-boy-playing-with-small-vehicle position, pushing around assorted engines, carriages and trucks, lost in his miniature environment.
These days, however, it's all about the engineering.
The transit systems being built at present are becoming rather sophisticated and, I must admit, this appeals to me almost as much as it does him.
Indeed, from time to time, there are differences in opinion, me and The B never quite able to agree on the details.
I like to make it realistic, he prefers to use his imagination to create never-seen-before rail configurations that are all about eschewing traditional transport planning conventions.
I don't always manage it, but on such occasions, I attempt to take a back seat and let him do it to suit his own personal preference.
It's difficult, but it is, after all, his railway, and I am old enough to know better.

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Silent Sunday 15.01.12

2012-01-15T08:00:00.000Z

The earliest start ever: an 11.07pm wake-up call . . .

2012-01-13T13:56:00.000Z

The big hand says: Time to go back to bed.....

For some time now, The G has been getting up earlier than is ideal.
On good days it might be 6.30am, on bad days 5am.
Strategies employed to overcome this issue include dropping daytime naps and stepping up our efforts to teach her to tell the time.
Things have been improving, so much so that, following successive 7am risings, the consensus seemed to be that the problem had been resolved once and for all.
Not so.
You see, last night, The G smashed her own record for getting up before time.
I heard her coming, it's impossible not to, crashing across the landing and flinging open the bedroom door.
"I go downstairs," she announced.
I looked at the clock.
It read 11.07pm.
Time to go back to the drawing board (but first, back to bed).

Fiction Fridays #9: Love Monster . . . .

2012-01-13T08:54:00.001Z

"This is a monster (Hello, Monster).
I think you'll agree, he's a little bit funny-looking. To say the least......"

FF#9

Love Monster: Rachel Bright (2012).

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THIS WEEK at The Children's Writer: Oliver Jeffers, the illustration issue & reliving rejection......
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Gladiator, ready..........

2012-01-12T13:29:00.000Z

Coming soon to a childcare provider near you........

For The B&G's nursery, an alternative name.
These days, I call it Gladiator Academy.
This, a reference to the 1990s LWT show, a programme that dedicated itself to bringing a little light violence to the teatime schedule on Saturdays.
In recent days, The B&G's nursery - to me, at least - seems to have been focusing its efforts on training the Gladiators' next generation.
The other day, for example, upon arriving to collect The B, I found several aggressive-looking boys (The B included, it must be said) pummelling each other using padded apparatus of all shapes and sizes.
The staff like to call this soft play, I prefer to call it combat.
There is other evidence that I can present.
Earlier this morning, for instance, reading the pegs in the cloakroom, I noticed one or two unfamiliar names in The G's room.
One Saxon, the other Phoenix.
Naming children is a subjective business, it's true, but to me, such monikers point to little more than a future career in the Gladiator trade.
For now, I'm not concerned.
But should ever a peg appear for a child called Wolf, it might perhaps be time to reassess our choice of childcare provider.

NEW at The Children's Writer: To be (illustrated) or not to be (illustrated), that is the question....

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The Big Bad Wolf and a wild goose chase . . . .

2012-01-11T21:06:00.000Z

Time to make a run for it.....

Dangerous places, parks.
Take this morning, for instance.
Me, The B and The G, departing our regular music group, a little time on our hands before our next appointment, thought exploring some adjoining parkland might make a nice change.
Big mistake.
Far from our normal turf, unfamiliar territory, our comfort zone nowhere in sight.
No secret paths here.
Just geese.
Big buggers, too.
The B&G found their honking hilarious at first, although as one especially-large goose began following us along the path, it became somewhat less amusing.
The following soon ceased to be just following and instead developed into full-blown chasing.
Time to make a sharp exit.
Ever since, The B&G have been rather less keen on geese.
Indeed, other animals, even their favourites, have begun to be considered through suspicious eyes.
This afternoon, a man out walking his sheepdog was encountered and The B&G both shrank.
"Is that a dog?" The B asked in a small voice.
I answered in the affirmative, although The G couldn't be convinced.
"What do you think it is?" I asked her.
"The Big Bad Wolf," she squealed and made a run for it.

The park, the paths and The B&G's secrets . . . .

2012-01-10T22:14:00.000Z

Disappearing down the Secret Way.....

This afternoon, to the park.
Note that I said park and not playground.
It's an important distinction. Playgrounds are so last season.
Not so the park, this our favourite destination at present.
Heading home from the playground several days ago, we stumbled across a path that we'd never before noticed, one that bypassed our normal route, heading up a mysterious hill, through foreboding trees, alongside a stream bed.
This never-before-seen path, The B&G decided, needed a name.
It soon had one, the Secret Way, and so began a legend.
Exploring the Secret Way, The B&G discovered a small bridge (the Secret Bridge), a stone bench (the Secret Chair) and some steps cut into the hillside (rather predictably, I'm afraid, the Secret Stairs).

The Secret Stairs......

The Stepping Logs......

Since then, the park has fascinated them both and several contended hours have been spent tramping its trails, engaged in adventures and discovering other hidden gems.
These include the Jumping Rock (it's a rock that's good for jumping off) and the Stepping Logs (like stones, but made from old trees) and, to The G's great delight, there are limitless sticks to be found (these she likes to use to hit things: stones, other sticks, the fence, The B etc).
It can get a little muddy, but that's OK, the main problem for me, that I often find myself struggling to keep up over the difficult terrain.
The other day, having descended via the Secret Way, and negotiated a route back up another path, taking in, en route, the Jumping Rock and the Stepping Logs, The B&G then proceeded to run home at full tilt.
The B, puffing and panting, made it to the front door first, me and The G unable to keep pace.
He looked at me as I caught up, all hot and red faced, and thought for a moment.
"I'm tiring," he announced.
You said it.

NEW at The Children's Writer: Reliving rejection........ Part One.

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Monks, mistakes & misadventures in hairdressing . . .

2012-01-09T13:19:00.002Z

The B&G have both had a close shave this morning.....

Earlier this morning, The G not pleased.
The problem, that I cut The B's hair but refused to tackle hers.
I tried to explain that the limited skills I have don't extend far beyond the most basic buzz cut and that there is an unspoken household rule that should I ever use the clippers on her hair, I perhaps ought to pack a bag first.
To no avail, The B sat on his stool, towel around his shoulders, The G standing at his side, her Bad-Tempered Ladybird face on.
I told The G that me and clippers make for unpredictable results.
I then demonstrated as much, The B the unwitting guinea pig.
Last time, I used the number six attachment but the haircut didn't last long before becoming scarecrowesque.
This time around, I decided, I'd go for the number four, longer-lasting but not quite a skinhead.
Unable to find the number four attachment in the cupboard, I plumped for three over five.
Down to action, complete concentration, the end result not too bad.
I should have left it there.
Instead, noticing that the crown area looked a little unruly, I attempted one final action, removing the attachment altogether in an attempt to snip the spare bits.
Big mistake.
You see, The B, until that point statuesque, moved at the most inopportune moment and I shaved a perfect square, the shortest possible, right on the top, monk-style.
I didn't dare cut the rest to match and so instead decided upon an all-over number two, hoping the contrast between the respective lengths might not be too noticeable.
It's not too bad - as long as he doesn't look down - and, on the bright side, his hair grows rather fast.
For the first time all morning, The G attempted a smile.
I think she realised she'd had a lucky escape.

NEW at The Children's Writer: Encouragement at last ...... from Oliver Jeffers!

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Porridge, parrots and farewell to a horrible lot . . . .

2012-01-08T22:17:00.002Z

Not so wise words.....

I've always quite liked Porridge.
That is, the 1970s TV comedy, not the food stuff.
Forget Fletcher. The best character, Mr Mackay, no competition.
The chief officer at HMP Slade had countless catchphrases, the saying that sticks most in the mind (and it's possible I've imagined this) being the one that he often uses to address the inmates, that is, 'Right then, you horrible lot'.
For some time, I've used this, on occasion, to address The B&G in certain situations.
For example, should I need them to get their coats and shoes on in order to go out, I tend to shout 'Right then, you horrible lot' to get their attention.
The B&G like it and it's harmless.
Or at least, so I thought.
Last Friday, upon collecting The B from nursery, I told him, as always, to bid his friends farewell prior to our departure.
Turning to his contemporaries, The B cleared his throat.
"Goodbye, you horrible lot," he barked, before turning and leaving the room.
Sometimes it's like having a parrot.
I must remember to start thinking a little more before I speak.

Silent Sunday 08.01.12

2012-01-08T08:00:00.000Z

Lionel, Noel and a Green Sheep's snot . . . .

2012-01-06T09:15:00.000Z

Hello.......is it me you're looking for?

Earlier this morning, listening to a CD, not loud, just on in the background.
Something made The B's ears prick up.
"Who's singing that song?" he asked.
"Noel Gallagher," I replied.
He took a moment to process this information.
"Put Lionel Richie on," he said.
No accounting for taste, I suppose.
I'm being facetious here, because I don't mind admitting that I too like a little Lionel in the mornings. It beats the alternative.
That, the song The B spent the post-breakfast period performing, a number that he claims to have penned himself.
It goes something like this (to the tune of Baa Baa Black Sheep):
"Baa Baa Green Sheep, have you any snot?
"Yes sir, yes sir, loads and loads,
"Some on my finger and some up my nose,
"And some in my tummy, that's where it grows."
I suspect that this is not, as claimed, an original composition, although I'm not sure who has taught him it.
One thing is certain: Until the appeal wears off, Lionel Richie will do just fine.

Fiction Fridays #8: The Incredible Book-Eating Boy....

2012-01-06T08:00:00.001Z

"Henry loved books.
But not like you and I love books, no. Not quite......"

FF#8

The Incredible Book-Eating Boy: Oliver Jeffers (2006).

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The man, the mission and the manuscripts . . . .

2012-01-05T12:54:00.000Z

Books are rather important to us all here.

You might perhaps have gathered this.

The B&G's best reads, featured in the rather marvellous Fiction Fridays meme, a concept that, I'm pleased to report, has not gone unnoticed amongst certain publishing powerhouses.

Since Christmas, one or two newcomers to the collection, the favourites featuring the Octonauts (The B), Peppa Pig (The G) and Charlie & Lola (both).
The B received two Mr Men books from the Santa at one pre-Christmas grotto and, ever since, has displayed an insatiable appetite for Roger Hargreaves' best-known creations.
Reading other peoples' publications to The B&G is good.
The ultimate, however, reading them stories that have been penned right here.
I should point out that I'm talking about something a little more sophisticated that Maurice Metro and his adventures.
In the days since becoming a full-time stay-at-home dad in 2008, I have been compiling a portfolio of my own children's stories.
It's make or break time now, the crunch: Is it possible that could I get something published and into the shops?
Perhaps, perhaps not but, either way, I intend to find out.
You can find out too, because I shall be chronicling the process at The Children's Writer, a blog that I have created for just this purpose.
If this sounds at all interesting, please be sure to check it out some time.
You never know, at some point, much further down the line, as far fetched as it might sound right now, it might just be me featuring in a Fiction Fridays post.....

Resolution update: The Pants of Knowledge . . . .

2012-01-04T21:42:00.000Z

It's surprising the things that can be learnt from pants.....

Granted, it's only January 4th.
But still, I'm delighted to report that the New Year's Resolutions are going rather well.
Don't believe me?
Check these off against the original list:

1) No knives licked; nothing opened using teeth; nails still a little chewed, true, but I can't be expected to do everything at once.
2) Still a struggle, although a little earlier, she did let me squeeze the juice from half a grape into her mouth.
3) Tiana and Belle, not bad for starters. I've just noticed that The G's princess pants feature the characters in question, the thoughtful manufacturers even including names.
4) I'm starving so I must be doing something right. No chocolate or crisps for two days. Lettuce for lunch. The Tag Tails belt beckons.
5) I took The B&G to a museum this afternoon. I'm certain some knowledge must have been acquired there.
6) No progress on clips and grips, but I've been demonstrating some improved hairbrush skills in the last 48 hours.
7) I've bought a Lotto ticket. No jackpot as yet, but it's only a matter of time.
8) The last two days, most enjoyable. Laughs, outings, books, cuddles, chocolate (them, not me, I just watched). I think I'm on the right track here.
9) Far less farting about. Granted, I'm on the computer now, but they're both tucked up in bed, fast asleep, so I'm allowed.
10) Far greater patience demonstrated, feeling rather proud, the household much happier. There's still room for improvement, but with 361 days remaining in 2012, I think I've made an encouraging start.

The Bad-Tempered Ladybird & the large lower lip....

2012-01-03T22:14:00.000Z

The G in a grump......

Favourite nickname for The G right now, The Bad-Tempered Ladybird.
For some time, she has been practising her facial expressions.
Her cross face is the best.
Good-natured in temperament (I think she gets that from me), she doesn't get annoyed all that often, I'm relieved to report.
But should things ever start to go against her (for example, a ruling that there can be no more Peppa Pig episodes for the time being, chocolate not being considered an appropriate snack or The B monopolising the giant pink rubber duck during bathtime), out slides the most remarkable bottom lip.
Further than ought to be possible for the average human being.
Several feet at least.
The giant thrust-out lower lip, eyes fixed on the floor, cheeks reddening, it can be the most terrifying sight.
It's a good thing that its appearance is so rare.
Until recent days, we just called it The G's Cross Face.
No longer.
You see, during storytime two or three days ago, The G chose her third-favourite Eric Carle book (for the record, the first is The Very Hungry Caterpillar, the second The Very Busy Spider, or as she calls it, Incy Wincy).
Number three on the list, The Bad-Tempered Ladybird.
The eponymous central character, not a contented Coccinellidae.
Don't believe me? Just check out the face (pictured above).
The thing is that, having studied it at some length, I've concluded that the Bad-Tempered Ladybird bears the most striking resemblance to The G in a grump.
The likeness is beyond uncanny, it's a spitting image.
The best bit is that The G thinks the book in question is hilarious, so much so that, even in the filthiest mood, she cannot retain her anger for long having been informed that she is pulling the Bad-Tempered Ladybird face.
Indeed, just mentioning it is sufficient to turn the thrust-out lip of fury into the broadest of smiles.
For that reason alone, The Bad-Tempered Ladybird, although down in third place on The G's Eric Carle rankings, is always going to be number one for me.

Indian dancing in deepest, darkest Spaceland . . . .

2012-01-02T18:00:00.001Z

Russia, as seen from Outer Spaceland......

The latest craze here, Spaceland.
It sounds a little like a rather cool theme park, all planets and stars and rockets and stuff.
It isn't.
Rather, Spaceland is, in effect, The B's bedroom, the blackout blinds pulled down, curtains closed, no lights allowed save the occasional torch.
I do like to indulge The B&G's imagination, but I must admit, for Spaceland, patience is limited.
Lots to get done here, no time for sitting in darkened rooms for hours on end.
Besides, as I pointed out to The B a little earlier this afternoon, sit me in pitch blackness for long enough and I'm guaranteed to fall asleep.
That did the trick, persuading him, at least, to utilise Spaceland's one genuine attraction in order to rekindle flagging interest.
"Let's look at the Earth," he said in his best Spaceland speak.
Translated, that means switching on the light inside the illuminated globe that he received for Christmas.
This I don't mind, given that I've always had an interest in all things geographic.
The B knows several countries already - Holland (where the ferries sail to), Germany (where the world's largest model railway, Miniatur Wunderland, can be found), Center Parcs (not strictly a country, although I've still to break this news to him) - to name but three.
Thanks to the globe, his knowledge of the nations is growing in an impressive fashion.
Pointing to a large land mass this morning, he asked, 'Is that yellow one Russia?'
Impressed, I answered in the affirmative.
He then located the North Pole, no difficulties.
"Father Christmas lives here," he said.
Keen to teach him another country, I spun the globe around to Asia.
"This one here is called India," I told him, pointing.
The B digested this particular information for a moment.
"Show me what kind of dancing people do in India, Daddy," came the unexpected response.
Reluctantly, I obliged, grateful for once that, in deepest Spaceland, it does tend to get rather dark.

Festive firearms and New Year's Resolutions . . . .

2012-01-01T20:05:00.001Z

I'm aiming to do better in 2012.......

The B's Christmas water pistol, starting to cause one or two problems.
For one thing, it has the most tremendous range, able to hit a target far beyond the bath's boundaries as The G in particular likes to demonstrate at every opportunity, the target, more often than not, being myself.
For another, the small cap that covers the hole through which said gun is loaded is almost impossible to remove.
It's not a job for little fingers, meaning that each time the ammunition cache is exhausted, I'm required to do the refilling for the marksman in question.
Not a great hardship, except for the fact that it's not just The B&G struggling to master the stubborn cap.
To overcome the difficulties that I've been encountering, a special system has been devised. Therein lies the problem.
You see, the other night, I caught The B removing the small plastic component using his teeth and, like the responsible parent I aspire to be, I told him to stop at once.
"But that's how you do it," he replied.
I'm afraid to report that, to that, I had no obvious argument.
The upshot, that I began to think about certain things that I do that perhaps I shouldn't.
The conclusion, that I'm determined to perform better on numerous fronts.
That in mind, I have compiled the official @homedad New Year's Resolutions, a code that I shall be attempting to stick to over the next 12 months.
Therefore, in 2012, I shall strive to:

1) Set a better example (that is, stop doing the things that The B&G tend to be disciplined for doing; for example, biting nails, using teeth to open things and licking the knife after making jam sandwiches).
2) Persuade The G to rethink her rule in regard to fruit and vegetables (that is, that she doesn't eat anything that has grown on a tree or on a bush or in the ground), preferably before she starts to display the classic symptoms of scurvy.
3) Learn the names of some more Disney Princesses (Cinderella and Snow White I have mastered, but there are several hundred more and it's starting to become clear that The G is expecting me to keep abreast of this stuff).
4) Resume the Floorboard Preservation Programme (Christmas has taken its toll, it's true, and, if I'm ever to squeeze into the special belt and partake in an official Tag Tails tournament, it's clear that things are going to have to change).
5) Become the household's foremost educative influence (given that I'm here all the time, I think I ought to be teaching The B&G more; as it is, it seems they're learning more from The W, which is fine, and Peppa Pig, which is not).
6) Get to grips with The G's hair (the whole scarecrow thing is wearing a little thin now; we have a brand new hairbrush and an exhaustive collection of grips, clips and other hair restraint devices, it's time I learnt to use them).
7) Earn a little extra cash (although given the demands The B&G place upon me, realistic opportunities are limited to a) The Lotto; b) Some as-yet-undiscovered Get Rich Quick scheme; c) Taking on some more freelance blog writing work (hint, hint, email me here)).
8) Make the next nine months the most enjoyable ever (because in September, I'm afraid to report, The B is scheduled to start school, changing life and some long-established routines forever).
9) Spend less time farting about on the computer and do more parenting (after all, that's the thing that I'm supposed to be doing right now, not trying to think up something amusing to tweet, reading irrelevant emails or attempting to pen a hilarious blog post).
10) Be more patient (it's the main one this, because, let's face it, no matter the mischief, it's not their fault and, as trying as it can often be, it's up to me to teach them better and be the bigger person, something that, if I'm 100% honest, I don't always manage to be).

Silent Sunday 01.01.12

2012-01-01T08:00:00.000Z

Lionel Richie and the Christmas cockroaches . . . .

2011-12-28T19:21:00.001Z

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

2011-12-25T07:30:00.003Z

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

2011-12-23T08:30:00.001Z

"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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The Fiction Fridays Gallery is here!

From one crisis to another: the fat Santa shortage

2011-12-21T19:11:00.000Z

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 . . .

2011-12-19T09:00:00.002Z

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

2011-12-18T07:30:00.005Z

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

2011-12-16T22:28:00.001Z

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 . . . .

2011-12-16T08:00:00.000Z

FF#6

The Polar Express: Chris van Allsburg (1985).

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The ALL-NEW Fiction Fridays Gallery is here!

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

2011-12-14T14:39:00.000Z

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 . . . . . . .

2011-12-13T11:39:00.000Z

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 . . . .

2011-12-12T08:00:00.003Z

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

2011-12-11T08:00:00.000Z

Ear muffs and misunderstandings . . . .

2011-12-10T20:33:00.001Z

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

2011-12-09T10:50:00.003Z

FF#5

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

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

2011-12-08T10:20:00.001Z

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 . . .

2011-12-06T13:25:00.000Z

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 . . . .

2011-12-05T10:30:00.000Z

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

2011-12-04T07:00:00.000Z

Talking tuna & the communicative conundrum . . . .

2011-12-02T13:29:00.000Z

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 . . . .

2011-12-02T09:48:00.001Z

FF#4

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

Read more about Fiction Fridays here.

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

2011-12-01T17:07:00.000Z

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.

Retailing rats and the £40 lemon . . . .

2011-11-30T18:43:00.000Z

Greetings from Fortypoundland........

Earlier this morning, playing shop, me and The B and The G.

It's a game that doesn't often get an airing due, in the main, to The G's fondness for scattering fake food all around the house.

There is nothing more painful than treading, barefoot, on a plastic asparagus.

Trust me, I've done it and not just the once.
This morning, though, I retrieved all the shop things from the garage, where they'd long been in exile, determined, for once, to do a little proper playing.
The result, a good time all round, even if one or two issues did present themselves in the process.
First job, stocking the shelves, organising the food into departments (bakery, dairy, fresh produce and canned goods) and putting all items into their rightful homes.
It's The B's favourite part, this, his OCD tendencies (the cans nice and neat, labels all aligned, arranged according to size) indulged to the full.
The process did cause us one or two problems, in the main due to The G's lack of fundamental knowledge in the field of fruit and vegetables.
I might have mentioned in previous posts that The G has a certain code that governs her eating habits. The main rule, that if a food stuff has been grown on a tree or bush or in the ground, she doesn't eat it.
That in mind, getting her to stock the produce department a tall order indeed, the organic item identification challenge not an overwhelming success.
"What's this?" I asked, holding up each piece of produce in the vain hope that she might be able to name it.
Two standard answers here:
1) Tomato.
2) Egg.
Overlooking the fact that an egg is not a typical piece of greengrocery, the answer proved, much more often than not, to be wrong.
The B much better at this, although one item in particular troubled him.
"What's this?" he asked at one point, holding up something purple and foreign looking.
"It's an aubergine," I told him.
He looked most suspicious but far be it from me to hold that against him.

I'm sure most normal people feel much the same about aubergines.
Several minutes later, I held up said aubergine and asked him to tell me what it was called.
To be fair, he remembered that it ended in 'ine', but that was about all.
"Is it a washing machine?" he asked.
Time to move on.
Other problems encountered:
1) The B's pricing policy (all items £40, not a single exception). I suggested that £40 might perhaps be a little steep for a lemon. He took the advice on board, even if he did go too far the other way, from that point on everything in the shop costing 1p (in effect the shift from Waitrose prices to Lidl).
2) The G misheard me when I asked her to pass me a can of dog food. I tried to explain to her that dog poo doesn't come in tins and that even if it did, no-one would buy it, but it proved pointless. The dog poo stuck, if you'll pardon the expression.
3) The rat (pictured below). Found lurking amongst the fruit, a remnant from Halloween. I thought its presence was indicative of below-standard health and hygiene practices. The mistake all mine, it turns out that the rat was for sale (a steal at £40, or so the shopkeeper (The B) assured me).

I've been thinking for some time that, with my days as a stay-at-home dad numbered, it'd be nice to start a business of some description.
On this evidence, perhaps retail isn't the best option.

She who cheats, wins . . . . . . .

2011-11-29T21:58:00.000Z

Horizontal moves are for losers......

The G has developed one or two rather bad habits in recent times.
In the main, these tend to be wind-based, although enthusiastic nail biting and a little light nose picking are also causing concern.
That said, the habit that I'm most keen to crack down upon is her growing fondness for cheating.
You see, there isn't a game in the house that The G hasn't learned to manipulate using one illicit method or another.
The G loves a good game, although it's clear that rules and regulations are not for her.
Her top three pursuits (and the illegal means employed to ensure that she always wins) are as follows:
1) Snakes and Ladders: Forsaking the conventional course to the final square, The G refuses to make horizontal moves, her counter instead taking a more-direct vertical route.
2) Honey Bee Tree (think Kerplunk, just with bees instead of marbles): The rules might stipulate that each player should remove one stick at a time, but The G doesn't consider it a proper turn unless she has taken a good handful (at least three, but on occasion, up to five).
3) King of the Castle (a simple board game, roll the dice, move the piece, the first one to reach the middle is the winner): Each player must spin the arrow, prior to their turn. Should it come to rest pointing at a castle, proceed. Should it come to a rest pointing at a snail, miss a turn. On the occasions that she spins a snail, The G either declares 'Castle!' and continues as though no-one has noticed or, as though it is her right to do so, she just has another spin.
Such crooked methods guarantee that The G always comes out on top and, to The B's growing chagrin, she does like to announce the result come the conclusion.
"I won!" she always bellows.
It's said that cheats don't prosper.
The G is proving otherwise.

Decapitating cats, cardboard and croquet . . . . . . .

2011-11-28T07:30:00.000Z

Hammer Time: The G is armed and dangerous....

The @homedad Guide to Stressful Situations* suggests that, as a general rule, it is best to keep small children and hammers apart.
Nowhere in the edition that I have does it mention mallets.
It's perhaps for the best given our latest pursuit.
You see, here at @homedad Towers, we have, in recent days, taken up a little light croquet.
You might think that November is an unusual time to embark on such a pursuit, but I do like to think that I'm a little bit renegade. Heck, I'm a stay-at-home dad after all.
It came last week, our rather spiffing croquet set, arriving from Garden Games Ltd, a red-faced van driver delivering all the components - mallets, balls, hoops, the lot - right to our front door.
"Wow!" said The G, taking the chance to put her favourite word to the test. That was just the reaction to the oversized cardboard box that it came in.
The carton's contents, even more impressive: Four wooden mallets, painted red, blue, yellow and black, four wooden balls in the same colours, six steel hoops and a winning post, all packaged up nice and neat in a zip-fastening canvas bag.
Sadly, it was raining, the unpredictable conditions proving a definite downside to starting a croquet campaign in late November.
Not to fear, for the cardboard box saved the day, The B delighted to discover he could fit The G inside and close the flaps, The G a little less thrilled at such a finding.
The weekend a little drier, into the garden at last, The B taking charge of organising the pitch, The G coming close to decapitating poor Cat Two, the sight of his nemesis brandishing a bright red wooden mallet doing nothing for his stress levels.

It was worth the wait, an enjoyable encounter, the action intense and the competition, well, competitive, although it must be said that, like all the best sporting occasions, the main protagonists paid little regard to the rules and regulations.
No matter, it seems croquet is here to stay, The B&G both relishing the next fixture.
Two observations that did occur to me during the match:
1) The B in particular, given a little practice, could become rather good at croquet.
2) I ought to cut the lawn.

This is a review of the Lawn Croquet Set by Garden Games Ltd. I have not been paid for this review. For details of the @homedad Review Guidelines or to learn more about submitting a product for review, please click here.
* Not available from all good bookshops.

Silent Sunday 27.11.11

2011-11-27T08:00:00.000Z

Carriages, cabs and terrifying a train driver . . . .

2011-11-25T12:51:00.001Z

The B Express: all aboard............

Yesterday, me and The B, off to the station to indulge in a little light train spotting.
Our morning can be considered a success, for it had all the hallmarks: countless carriages, two different freight trains, snacks from Greggs, the lot.
The highlight, however, courtesy of the kind-hearted driver of the 10.45am to Reading.
Noticing us peering into his cab as he made his final preparations, he invited us in, and even allowed The B to sit in his special train-driving chair.
So far, so good, a little conversation about life as a train driver, admiring all the buttons and levers, spinning on the swivel chair, all rather convivial.
Then, without warning, The B, unable to resist any longer, lurched forwards towards the dashboard and made a grab for the controls.
The driver turned white. Time for a sharp exit.
Later on, The W back from work, The B enjoyed telling her all about his memorable morning.
"He says that the train was taking all the passengers to a wedding," The W said as The B&G sat down at the table and began to tuck into their tea.
Hearing this, The B, sighed, his exasperation obvious.
"Not a wedding," he said, rolling his eyes. "Reading."

Fiction Fridays #3: Monkey Do!

2011-11-25T08:00:00.001Z

FF#3

Monkey Do!: Allan Ahlberg, Andre Amstutz (1998).

Read more about Fiction Fridays here.

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From cuddles to kicking: an alternative embrace . . .

2011-11-24T08:09:00.000Z

Full-time parenting: More cuppas than cuddles.....

Numerous benefits involved in being the full-time stay-at-home parent.
One such advantage: additional affection from appreciative offspring.
That's the theory, at least.
The reality, a little different.
Take this exchange from a little earlier this morning, for instance.
Me (to The B): "Come and give me a cuddle."
The B: "Just a quick one then."
Enforced embrace two seconds old.
The B: "Can I go now?"
The G often more reliable in such situations, I switch focus.
Me (to The G): "Come and give me a cuddle."
The G: "No."
Several unremarkable moments pass.
The B: "I'll give you a foot cuddle if you like."
This doesn't sound so bad so I agree.
I realise that we have different ideas as to what constitutes a cuddle as The B begins to put the boot in as I lie helpless on the floor.
The kicking over, I get up, abandon the cuddle quest and, instead, go to load the breakfast things into the dishwasher.
Like I said, numerous benefits involved in being the full-time stay-at-home parent.

The hare, the tortoise and the out-of-order ears . . .

2011-11-23T13:38:00.000Z

The B's ears: Just not working.......

I'm starting to think that I might have to take The B to hospital.
It's his ears.
I'm afraid that they're no longer in an operational state.
Not all the time, just on certain occasions.
Occasions such as all the times that I need to communicate.
Should ever I speak to him, ears out-of-order.
Everything else - The Octonauts, his favourite BeeGees CD, the sound of a Haribo packet rustling at 100 paces - he can hear just fine.
There is, of course, nothing deficient in physical terms, for this is just a typical symptom of the ailment that I like to call The Frustrating Fours.
If anything, this makes his hearing loss even more annoying.
Two main problems here:
1) I seem to be spending several hours, morning and afternoon, repeating myself.
2) The B never has the slightest idea as to what's going on, where we're going, what he should be doing and so on and so forth.
Last night, during our pre-bed story, matters almost came to a head.
The book, Michael Morpurgo's superb retelling of Aesop's Fables, the chosen tale The Hare and the Tortoise.
I had a good idea that The B had lost focus when, right at the point at which the hare settles down at the roadside for an ill-advised nap, he interrupted the narrative to enquire, "Where's my Lightning McQueen magazine?"
I thought I'd test him so, at the end, just before I tucked him in for the night, I posed one or two simple questions.
Me: "Can you tell me what the story was about?"
The B: "Erm....a rabbit?"
Me: "And?"
The B (after thinking hard, he pointed to a picture of the tortoise): "That one?"
Me: "Tell me what they were doing in the story."
The B: "Having a race."
Me (encouraged for a moment): "And who won the race?"
This seemed to stump him.
Me: "Was it the hare or was it the tortoise?"
The B: "The hare?"
Case closed.

Cats, bottoms and the anatomical basics . . . . . .

2011-11-22T21:49:00.000Z

Cat One: has a bottom.....

Following the unfortunate Tailgate affair, I thought it might be time to give The G a lesson in some anatomical basics.
The time, this morning. The place, the kitchen. The method, comparing and identifying certain parts.
Please understand, I don't mean mine. That'd just be wrong.
No, for this particular assignment, I enlisted, as an assistant, a cat.
Not Cat Two, this kind of task much too stressful for his delicate disposition, this a job reserved for the more-robust Cat One.
Cat One is The G's favourite so I had her attention from the off.
Cat One, not so keen, so I had to make it quick.
The idea, in a nutshell: The G first identifying Cat One's main features and then pointing to her own.
The start promising, it soon began to deteriorate.
I first asked The G to point out Cat One's ears and then her own, the eyes, nose and mouth all following.
So far, so good but then The G noticed Cat One's thick tail.
"Tail," announced The G, proud as punch.
"Have you got a tail?" I asked the G.
She stopped and thought about it for a moment.
"I've got a bottom," she said.
I tried to explain that Cat One also has a bottom, just that it tends to remain hidden beneath her tail.
This, however, didn't quite get through.
It turns out I'd lost The G at the B-word and, delighted, she spent the next 20 minutes trotting around the house squealing 'bottom' at the top of her voice.

Does Peppa Pig have a willy? Ohhhhh Yessssss!!!!!!

2011-11-21T08:00:00.000Z

Peppa and George.......

One afternoon, during The G's recent Gruffalo phase, she demanded that I use the kitchen chalkboard to sketch her favourite characters from Julia Donaldson's bestselling book.

I put up a fight, fearing that the result might prove a little embarrassing.

In the end, the combination of The G's persuasive powers and some hitherto-unknown chalking skills ensured a rather-pleasing end product.

The main protagonists, all there: Gruffalo, Mouse, Fox, Snake and Owl, some better than others, it's true, but all depicted to an acceptable standard.
For several weeks afterwards I became a chalkboard bore, basking in the glory, requiring all visitors (family, friends, the man who came to fix the TV aerial, the lot) to cast an appraising eye over said masterpiece and not allowing them to leave until positive comments had been passed.
During that time, all was well with the world.
Then one dark night that still isn't talked about here, The W cleaned the chalkboard and I found myself facing the greatest challenge yet of my fledgling chalking career.
Tasked with improving on perfection, there was just one choice.
Not for the first time as a parent, I staked everything I had on Peppa Pig.
Yet again, the end result remarkable: Peppa, George, the familiar logo, nailed one and all.
The G approved, although a little earlier this week, I caught her looking at Peppa, a confused expression forming on her face.
I enquired as to the issue and, in response, she pointed up at Peppa's curly tail.
"Peppa's a girl," she said, and then thought it through for a moment.
That done, The G pointed again at the tail, the source of the trouble.
"But what's the problem?" I asked.
"Daddy, Peppa's got a willy," she squealed and ran off chortling to the playroom.

Peppa and Willy......?

Still on The G theme, some odds and ends and observations (as promised here last week for all fans of The G and her antics).

1) I have a new toothbrush. It's pink.
Just to be clear on this issue, I didn't choose a pink one but a pink one was all that I could find in the bathroom cabinet last week when my somewhat manlier blue toothbrush began to malt bristles mid-ablution.
That said, it doesn't offend me. I don't mind that it's pink, unlike The G.
The fact that I have a pink toothbrush troubles her deeply, for she believes that when it comes to colours, she has exclusive rights on this one.
The reckoning here: 1) If it's pink, it must be hers. 2) If it's not hers (and more often than not it is), it must be The W's.
Bearing that in mind, ever since I debuted the controversial toothbrush, The G has been on the warpath, admonishing me whenever she catches me using it.
"Mummy's toothbrush!" she scolds and wags her finger.
Sometimes she takes it from me and refuses to give it back.
It has got so bad that I've had to start sneaking off and brushing my teeth in secret.

2) Something The G has inherited from me: Biting her nails.

3) Something The G has inherited from The W: Telling me to stop biting my nails.

4) Something I'd like The G to stop doing: Goose Stepping.
5) The G has, in recent days, revealed a hidden talent for impersonations.
Granted, her repertoire is a little limited at the present time, consisting, as it does, of a single impression. But it's a good one, and everyone has to start somewhere.
The impersonation in question: Churchill, the nodding dog from the insurance adverts.

It's an inadvertent impersonation, it's true, because The G doesn't have a favourite insurer and, in actual fact, has no clue as to Churchill's existence.

But it's uncanny, ask her a question that requires a positive response on a subject that she feels enthusiastic about (crisps, Peppa Pig, the colour pink, that kind of thing), and, nodding and all, her answer is always the same: "Ohhhhh Yessssss!"

Silent Sunday 20.11.11

2011-11-20T08:00:00.001Z

Children in Need (of their normal clothes) . . . .

2011-11-18T11:51:00.000Z

Fact: Pyjamas are for bed.....

I have a confession to make.
I've never been into the whole Children in Need thing.
It might not be the best time to be saying this, but there it is.
Don't get me wrong, Children in Need raises some huge sums for some great causes, and, as such, is a phenomenal force for good.
I just can't get into all the hoopla that accompanies it.
It might just be me, but I'm always going to struggle with anything that gives the BBC an excuse to bring Lenny Henry out of storage, even if it is for just one night.
It's not just me, of course, as I discovered this morning.
You see, all the evidence suggests that The B is also a Children in Need cynic.
To mark this year's event, The B's nursery, as per usual, asked all the children to dress in their pyjamas for today's session.
I'm informed that most greeted this news with great excitement.
The B, however, was having none of it.
I've spent all week encouraging him, honest I have, but it has been to no avail.
One final attempt just prior to leaving this morning.
"I'm not wearing pyjamas to nursery," he said with obvious disdain. "That'd be weird. I'd just like to wear my normal clothes. Pyjamas are for bed."
The final fact difficult to dispute, I took him in his normal clothes, as ordered.
Upon arrival, it soon became clear that everyone else, children and staff alike, had taken up the challenge and dressed in their bed-wear.
Did The B feel left out?
Not a bit.
On the contrary, as he looked around at his pyjama-clad peers, a satisfied expression formed on his face.
"That's just weird," he said as he surveyed all his friends, feeling a little on the superior side.
I admit, I found it hard to disagree.
* Just to prove that I'm not a total killjoy, I can report that I have made a donation. The official Children in Need website can be found here.

Fiction Fridays #2: I Love You, Blue Kangaroo . . . .

2011-11-18T08:00:00.000Z

#FF2

I Love You, Blue Kangaroo: Emma Chichester Clark (2009).

Read more about Fiction Fridays here.

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Soufflé, spikes & spelling: Poo, poopy, poop . . . .

2011-11-15T11:19:00.002Z

Hair today, gone tomorrow......

The B's growth rate has increased in dramatic fashion.
In the last seven days, he has added at least an additional inch.
Impressed?
Don't be: It's all down to hair gel.
Yes, I'm afraid that at a little over four, The B has discovered personal grooming.
The spikes add around two-and-a-half centimetres and, perhaps more alarming, about 10 years.
Growing up fast, here.
Next stop: Tattoos.
Still on The B theme, some odds and ends and observations (and please, for those preferring The G, don't panic, I'll do the same for her in due course).
1) The B is working hard at his spelling in preparation for starting school next September.
In addition to his name, he has also mastered the words pop, top, stop and mop (he likes the letters o and p, it's true).
In recent days, further additions to his repertoire, ones he is rather proud of.
Consider the following images:

These are, of course, from top to bottom, poo, poop and poopy.
Never let it be said that I'm not teaching him the important things in life.
2) Back to the hair, because these days, he's checking it out all the time, always searching for the next available reflection to ensure it's still sticking up.
It's clear that he thinks about his hair quite a lot too.
Yesterday, I caught him looking at me, deep in thought, running his fingers through said spikes.
"Daddy?" he said after quick contemplation, "when I'm grown up, will all my hair go too?"
Nice touch, that.
3) Strange tastes The B has these days.
Yesterday, for lunch, he requested a melon sandwich.
Needless to say, I declined.
Eating his cheese-on-toast a little later, he stopped and looked at it in disdain for a moment.
"I eat seaweed for lunch at nursery," he said.
It can be arranged.
4) Still on the food theme, an unusual request the other morning.
"Daddy?" he said in the special tone he reserves for the strangest questions, "can we make a soufflé this afternoon?"
Never made one in my life, not about to start now.
5) Developed another obsession, this one the result of several hours spent watching Octonauts.
It's one that means he refuses to exit the bath until all the water has gone, The B fascinated with watching at close quarters as it disappears down the plughole.
The specific obsession is whirlpools. Or as he calls them, wormpools.

@SAHDandproud and an offer I couldn't refuse . . . .

2011-11-14T14:32:00.001Z

That Don Corleone and me.
Like two peas in a pod, we are.
You might not think it to look at us but on the parenting front, at least, we're singing from the same sheet.
Take the following line, for example: "...a man who doesn't spend time with his children can never be a real man."
There's no question that I don't put the hours in.
For me, Marlon Brando doesn't feature enough on parenting blogs.
Until now, that is.
You might have noticed that I'm sporting a rather spiffing badge featuring Mario Puzo's gregarious Godfather.
It's because, I'm pleased to report, I've been named @SAHDandproud's Don of the Week.
If you've never looked in on @SAHDandproud, click here.
You'll not regret it because, as blogs go, it's a blinder, a regular read here at @homedad HQ, and it's an honour to receive such an award from such a fine fella.
The Don award is, I'm told, in recognition of Fiction Fridays, the first meme to emanate from this here blog.
Fiction Fridays proved popular on its first ever outing last week, and I've had messages from several bloggers keen to join in this time around.
If you missed Fiction Fridays, click here to learn more.
The rules, guidelines and official #FF badge can be found here. The first Fiction Fridays post - #FF1 - is here.
I'm pleased to report that @SAHDandproud didn't miss the inaugural #FF and it's no surprise that his choice ranked amongst the @homedad favourites. You can find it here.
Other fabulous Fiction Friday included these from @stressymummy, @mummy_cool, @musodad and @childledchaos.
Thanks to everyone for taking part, I hope you'll join in again this week, and thanks again to @SAHDandproud, whose badge I'm wearing with pride.

The G, The B and The Bookstart bombardment

2011-11-14T07:30:00.001Z

Something to treasure: Bookstart at its best....

In the days before Facebook, what did people do at libraries?
I ask the question because, whenever we visit ours, it always strikes me as strange the fact that no-one else there appears to have the slightest interest in borrowing books.
It's not as though it's not busy, far from it, in fact.
It's just that, us apart, everyone there is concentrated in the small area around the computers, each one awaiting a chance to access their accounts and update their Facebook 'friends' as to their most up-to-date movements (OMG!!!! I'm in the library, LOL :))) !!!!!! LMAO xxxx, that kind of thing).
Don't mistake me, I'm not complaining.
If nothing else, it means that there are far more books for us to choose from.
It's a good thing because, unless our haul is in double figures, The B&G are just not satisfied.
It'd be nice, just for once, to be allowed to leave with just our books and not be press-ganged into taking home the latest ream from Bookstart.
I'm not against Bookstart - far from it, in fact - because anything that encourages children to read more is to be applauded.
It's the continual bombardment that I find a little tiresome, the fact that, each time I take The B&G to the local library, there's another project for us to bring home, one that, as a rule, involves little more than borrowing a book and receiving a sticker as a reward.
Given that The B&G take out at least five books apiece on each visit, it's not as though stickers are required, nor the accompanying literature urging us to read more.
One such scheme offered junior readers one sticker for each book borrowed during the school summer holidays, challenging children to take out six books during the seven-week break. The fact that The B&G carried home more than that from the same single visit suggests that perhaps, just perhaps, we're not the target market.
The real bugbear is that on the occasions that we've put all objections aside and tried to take part, from one librarian to the next, no-one involved in the process seems to understand it enough to make it worthwhile.
The latest scheme meant The B&G got a 'passport' to take home, the idea being that each time a book is borrowed, a sticker designed to look like a visa stamp is issued.
In theory, great. In practice, we take it with us on our next visit and that day's librarian has never seen the 'passport' before, has no idea what to do with it and looks at me as though I've spent the morning making it at home as some kind of cunning ruse designed to extract undeserved rewards from the unwitting.
"I think you're supposed to give us a sticker to put in it," I suggest, cue much rooting through drawers, checking in the back, calling colleagues in other libraries on the telephone, all to no avail.
Two possible outcomes here:
1) The stickers can't be found, making the entire process pointless and leaving The B&G disappointed.
2) The stickers are located after much searching, moving us one step closer to the ultimate reward.
The ultimate reward is a certificate.
It looks as though it has been designed on a ZX81.
If we're lucky, the librarian might scrawl The B&G's names on in a black marker pen.
If we're really lucky, the handwriting might almost be legible.
I've long felt that the issue here lies with the libraries rather than with Bookstart per se, a suspicion that appears to have been borne out in recent days.
You see, another week, another Bookstart initiative, the difference being that this is one that has captured the imagination.
There's more to this one than a glorified reward chart and, perhaps most tellingly, this is one that has come not from the library, but from The B&G's nursery.
It is packaged as a rather attractive pirate's treasure chest, the contents including, amongst other things, two books, crayons and a drawing pad.
One book, We're going on a bear hunt, is known to us already, the other, You choose, was not a familiar title.

It is the latter that has proved more popular than anything else emanating from Bookstart, the basic concept being that each page contains different categories (where you'd like to live, what clothes you'd like to wear, what food you'd like to eat and so on) and the children use the striking illustrations to build their own, personalised tale.
The things I've learned from this book include the following:
1) The G would like to live in the jungle.
2) The B's favourite food is a pig's head, as long as (and it's an important condition, this) it has an apple stuffed into its gaping mouth.
3) The G is keen to learn bungee jumping.
4) The B is not.
5) The Bookstart initiative is important, it just needs to be administered a little better.

Furthermore, I've discovered (from The B) that I shouldn't acquire the following headgear, the hats in question being:

1) Too yellow.

2) Too Scottish.

I've also learnt that The G has her future career all planned out.
You see, when she grows up, The G would like to be . . . .

. . The Queen.

Knowing her as I do, I'm not surprised.

Silent Sunday 13.11.11

2011-11-13T08:30:00.000Z

Ice Hockey™, SAHD-style: it's a far superior sport

2011-11-12T20:15:00.000Z

No rink required.......

Earlier this afternoon, I invented a new sport.

I've decided to call it ice hockey™.

I know what you're thinking: That ice hockey™ exists already, and that someone has beaten me to it.

The thing is, I'm aware of that particular pastime.

I just choose not to recognise it.

You see, ice hockey™, the one that I invented a little earlier, that is, is a far superior sport, one that can be played anywhere, by anyone (anyone owning a freezer, that is).

The other one - the one that I refuse to recognise - requires an ice rink and, here at @homedad HQ, that's something I've still to get around to installing.

But ice hockey™, the one that I'm planning to patent at the earliest opportunity, can be a much more impromptu event, one that can be played sans rink.

I can't take all the credit, though, because I did have a little help.

It was The B's idea to spend the morning making ice, a pursuit that, for inexplicable reasons, he has been nagging me to indulge him in for several days.

The G helped, selecting a suitable receptacle from the Tupperware drawer, pouring in the water and holding open the freezer door for us.

That was first thing this morning, precipitating several hours of relentless nagging, The B on countless occasions imploring me to check to see if the ice is ready.

I admit that, at that stage, I didn't have a plan for the end product.

It wasn't until we removed it from the freezer, the ice set solid in its small, round plastic container that it struck me that, unwittingly, we'd made a hockey puck.

From ice. Quite literally, an ice hockey puck, and a sport had been born.

It strikes me as strange that no-one has thought of this before.

Exchange the ice rink for an ice puck and there it is, an all-singing, all-dancing DIY at-home ice hockey™ kit. Well, almost.

The final step, the piece de resistance: Rooting around in the garage, I retrieved two oversized plastic clubs from The B&G's garden golf game, then outside, onto the deck, for ice hockey's™ inaugural contest.

To be honest, deciphering the rules proved a little difficult, the participants (The B&G) came to blows at one stage and no-one watching had the foggiest as to what was going on.

In that regard, ice hockey™ has a lot in common with that other event that we don't like to talk about, but our sport is, without question, the best.

Fiction Fridays #1: Guess how much I love you . . .

2011-11-11T07:30:00.002Z

FF#1
Guess how much I love you: Sam McBratney, Anita Jeram (1994).

Read more about Fiction Fridays here.
Like to take part? Read the rules and guidelines and get the badge here.

Our morning in moods.....

2011-11-10T10:47:00.000Z

Clockwise, from top left: 7.30am, 8am, 9am, 10am.....

Pictures (and moods) all courtesy of The B.

If you see a crocodile, don't forget to scream . . .

2011-11-09T13:44:00.000Z

Crocodile starboard side, Captain.......

To risk sounding like a right flash so-and-so . . .
. . . we're just back from the Marina.
This isn't a boast, believe me.
It's not as impressive as it sounds: a marina it might be, Monte Carlo it ain't.
I've mentioned before that our home is at the coast and that The B&G are interested in all matters maritime.
The G in particular has a thing about boats at this moment in time.
Hence our outing to the marina following the latest instalment of our morning music group.
The B&G both like to explore the car park for boats (as certain household members call it), perusing craft of all kind, casting a curious eye over the gnarled old sea dogs and fantasising about ocean adventures.
I did a little fantasising myself, having discovered several boats displaying 'For Sale' signs.
Testing the water, if you'll pardon the pun, I asked the B&G if they'd like me to purchase a modest vessel for our own use.
The G almost nodded her head off, but The B, having been in quite good fettle up to that point, looked, all of a sudden, in considerable discomfort.
I enquired as to the issue and he started to squirm.
"I don't want a boat," he squealed.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because a crocodile might come along and eat it while we're sailing on it," he replied, turning and hotfooting it back to the car.
I hadn't realised the crocodiles had become so prevalent around here.
Come to think of it, perhaps buying a boat isn't such a good idea after all.

For the best in books it must be Fiction Fridays

2011-11-08T13:54:00.001Z

I chose this book. Not that I'm bitter.

Last Christmas, The B&G bought The W a book.
It proved to be rather popular, so much so that, to this day, I still regret allowing them to take all the credit.
I chose it, paid for it and wrapped it up in festive paper, after all.
That's another issue, one for another time perhaps.
The point I'm trying to make here is that books are important to us, both adult publications (and no, I don't mean that kind, thank-you) and, perhaps more pertinently, literature for children.
It was with the latter in mind that said present ended up beneath the Christmas Tree, being, as it is, a guide to the most popular kids' books that have ever been published.
It's called 1001 Children's Books you must read before you grow up and, well, it does what it says on the tin.
It's a little on the thick side, as the title suggests, each of the 1001 chosen titles being reviewed somewhere between its covers.
Lots of our favourites feature, The Gruffalo, Green Eggs and Ham, Curious George, Gorilla, Kipper, Meg & Mog and We're Going on a Bear Hunt to name but a handful.
There are countless others that haven't made the cut. That got me thinking.
I've been planning to start a meme for some time (it has taken me so long because, for several months, I didn't understand what a meme was) and this subject has me inspired. Therefore, starting this Friday, I'll be using this blog to feature the most favouritist reads to be found on our own bookshelves, one at a time.
I'm calling it Fiction Fridays (what with it being about fiction and running on Fridays and all, it seemed apt), and I'm hoping that some other like-minded bloggers might like to take part.
In short, Fiction Fridays involves choosing a relevant read, photographing it and posting it dans le blog for others to see.
To take part in the first ever Fiction Friday, I'm inviting @SAHDandproud, @stressymummy, @mammasaurusblog, @mummy_cool and @dotterel. I'm hoping they'll post their own Fiction Friday, and that they'll invite their own favourite bloggers to join in too. It's possible they'll not be interested. Should such a situation arise, I'll not be cross.
I'm also hoping that other @homedad readers take up the challenge, the more the merrier, in fact.
In the long run, perhaps we can create our own encyclopaedic guide to children's books. Perhaps it could be named after me.
In the meantime, click here for further details and the all-important guidelines.
Here's to the best books. Here's to Fiction Fridays!

Supersonic stress or a calm car to Cumbria?

2011-11-07T06:30:00.000Z

Matchbox Air: Our flying partners for the foreseeable future....

The @homedad's Guide to Stressful Situations* suggests that the two most trying things in life are:
1) Small children.
2) The airport.
That in mind, we've always made a point not to mix the two, instead going to great lengths not to take the former to the latter, that is, our holidays post-B&G having been taken a little closer to home.
It's not forever, or so the argument goes.
In recent times, though, the clamour for foreign climes has intensified and it's not just me that has the itch.
Yesterday, for example, The B became the latest in the household to stake a claim for an overseas excursion during a lunchtime rest period.
"Have I ever been on an aeroplane?" he asked.
I answered in the negative.
"I'd like to go on an aeroplane tomorrow," he replied, his response articulated in his usual forthright fashion.
I explained that planes don't operate quite like buses or trains.
He thought this over for a moment.
"Ollie's been on an aeroplane," he said, as though that particular fact might alter the fundamental rules of air travel.
It didn't, although it did spark a debate about our destination should, for argument's sake, our self-imposed airline ban be brought to an end in the foreseeable future.
The B's choice: The South Pole, a suggestion that received an immediate veto from all present.
"What about France?" I asked him.
"Too windy," he replied.
Ditto Italy, Holland and Spain.
Time for the trump card, or at least, so I thought.
"There's always America," I said.
He paused, gave it quick consideration and began to load his fork once again.
"Too noisy," he said, matter-of-fact, resuming his lunch, a clear signal that the debate had come to an end.
Center Parcs it is then.

* Not available from all good booksellers.

Silent Sunday 6.11.11

2011-11-06T08:00:00.001Z

Submarines, sharks & slipping on the seaweed

2011-11-03T10:48:00.001Z

Submarine? Or shark?

Living at the coast has some obvious advantages.
Forget, for a moment, the gale-force winds that left The G unable to stand up straight one afternoon last week and the unbearable din that accompanies Seagull Mating Season.
Taking everything into consideration, more often than not, we do like to be beside the seaside.
Yesterday, for instance, post-morning music group, time enough for a short outing.
Into the car, head up the coast, indulging in a little light boat spotting en route.
The B, at one point, thought he'd sighted something unusual out at sea.
"It's a submarine," he squealed.
Cue a discussion that came to an abrupt end after I suggested that it had perhaps been a boat after all.
"But a submarine is a boat," he said.
That was me told.
Two or three minutes later, when he spotted some dolphins, whales and a shark (14 in total, he said), I chose to remain quiet.
"Do 42 sea creatures live in the sea?" he persisted.
"There might be even more than that," I said.
"49?" he asked.
Before I could address the issue, we'd reached our final destination, an attraction that I've been meaning to visit for ages.
Disembarking, The G looked up at it in awe and pointed.
"Big one," she said, impressed.
"Big what?" I encouraged.
"Big That," she replied and set off towards it at top speed (for the record, in wellies, that's not that fast).
I left it to The B to inform her that the Big That in question was, in fact, a lighthouse.
"Grandpa Rabbit lives in a lighthouse," he added, suggesting that he has learned more from Peppa Pig than he has from me in recent times.
It had been our plan to climb right to the top but, having crossed the causeway, we found the lighthouse closed.
Never fear, we retraced our steps and spent the subsequent hour flinging stones into the deep pools that the retreating sea had left behind.
Much more fun, rocks and water, a never-ending supply, just another coastal benefit.
So all in all, an enjoyable outing.
That is, until The G lost her footing on some seaweed and disappeared into a rock pool.
Time for a sharp exit, home again, her coat bound for the laundry, the third time this week (impressive, given that it was only Wednesday).
It's that time of year, the washing machine is working hard to earn its keep.
Living at the coast, as we do, it has to.

The Malteser Feast & the Hummus Mountain

2011-11-02T13:51:00.001Z

Chocolate Schmocolate: Pass the olives........

Just read in the paper that Pippa Middleton, she of the arse fame, has set herself up as a consultant, offering help and advice intended to enable parents to organise better parties for their children.
Far be it from me to question her credentials, but some of her ideas are . . . . . well, a little on the interesting side.
Take, for instance, this recommendation for the all-important tea that tends to be a party's climax and the thing that it is often remembered for most.
Pippa's tip to ensure the childrens' satisfaction is to provide lots and lots of tomatoes, bananas and avocados.
Not high on the list at the parties that The B&G get invited to, that's for sure.
I took The B to one last month
Tea-time, the hordes flocked to the long table bearing the food, delighted to discover that, alongside the countless trays of beautifully-chopped carrots and cucumber sticks stood bowls filled to the brim with Maltesers and several plates of chocolate fingers.
Needless to say, once they'd helped themselves, no child had a plate that wasn't made up, almost exclusively, of brown goods.
Near the end, and I swear this is true, one parent turned to another and remarked, "But no-one has eaten the hummus."
Strange that.

Cats like chips and the age obsession

2011-11-02T08:18:00.000Z

Cat Two: Hope it's chips, it's chips.....

Following on from the ZZ Top episode, some selected comments to have emanated from The B in recent days.
1) Monday, soft play, The B befriended a small girl and her mother.
The session over, he brought his latest friends over for a quick meet and greet.
Pointing at the little girl (as usual, he didn't bother to learn her name), he announced, 'She's one-and-a-half'.
He has an age obsession, as the little girl's mum had, to my cost, discovered.
"He just said to me, 'I'm four' and my sister's two'," she told me.
I nodded, nothing unusual in that, that's normal B banter.
"Then he said, 'My Daddy's really, really old'," she added, her amusement obvious.
Nice touch, that.
2) Last night, me and The W, discussing some admin jobs that need to be done.
One is to inform the people who manage the data that is stored on the cats' microchip implants that our home address has changed.
To be honest, we moved almost two years ago and have never got around to doing this, a failing that prompts a panic whenever we're unable to locate one or both cats.
The B, eating his tea, hadn't been listening to the conversation, but appeared to tune in just as The W said the words "cats' microchips".
Hearing this, he sprang into life, a thrilled look forming on his face.
"Cats like chips?" he asked.

Laying eggs, RSI & the curse of persuasive porkers

2011-11-01T11:03:00.000Z

The latest in gaming, SAHD-style.........

Repetitive Strain Injury, not a condition that tends to ail small children.
Until now, that is.
The G has a touch, it's true, and I guess I'll have to take the blame.
If it means anything, I think it's Peppa Pig's fault.
You see, since allowing the persuasive porker into our lives in September, Peppa has managed to get her trotters under the table in no uncertain terms.
The most used phrase in our house in recent times?
"Watch Peppa Pig?"
It's not just on the television that Peppa has begun to take over, either.
There's the magazine, for one thing, the toys for another.
The other day, doing a little shopping at Tesco, The G discovered a soft snorting Peppa that had been positioned on a shelf in an enticing manner.
"I take home," she said, not a question.
Things have got so bad that, yesterday, during a lull in proceedings, The B&G pestered me to make them a Peppa Pig board game.
I obliged, using an old cereal box to fashion the board and cutting up the aforementioned magazine to make counters.
That done, we spent an entire afternoon engaged in pig-themed battle.
Not that I'm complaining.
You see, it beats the alternative, the thing that has given The G a little RSI and left the laptop's left mouse button more than a touch on the unresponsive side.
That thing? The Happy Mrs Chicken game.
It's George Pig's favourite on television and, having discovered it online, The B&G have come to like it quite a lot too.
It's a simple concept: In a nutshell, there's a chicken (the eponymous Mrs Chicken) who, when the mouse button is depressed, lays an egg to the sound of an amusing noise.
That's it.
The main problem is that the game has no end.
Keep clicking the button, the chicken keeps laying ad infinitum.
Unchecked, it can last for hours.
The result? The G's finger hurts and the mouse no longer operates as it once did.
Still, it keeps them quiet, I suppose . . .

Parenting, pineapples & ZZ Top

2011-10-31T07:30:00.000Z

Baby say....pineapple?

You know, I like to think I'm OK at this parenting lark.
That is, taking everything into consideration, all in all, I'm quite sure I do a reasonable job more often than not.
There have been some things I've not been too good at en route, but then, some fundamental anatomical restrictions don't make it simple for men in certain regards.
Then there's the other stuff. The stuff that The W does that much better.
It might just be me, but I suspect it might just be a man thing.
Take eye colour, for instance.
Nothing more humiliating than, having changed GP, getting to the part on the registration form that says 'colour of child's eyes'.
The receptionist is looking on.
I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't a clue.
I tell her I'm not certain what colour my own eyes are, let alone theirs.
I smile.
She isn't impressed.
There are other examples to be found on the stuff-you're-supposed-to-know list.
Height and weight?
No idea.
Right-handed or left?
Not sure.
First words?
Interesting question.
The latter topic came up the other afternoon, me and The G collecting The B from nursery, his group having been talking about their first words.
"Daddy, what was your first word?" he asked.
I thought for a moment and admitted I had no clue.
"Mine was bubble," he announced.
News to me, it's true, but then, given that I have no recollection, I didn't argue.
I asked him about his peers and their first words.
One little boy's, he said, had been blue.
It sounded plausible, I thought.
Then he told me about the girl whose first word had been pineapple.
I might not do the stuff-you're-supposed-to-know all that well, but even I can see straight through that one.

I feared The G had developed some challenging musical tastes last night.

Post-bath, scheduled to put on her pyjamas, she could be found lying on the floor repeating the same thing over and over again.

That thing?

"ZZ Top, ZZ Top, ZZ Top," it went, or at least, so I thought.

I listened a while longer and still it continued.

"ZZ Top, ZZ Top, ZZ Top."

She paused for a breath.

"What were you just saying?" I asked.

She looked at me, a little annoyed, as though I hadn't been listening.

"ZZ Top," she said, not pleased at having to repeat herself.

So it continued, until at last I realised she'd been asking me to pass her a pyjama top, the one that features Upsy Daisy, her favourite character from In the Night Garden.

It had been Daisy top, not ZZ Top.

Relieved?

Damn right.

Silent Sunday 30.10.11

2011-10-30T09:00:00.001Z

Pigs' bottoms, burping & great big piles of poo

2011-10-27T07:45:00.004+01:00

Pig: "No bottom photos allowed......."

Yesterday, a typical kind of an outing.
Finding ourselves at a loose end at home, we headed instead to the farm.
En route, in the car, The G burped.
"I burped," she announced a split second later, beaming, proud as punch.
"Don't talk about burps," The B admonished, reverting to his role as the Familial Enforcer. "It's rude."
In such situations, The B likes to think that he understands etiquette.
He can't sustain it.
Case in point: Later, at the farm, a large pig was encountered.
"I can see its bottom," The B declared, thrilled, the most exciting thing ever. "Quick Daddy, take a photograph."
I obliged, to a point, waiting until the pig had turned around before pressing the button.
"Let me see," The B demanded, taking the camera to inspect my efforts.
Noticing the absence of pig posterior in the picture, he made his disappointment in me all too clear.
I made up for it, finding the 'attraction' that proved the morning's most popular.
It was one that most people don't even stop to look at.
Normal people, that is.
Huge manure heap, steaming in the cold October air.
"Look at that great big pile of mud," The B said.
I corrected him, informing him that said pile was, in fact, poo.
That got their attention.
"But why's the poo pile on fire?" asked Mr Inquisitive.
Cue an in-depth conversation about manure, its make-up and the reasons behind its steaming state.
Like I said, a typical kind of an outing.

Boobie talk, Polos & Hello Kitty's cat food

2011-10-26T08:18:00.001+01:00

Polos: These treats are mint.....

I've mentioned before that certain people in the household are growing up rather fast.
The B in particular, it seems, is closing in on middle age.
The other day, The B&G had been good so I offered them a post-lunch treat.
Such things live in the aptly-named Treat Drawer, a receptacle that is, at present, rather well stocked.
The G, as is her wont, chose something chocolate.
"I'd like a Polo," declared The B, selecting mints that hadn't been intended for the household's smaller members.
Had the drawer contained some Werther's Originals (The W, who is herself growing up fast, likes them), I have no doubt that he'd have chosen them instead.
Treat time over, I asked The B if he'd enjoyed his Polo.
"Absolutely," he answered.
You see, he's not even talking like a four-year-old these days.
That doesn't mean that he doesn't still like a little childish banter, because he does.
The other morning, for example, in the playground, all sitting on the seesaw, The G dropped a conversational bombshell.
"Boobies," she said.
Silence, for just a moment, then The B began to laugh so hard he almost fell off.
There then followed a prolonged discussion that went a little like this:
The B: Boobies?
The G: Boobies.
Pause.
The G: Boobies?
The B: Boobies.
I tried to intervene, really, I did.
Me: Stop saying boobies.
This just made things worse, so after a while I gave up.
It took quite a long time, but in the end, the boobies lost their appeal (I never thought I'd be using that line, not in this blog, at least).
Back home again and The B embarked on an interrogation that persuaded me that he is still a normal four-year-old after all.
Posing the most random questions, firing them at you one after the other, no time for thought, little logic, there is nothing more age appropriate.
The most recent highlights:
1) Is there an airport at the North Pole?
2) Is a pancake good at flying?
3) Is a magic pancake good at flying?
4) How do you build a tree?
5) Does Hello Kitty eat cat food?
The best one, number five.
Now, pass me those Polos.

Cat Stress 2: The Violin Years

2011-10-25T11:24:00.001+01:00

Cat Two: "Tell me that's not a violin......"

Cat Two's stress levels are, I'm pleased to report, starting to recede a little, his symptoms at last beginning to clear.
Little idea does he have of the things that are lying not too far around the corner.
Had he but the slightest clue, I'm sure he'd pack up his things (not that he has much in the stuff department, it's true) and go and seek his fortune elsewhere, a little like a real-life Puss-in-Boots, just minus the boots.
I'm thinking about one issue in particular, something that he is going to struggle with.
If it offers Cat Two the slightest consolation, he'll not be on his own.
You see, The W and I have been to take a look around the school that, it is hoped, The B will start next September, and The G 12 months after that.
It's rather nice.
It's got all the stuff that one tends to expect: a large hall for assemblies, cloakrooms, dining room, classrooms and a spacious playground.
The Headteacher seemed nice and said all the right things, although, If I'm honest, the lessons that we got to sit in on caused me one or two slight concerns.
I've always imagined myself helping The B&G with their homework, but even at this level - Primary, that is - I'm afraid I might be out of my depth.
One lesson was in something called phonics.
I'm sure I never did that at school.
Heck, I'm not even sure what it is.
Still, I have a little time to find out, I suppose, and anyway, it's not the biggest concern to arise from our visit. Far from it, in fact.
No, that came towards our tour's end, the proud Headteacher showing us a well-stocked music room, something I hadn't been expecting.
"Of course, we encourage the children to start learning an instrument as soon as possible," the Headteacher announced and, with that, she gave us all a knowing wink and looked purposely towards a large heap of violins, stacked in a corner, awaiting their next victims.
You know, if I close my eyes I can hear the screeching already.
I'm not going to tell Cat Two about this, because ignorance is bliss and, for now, he seems more content than he has done for quite some time.
But if he thinks he's stressed now. . . .

Pencil sharpeners & sticks, leaves & the loft

2011-10-24T13:55:00.000+01:00

Pencil sharpener: good times guaranteed.......

The B has got a new favourite hobby: sharpening pencils.
It might not sound like the most appealing pastime, but he can do it for hours.
He received a rather nice art set for his birthday, pens, pencils, crayons, paints, the lot, all contained in its own zip-up bag, a little like a briefcase, Toy Story-themed and everything.
He quite likes the watercolours but really, in truth, there's nothing that can compare.
Sharpening pencils, that's where it's at.
So much so that his pencil crayons have all but disappeared, not from prolonged colouring, but as a result of his non-stop pencil sharpening programme.
It's strange the things that engage them sometimes.
The G is just the same.
Suggest an outing, anywhere at all, soft play, shopping, a museum, the park.
There's nowhere she'd rather go than the loft.
Up in the attic, it's her favourite spot, she can't get enough.
On the occasions that we do venture out, the The G is more interested in finding a good stick to bring home than she is in her actual environment; she's a little like a dog in that regard.
On reflection, that's not quite true.
Sticks are so last season.
Right now, leaves are her favourite, her collection growing into an impressive pile at the front doorstep.
The point I'm making is this: Christmas is right around the corner.
If pencil sharpeners and sticks and leaves and the loft can entertain The B&G so much, is there a real need to provide all the latest toys and games on December 25?
I'm just asking.

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Silent Sunday 23.10.11

2011-10-23T12:33:00.000+01:00

Oh help, oh no, it's a . . . Buffalo?

2011-10-22T21:15:00.000+01:00

Gruffalo: Axel Scheffler, eat your heart out.....

The G has a crush.
It's more a fixation really, I suppose, an obsession that has lasted quite a long time already, but one showing no signs of abating any time soon.
The subject of her affections? What can I say about him?
Erm, well, he has terrible tusks and terrible claws.
Oh yes, he also has terrible teeth in his terrible jaws.
His eyes are orange, his tongue is black. He has purple prickles all over his back.
Good looking fella, eh? And no, it's not me.
It's The Gruffalo, or as The G often calls him, The Buffalo (we're working on that).
Right now, The G cannot get enough, a typical day going a little like this:
Get up (having dreamed about The Gruffalo), go downstairs to admire our chalkboard rendition (see picture above, not bad, eh?) and sit down for breakfast. Right now, Gruffalobix doesn't exist, but if it did, that'd be what she'd eat (note to self, must write to Julia Donaldson/Kellogg's about that).
Breakfast finished, we find the giant Gruffalo floor puzzle and, that done, retire to the sofa for a little light reading.
First up, The Gruffalo. Then The Gruffalo's Child. Then The Gruffalo again.
On some days, she'll demand that I put on The Gruffalo DVD.
Last weekend, enjoying some quiet time on The W's knee, The G sat through it twice, a back-to-back double-bill.
That tends to take up the morning, time then to eat.
That prompts a little envy, The G jealous that the Little Brown Mouse says that he's off to have lunch with a Gruffalo, whilst she has to make do with me and The B.
Still, one or two Gruffalo-themed activities in the afternoon more than make up for that.
The Gruffalo, I must admit, ranks amongst mine and The W's own favourite reads.
It's a good job.

This is life as a stay-at-home dad: The challenges of small children, parenting SAHD-style. Like this blog? Please share, spread the word, it couldn't be easier. Facebook, Twitter, email or carrier pigeon, the method doesn't matter. If you like reading about @homedad and the stay-at-home dad experiment, please tell your friends.

Feel free to leave a comment or use the button above to get in touch. You can also find me here on Twitter. Thanks for reading, please keep coming to learn more about me, The B & The G and life as a stay-at-home dad. This blog is all about us, from the mundane to the momentous. This is @homedad. One man, two children: the trials & tribulations of full-time fatherhood.

Glue sniffing 101: Bostik for beginners

2011-10-21T14:05:00.003+01:00

Glue: Brilliant

Chatting about chain letters during the previous post got me thinking about other dangers, real or otherwise, that I remember from childhood.
There was the aforementioned corruptive correspondence, and the other ever-present peril, strangers bearing sweets.
Then, as I recall, there was glue sniffing.
Do people still do glue sniffing?
I'm not sure.
You don't hear a lot about it these days, that's for certain.
The 1980s, though, it was massive back then.
I have an ulterior motive for bringing this subject up, I'm afraid, because the other day, you see, I myself indulged in a little light glue sniffing.
I should perhaps point out that it wasn't deliberate, rather the unwitting kind, although I appreciate that that's not the greatest defence.
I should perhaps explain.
The B had, during a quiet morning at home, asked me to make him a bed for Rollo and certain other friends (soft toys, that is).
I obliged, fashioning it from the material I understand best, the one that I use for all such craft projects: an old cardboard box.
Given that it was going to be a bed, and determined to ensure Rollo's comfort, I cut out some felt to line the box and began to search for something to use to stick it down.
Looking at the glue in The B&G's art box, I decided it wasn't up to the job, not strong enough, insufficient stick for such an important assignment.
This was, I felt, a job for a superior adhesive, the glue from the garage or, as The B calls it, Mummy and Daddy Glue.
Having instructed The B to stand well back, I applied it in generous measure and stuck the felt down fast, the end result rather pleasing.
Rollo liked it, at least.
That's when the fumes began to take hold.
In hindsight, I perhaps didn't take sufficient measures to ensure the adequate ventilation that the tube prescribed, not thinking that I'd be using the glue in such quantities.
The B noticed it first, a contented look forming on his face.
"Your Mummy and Daddy Glue smells brilliant," he said.
Lesson learnt, time to open some windows.

Snakes and Ladders and Liebsters all round!

2011-10-20T16:03:00.001+01:00

The B exacts his revenge.....

Other than beating The B at air hockey, victories I've been told that I'm not supposed to celebrate, I've never been one for winning things.
Raffles? Never.
The Lotto? Forget about it, not even the occasional tenner.
I took on The B on the Snakes and Ladders board three or four days ago and lost, him reaching the all-important 100th square, me still stuck on number six.
Damn snakes.
You'll have to forgive me here, I'm starting to ramble.
The point I'm trying to make is this: Finally, at long last, I've won something.
It's a triumph that I am allowed to toast.
It's called a Liebster Blog Award and it means that I'm doing something right.
On the blog front, that is.
In regard to the parenting side of things, I've just been told that I could do better.
The B is entitled to his opinion.

So, a Liebster, eh? That's me, right enough.
To me, this is all a little new, but I'm told it's a little like a chain letter.
Not like the chain letters I remember from childhood, when Blue Peter warned us about the evils of such things, things that at the time were considered just a little less dangerous than accepting sweets from strangers.
No, this is like a good chain letter.
It's all thanks to acquaintances old and new, each brilliant blogsters like myself, their own efforts having been rewarded in similar fashion in recent times.
The first nomination came from Minibreak Mummy, the second from the irrepressible SAHDandproud.
The latter says he hates me, but I don't believe him.
He called me a dude, after all.
So thanks and all to both, please be sure to check out their blooming marvellous blogs and, SAHD, good luck getting that soiling thing sorted out.
In order to acccept the Liebster Award, it just remains for me to nominate five blogs that I've been enjoying to become the next Liebster recipients.
I hope you like them too.
But not quite as much as you like @homedad.
That'd just be wrong.

So here goes, the @homedad nominations for some lovely, lovely Liebsters are:

1) Lies I tell my kids: Brilliant concept, outrageously good blog. Funny, touching, bittersweet and brilliant, this is one talented chap.
2) Love Dad Blogs: Dads, blogs, several million robots, what more does one need? Excellent idea, excellent blogger, deserves a special mention for helping us all out. Bravo!
3) Miniteadevotee: The tagline says it all, Adventures of a Bewildered New Parent. One of the wittier blogs out there, entertaining and insightful. It's a good read guaranteed.
4) Guerilla Dad: Standing on slugs, Riggs and Murtaugh, Tootsie Rolls et al. You have to see it to believe it. Great graphics, great blog. Just mind where you're stepping.
5) Mummy Cool: You know, it's not everyone who can make such exquisite film-themed food faces. Check out Mrs Troutfire and I'm sure you'll agree!

So there it is, @homedad's top five, Liebsters all. I urge the Famous Five to go forth and multiply, to select your own favourites and reward them accordingly, help us take over the planet (or whatever it is we're supposed to be doing here, I'm still a little unclear on the details). Download the Liebster badge and wear it with pride - on your blog, that is, not your favourite sweater.
For everyone else, please read, bookmark, subscribe or do whatever else it is you do with this stuff.
To quote SAHD shamelessly, the world is a better place with these people blogging.
Mine is, at least.

Feel free to leave a comment or use the button above to get in touch. Thanks for reading, please keep coming to learn more about me, The B & The G and life as a stay-at-home dad. This blog is all about us, from the mundane to the momentous. This is @homedad. One man, two children: the trials & tribulations of full-time fatherhood.

It's up with Calpol, down with Health Visitors

2011-10-18T22:49:00.004+01:00

And the winner is......

Some odds and ends and observations.
1) This just in, the ever-so-scientific results from the first-ever @homedad official survey, calculated using the data gathered from comments left on this blog.
The finding? That it's Calpol 1 Health Visitors 0, the general consensus suggesting that the former is brilliant, the latter rather pointless.
2) On the Calpol front, The G is feeling much better, but our medicine supplies are dwindling. It's time to fill the tank.
3) Still on the Calpol theme, The B felt he might be missing out, so much so that he feigned a little illness the other night. Not too convincing, it must be said.
Me (to The G): Come and get in the bath and I'll give you some Calpol (note the good use of a bribe there).
The B: I feel poorly.
Me: Do you? Which bit of you?
The B (after thinking for several moments): Erm, my tummy?
Me (a touch suspicious now): Are you just saying that so I'll give you some Calpol?
There followed a short silence.
The B: Yeah.
Close, but no Calpol.
4) Uncouth as ever, The B made some bubbles in the bath two or three nights ago using a method that is not to be encouraged. Caught unawares, I'm ashamed to admit that I emitted the heartiest of laughs.
Feeling I might be setting a bad example, I tried to regain composure for long enough to admonish him.
Me: That's rude.
The B: So why are you laughing then?
Damn.
5) Despite the unfortunate pigs episode the other day, The G's respect for law-enforcement officers remains intact.
6) Cat Two has appeared a little less stressed in recent days. Since our visit to the vet, we've learned about a product that, when plugged into an electrical socket, releases some kind of happy cat gas into the environment, relieving all worries and making anxious animals a little less stressed.
I think we might get him one. I think I might borrow it.
7) I've tried to fashion some nunchucks using the cardboard tubes from inside used loo paper rolls and other assorted items from The B&G's art box. They'd be no match for Bruce Lee, it has to be said.
8) Growing vocabulary, not always put to the best use. Earlier example, The G to The B: "You're a poo."
9) In The G's room at nursery, one staff member is, shock horror, a man.
Goodness, whatever next?
The G has always been a touch suspicious, so much so that she's never bothered to learn his name (for the record, he's called Dan).
It seems she likes him a little more these days.
This afternoon, after a morning spent at nursery, she stopped calling me Daddy, I noticed.
Now, it seems, I'm also known as Dan.

Oink oink: Peppa Pig and the police car

2011-10-17T13:56:00.000+01:00

Earlier this morning, out and about, driving around in the car.
Shopping to be done, just a little, then to the playground, not our regular one but an old favourite, a special treat for The G, still a touch unwell and needing something to cheer.
Good times - better than normal, in fact, The W, taking a little annual leave, leading us on our expedition - but, lunchtime approaching, back to the car to start heading home.
En route, The B looking out of his window, seeing what he could spot, road signs, other cars, unusual dogs, all the normal stuff.
Slowing down for a junction, I spotted a police car, parked at the pavement, so far unnoticed from the back seats.
"Police car," I said, pointing it out as I passed.
The B looked out and noted said vehicle.
"Pigs," said The G.
Stunned silence in the car.
I thought I must have misheard so I asked her to repeat herself.
She looked up and paused for a moment.
"Oink, oink," she said.
It soon transpired that, unknown to us, The G was, in the back, somewhat engrossed in her newly-acquired Peppa Pig magazine, and had not even noticed the parked police car.
Still, the timing had been impeccable and, as all good comedians appreciate, you just can't buy that.

Calpol, coughing and nunchucks for children

2011-10-15T21:23:00.000+01:00

The Calpol truck delivers direct.

That time of year again, Calpol season.
Most parents like to keep a bottle or two around the house.
Not us.
You know those huge tanks that people who live in houses that use oil-fired central heating systems have in their front gardens?
We have one of those, but it doesn't contain fuel.
I'll let you into a secret. Inside is where we keep our Calpol and, right now, it's full to the brim.
Four doses a day? Pah! It's nowhere near enough, not at times like this, not in Calpol season.
Right now, it's The G needing it the most for she's a little unwell.
Nothing serious, just routine stuff, cough and cold, temperature and tiredness.
Last night it disturbed her sleep to the extent that she ended up in with us. That might not sound that unusual but here it's unheard of, our two having never been great bed sharers.
Her poorliness apart, it was quite nice, although once or twice in her sleep she emitted a bloodcurdling shriek, right into my ear, from a range of just two or three inches.
Still, she seemed a little better this morning, especially after a Calpol-based breakfast and bonus Ibuprofen for elevenses.
Seeking distraction, we headed out to the opening of a new toy shop, something of a miscalculation given that every family within a 25-mile radius had had the same idea.
Think Al's Toy Barn from Toy Story 2, but filled with tracksuits, tattoos and tantrums, the masses doing battle to snatch the best pre-Christmas bargains, children everywhere, toys littering the aisles, abandoned babies, chaos.
It didn't do a lot to make The G feel better, it has to be said.
Indeed, on our return home, I felt the need to join her in a little lunchtime Calpol.
Good job the tank had just been filled.

Your fake muscles are no match for me............

There's not much that I dislike more than those horrible Spiderman dressing-up costumes.
The ones that have the muscles sewn into the arms and chest, I mean.

They're awful things.

Flicking through the Christmas catalogue from the aforementioned shop a little earlier, I was surprised to find that the costumes in question cost £19.99.

On the same page, I noticed a rather stylish ninja suit, £6.99, bargain.

Reading the description beneath said suit I came across the brilliant line nunchucks not included.

To me, that begs an obvious question:

Where does one go to purchase nunchucks for their children these days?