Stuck in the Middle with You.

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In which our reluctant hero is stuck for ideas. Again.

Little people are funny, aren’t they?

Our littlest little person has a silly little game that he likes to play at the moment. It’s a simple idea that usually starts with him crawling behind your legs, under a chair or table, or behind the curtains. The shouting then begins…

“HELP! I’M STUCK!!!”

Enter Player 2, a rookie from the rescue services, who then gets to pretend that they are unable to rescue him for a bit (cue excited giggles) before heroically saving the little man from his perilous fate. Which is a significantly worse predicament to be in than being at a perilous fete, although a badly run tombola can present its own ghastly issues.

“Daddy saved you! Just in the nick of time! Phew!”
“Again, AGAIN!”

Repeat for another half an hour or so and done. Game over. It’s hilarious – for a while – and with the added bonus that you don’t always have to move off the sofa either. Result.

To be fair, I quite like the game. It’s far less stressful than some of his previous ones – pretending that a room has caught light and running around shouting “FIRE! FIRE!!” for starters. Speaking as a Welshman, the Welsh generally don’t have that much to answer for. But, in this case, Fireman Sam is one of them. (See also Jonathan Davies for that horrific clearance that cost us the rugby against England last weekend. Gah.)

Now, I don’t know where the idea for this mildly entertaining pastime came from, but I love the thought and creativity that has gone into it. Proper made up play. It has to be. People just don’t get stuck in things in real life, do they?

Well, apparently they do. According to this snippet that appeared on the BBC News website yesterday…

“Firefighters rescued a woman who became trapped in a tyre at a playground in Flintshire on Wednesday.

A crew from Deeside was sent to the play park in Sealand just before 13:00 GMT.

The woman had stepped through the hole in a car tyre and became wedged inside.

Firefighters spent 10 minutes sawing the rubber and the woman was not injured.”

The Welsh have a lot to answer for.

An adult getting stuck in a tyre at a playground is like an adult reading a Harry Potter book. Neither thing should ever happen as the chosen apparatus is only supposed to be used by young children.

There’s limited details about the individual caught up in this embarrassing debacle, which is probably just as well for her sake. The thing we know for certain is that the lady was clearly far too big to be trying to get through a tyre.

Yes, the adult female body is a complex and wondrous thing, capable of allowing human forms to squeeze through incomprehensibly small spaces. And so are tyres. Sort of. But neither in nor out are interchangeable for grown-ups. Adults, be warned and stay well clear.

I can understand the temptation though. There’s still a part of us that thinks that we’re still about two and that everything will always be fine. They’re usually not.

For example, most of us parents will have tried a children’s swing at some point. They work at first, but is that creaking noise supposed to happen? And what is the noise? The chain about to snap, or just your knees?

Adults entering soft play areas is also a recipe for disaster. If I had a pound for every time that my wife got stuck in a ball pit or climbing too far up the equipment, looking for missing socks or missing children, then I would have almost enough money to afford to take the kids to soft play.

Fitness or, more likely, lack of it, is a problem for many of us parents too. I was a child of the seventies and eighties so remember the humble Spacehopper with great affection. How long could you manage to bounce on it in your prime? Twenty, maybe even thirty seconds before your legs gave in? Divide that by ten, take two off and that’s about how long that I stayed on before being strewn across the lawn in a crumpled mess in the summer of 2016.

Bouncy Castles anyone? You can fill in the gory details of your own recent, probably slightly tipsy, adult experience of these yourself. I feel a stitch coming on just thinking about it.

Will we ever learn? Of course not. So, next time that you get tempted, make sure that you have a responsible adult with you before going in.

Fin.

Question Time

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In which our reluctant hero gets his excuses in early.

Last minute Christmas shopping. Last minute food shopping. Pub. Wrapping. Re-wrapping. Writing labels. Building a flat pack ice cream shop. Dismantling and re-mantling a flat pack ice cream shop after realising that the sides were on the wrong way. Lugging presents downstairs for Father Christmas. Peeling veg on Christmas Eve. Up before the “Sun’s up up in my room, Daddy!” every morning. Overexcited little people. Opening presents. Trying to work out who sent the previously opened presents. Tidying up the mess. Boiling sprouts to within an inch of their existence. Basting the turkey. Serving Christmas dinner. Serving Christmas dinner to the cats. Pulling crackers at every meal or snack time. Rediscovering the terrible joke in our homemade cracker. Setting fire to the pudding. Putting out hat that was a bit too close to the pudding. Washing up. Eating a wheelbarrow’s worth of Celebrations by coffee time. Bedtime meltdowns. Bedtime meltdowns by the kids too. Tidying up the mess. Again. Trip to the tip. Almost chucking the youngest’s buggy in the skips (oops.) Etc.

Christmas. Marvellous isn’t it?

I’ll forgive you for mistaking the above for a thirty second Groundhog Day-esque summary of Christmas Eve to Boxing Day. Close. It is in fact a rather hastily list of excuses as to why I haven’t written, or even thought about writing, a proper post this week. Which is odd as the Christmas period is often seen as a time for quiet thought and contemplation. Its Christmas. With kids. Fat chance.

Although not contemplated quietly, some deep, interesting, and theological (probably) questions did occasionally pop into my head over the period. A fleeting in and out, like Santa on a speed date. Questions such as (in no particular order);

  • Why are over fifty screws, nuts and bolts needed to build a child’s ice cream shop?
  • Where have I put the allen key this time?
  • When is “Escape to Victory” on?
  • How do you store Lego and Duplo in between builds?
  • How did two grown-ups end up spending all afternoon building the Lego?
  • Why do sprouts taste as bitter as a pint of bitter lemon on a chilly night on Christmas Day, but amazing when fried up as breakfast bubble ‘n’ squeak on Boxing Day?
  • Can our recycling pile be seen from space by a naked eye?
  • Working on the basis that everybody who wants to/has to watch Frozen has seen it more than five hundred times already, couldn’t the BBC have given us parents JUST ONE DAY OFF?!
  • Where did all of the salted peanuts go?
  • How do you make the Rapunzel Doll stop singing? In Spanish?
  • What on earth is a Shopkin?
  • Is the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special a new one?
  • What on earth have the boffins at Cadbury done to the Roses wrappers?
  • Why is “Mrs Brown’s Boys” still allowed on the electric television? (Presumably Brendan O’Carroll knows where the bodies are buried.)
  • How do you make the Frozen Doll stop singing? In Spanish?
  • Next year, will it be easier to arrange for my December wages to be paid directly into Amazon’s bank account?
  • Why are the children upstairs playing hospitals when there’s about half of Amazon’s UK stock sat in the living room?
  • Why wasn’t “Escape to Victory” on?
  • Is “re-mantling” even a word?

So there you go. Will I ever get answers to these questions? Probably not. Will I be asking exactly the same things next year. Probably. Ho, ho, ho.

Fin.

Schoolboy Errors

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In which our reluctant hero wishes that he hadn’t bothered. Probably.

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

– Samuel Beckett.

The mantra of every 21st Century (other periods are also available) Dad.

We all make mistakes. The important thing is, of course, learning from them. Or at least not shouting too loudly when your ill thought out sadly-not-as-genius-as-you-had-first-hoped plan comes tumbling down. Like anything at a height of about a foot or more left within a three room radius of a toddler. TIMBER!

They say that eighty percent of success is showing up. They also say that about eighty percent (81.4% if you want to be picky) of statistics are made up on the spot. But let’s not let that put us off. Instead, why don’t we simply celebrate that fact that we, the nation’s Dads, at least showed up despite it probably being better for all concerned if we hadn’t bothered.

So, without further ado, here’s a hastily compiled list of ideas, actions and assumptions that should have stayed firmly lodged in my noggin. Or should have been thought out better. Or something. A list about Dad style parenting. And disaster.

  • Giving a six month old a bowl of Spaghetti Bolognese as part of the weaning process. On a positive note, it saved a few quid on decorations the following Christmas.
  • Assuming that the tabs on that nappy from late 2014 would be sufficient to keep the contents inside during its maiden flight downstairs during a failed attempt to quell the foul stench upstairs. It didn’t.
  • Tempting fate 1 – Bragging that, seven months in, that “I haven’t dropped her… yet” then somehow managing to catapult the seven month old out of a car seat across the living room floor into a full faceplant within 24 hours of the careless comment.
  • Leaving pens and crayons out unattended. The eldest never drew or scribbled on walls, tables or paintwork. So what harm could leaving them there for the youngest possibly do?
  • Assuming that a sleeping baby will remain asleep any longer than the time it takes to sit down and pick a fork or spoon up. It won’t. Ever.
  • Tempting fate 2 – “I’m amazed that we’ve never had a little accident in the bath.” You can guess the rest. Someone pass the Domestos. And a peg.
  • Assuming that two platefuls of a new meal (our savoury fish pancakes, offered after a double refusal of their own tea, if you’re interested) getting scoffed in record time is any indication that the same meal will even be touched again. Especially if it takes about an hour to assemble and you neglect to bang a couple of fish fingers in at the same time as a contingency.
  • Leaving tissues, wipes or toilet roll unattended in any room occupied by an under one for a period of more than fifteen seconds. Isn’t the snow pretty?
  • Letting a toddler out of shopping trolley jail. There’s no going back from this chaos. Trust me.
  • Leaving a toddler in shopping trolley jail too close to the supermarket shelves. It’s only when you get home that you discover the plethora of random items that were chucked in when your back was turned. Does anyone need a whisky laced jam and marmalade set? Free to good home.
  • Tempting fate 3 – “They’ve not had a cold for ages.”
  • Letting little people apply any sort of cream by themselves. They have got elephantine memories, no stop switch and you’ll soon discover just how tricky Sudocrem is to shift out of carpet.
  • Picnics in the front room for a treat. Proceed only if you have a tarpaulin large enough to cover every surface of downstairs. See also mums serving lunch in the back of the car on pre-school days #SchoolgirlError
  • Letting a toddler help feed the cats. In a couple of weeks the cats will love you (more likely the toddler, if we’re honest) but the resulting cat food bill may cause bankruptcy.
  • Installing YouTube Kids. Don’t ever do this. Modern two year olds can break an Enigma machine in about thirty seconds, so your four-digit screen lock is going to be child’s play. Literally. The trade-off between the initial five minutes peace against hours of listening to whiny American kids act out “Frozen” is simply not worth it. Trust me.
  • Assuming that a baby that doesn’t roll won’t roll off a changing table straight onto the pub toilet floor if not strapped in. (Note – Dad wouldn’t have been this irresponsible. All mum’s work this one.)

So, there you go. I’m sure that there are hundreds more that I can’t remember that will come back to me with cold sweats at 3am. Perhaps this post should remain a work in progress to be added to? Give me a few more months, and I suspect that this post will be longer than the 256,000 plus words in James Joyce’s “Ulysses.” Check back in a bit.

To be continued…

Happy Father’s Day

In which our reluctant hero was going to write a Father’s Day blog, but simply couldn’t be bothered.

It’s Father’s Day, or “Daddering Sunday” if you prefer.

Thousands of properly organised (but mostly rubbish) bloggers across the Interweb will have had a wave of scientifically constructed, clickbait luring posts lined up, waiting to break, for weeks.

No me though. What do you take me for?

I confess that I thought about it, but decided it would be a load of faff that would end with some pseudo-soppy self-congratulatory guff getting posted that would get buried in all of the other pseudo-soppy self-congratulatory guff getting posted across FaceSpace et al. As a consequence, everyone would forget to tell me that I had done a brilliant job. That would never do.

So, I thought I would put my slippered feet up, open the newspaper and leave this here instead.

Happy Father’s Day.

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A Useful Graph. Probably.