Hi! <Waves>

Funny and honest tales from a made-to-work Dad of three, wobbling, graying, and laughing his way through parenthood. Armed to the teeth with Nerf guns, full of pie, fighting a chocolate addiction, but genuinely honoured to be at least half of Team Parents (yay!).
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29 August 2015

Last night I saved Boy8's life

Last night I saved Boy8's life.
In a totally metaphorical way.

We weren't out SuperHeroing (real word) and had finally got trapped by our evil nemesis Dr. TwatPants, who had devised a diabolical and brilliant trap for us both, whereby we ended up locked in a room with an enormous bomb...

Oooo shiiiiiiit
Don't touch anything BatBoy, we need to be very careful...
'OK' <Presses big red 'NOW DIE' button>
<Bomb counter changes to 5 seconds and starts ticking down>
Oh for Westlife sake
What did I just say?
#4 Seconds#
'I didn't do it!'
Really? Not you?
'You're always blaming me'
#3 seconds#
Fine. The button pressed itself and now we are both going to die
'Yes'
<Gives BatBoy a look>
'Buttons do that sometimes...'
#2 seconds#
<Gives BatBoy another look>
<Sighs and fights off growing anger>
'Vicrum at school says buttons often...'
Oh shush
Grab here <Pulls brilliant winch thingy out of belt, attaches BatBoy to self>
#1 second#
<Runs for the window and dives out>
BOOM <Huge explosion>
<Lands safely with BatBoy, both showered in glass>

That isn't what happened, this time.

I got home from work to calm and peace and serenity. As I walked up to the house I could see them all in the sitting room (where we sit), calmly watching cartoons and eating their brupper cereal.
Ah what a nice sight to come home to after a long hard day. Everyone happy and calm. Ahhhh.

However as I walk through the door Mrs. Amazing shatters that illusion and says that this is a rare moment of calm in a storm of bad tempers and strops, all three of them have been little sods troublesome.

BabyBoy1 is teething (again), a constant stream of slobber is leaving his mouth. Which makes him a bit whiny, clinging and prone to grumps.
Miss4 had her last day of nursery and had to say goodbye to lots of people. Emotionally she is wiped out and exhausted.
And Boy8 should be well rested from his summer holidays, but he isn't. He still insists on getting up early every morning, not matter how late we let him stay up and he's been been at Multi-sports (which is an utterly rubbish name, 'MegaSport Explosion YEAH!' would be way better) and is physically exhausted.

What sports did you do at multi-sports? <Hoping for Cricket, Rugby, Tennis, Hockey, Lacrosse etc... the cool sports>
'We did football first, then football outside, then lunch, football inside as it was raining, and then we finished with Dodge ball'
That's cool Multi-sports my hairy butt

(The slobber, poor little dude)

As we get ready for bed, I want to know what everyone has done, and everyone wants to tell me about it at the same time. There's tears from 3 out of 5 of us. There's no need to say who.
Boy8 does not behave well and barely escapes being given the riot act by Mrs. Amazing as she's had enough of him today. We opt for early bedtime all round because we want them to naff off they all need it. Bless.

We rotate the kids for bedtime and it’s Mrs. Amazing’s turn to tackle, take on, commences battle with Miss4 for bedtime.
But as they leave she again points out that Boy8 is very much on, and at the top of, her pissed off with naughty list.

Me and BabyBoy1 have a lovely time getting ready for bed.. He tries to eat the toothbrush we laugh, he tries to eat the books, we laugh. All good fun. He cries a bit when he is put down to sleep, but I'm a third time Dad and I just pat his tummy and wish him a good night, and leave.
He's asleep in 2 mins. (+1 Dad point)
Which leaves me just Boy8 to get to bed.

Boy8 picks something new to watch which is awful, a show about teen dancers and the pressures and scrapes they get into, in their bizarre dance-off world. I think it was meant to be fun and cool.
I hated it on so many levels.

Did you ‘like’ that?
'Naaa, that was rubbish'

OH THANK YOU! I was worried I was going to watch that awful crap for the next few months, and have to pretend the PVR mysteriously keep on failing for that one show.

He pleads for one more cartoon before bed. He's got time. But it must be winding down and going to bed appropriate. He picks one we've seen twenty billion times. Which is fine, he'll chill, I can get my phone out and start playing some very important, life changing, earth critical, stupid games.

I notice he is scratching his foot and tell him to stop. He tends to scratch too hard and leaves marks. I friendlily suggest he stops in a very mature and grown up manner.

<Flicks offending hand>
'Owww!!!'

My subtle message is absorbed and I go back to my phone. But now I've got guilt that actually I should be talking to this little boy sat next to me and not playing on my phone.

He's sat in his Bat jammies (awesome), hair's all messy, looking gangly. He's still so incredibly young and beautiful, yep beautiful (Mother's side).
I want to talk with him and see how his day was, to make the most of the few hours I get to see him a day. My phone can wait, those games can wait.
I put my phone down and turn to him and notice he is still scratching his foot.
You're still scratching

Boy8 looks down and suddenly he tenses up. He looks really worried.
What have you done?

He shows me his foot, blood is escaping from his young and beautiful skin.
Why did you do that?
You bloody plonker rodney!

He shrugs, but I know there's more going on here. A bit of blood is normally pretty hilarious for us. Boy8 seems scared of something.
What else is wrong?

Boy8 moves his foot aside and there in the middle of the new(ish) sofa is a very clear puddle of blood.
Oh no dude... What have you done?

Boy8 knows he is now in lot of trouble, he is going to die. Bye bye tele, bye bye computers, bye bye Lego, bye bye sweets. This is very bad and he knows it.
Mrs. Amazing has always made it very clear that the sofa is to remain nice forever, and woe betide anyone that sullies her the sofa. I eat on the floor instead it’s safer.

I see it that I have three ways to react:

a) Let rip. Go from calm to bloody furious in a skip of a heart beat and make it very VERY CLEAR I AM FURIOUS! Tempting as always.

b) Tell on him. Yep, go get Mrs. Amazing and spill
Look what Boy8 has done <Points>
'Snitch'
I can live with that - Booty principle
<Looks blank>
I'll explain when you're ninety older
Mrs. Amazing: 'Why didn't you stop him?'
I was playing on my phone
I was helping a disabled, pregnant, one armed, blind, slammin' hot- woman, carrying another child, across the road
<Realises lie is obvious and runs like the wind>

c) Be calm and quiet (heh heh)

I act like he's just crashed the car through the house, destroyed everything, and then knocked over my Millennium Falcon, denting a tiny part of it, I weep uncontrollably.

I act as though he's been expelled from school for locking all the teachers in a cupboard and making them recite times tables all day.

I act as though he's come home with Bieber's Greatest Hits Album (One track, a cover, duet, his vocal is faded out a lot) and he wasn't planning to use it as bird scarer or a coaster. He was going to play it.

I act as though what he has done is so bad there's no need for yelling or shouting or punishments.
I take him from ‘Local Emotional Court’ all the way up to ‘Supreme Adult Calm Court’ (if you were looking for a metaphor for this).

My parents did it to me when I was young. It's really weird and unsettling, and somehow really effective. As a child in the docks, I expected an emotional shouty response, but I got calm and quiet. Urhghg... It’s horrible.

I explain what he has done and why it was bad. Calmly and quietly.
I flick the tele off mid cartoon. Boy8 doesn't even say a word.
I clean him up and get all the blood off his foot. The wound is tiny, he's fine. All with minimal talking and calmly.
Then I get the 1001 out and get to work. Bloody blood.

(1001 stopping my house from stinking and being mucky for 8 years)

It takes two full cleans with the 1001, which I make Boy8 watch, silently. I didn't rush. But the blood comes out of the sofa nicely and it looks clean.
He's put to bed quickly and when he goes to complain about the short bedtime story, I point out that I haven't told Mrs. Amazing about the blood yet. He decides to go straight to sleep without any fuss. Good choice.

Later Mrs. Amazing comes downstairs.
Miss4 was particularly troublesome and Mrs. Amazing looks knackered and annoyed. I imagine hearing that Boy8 got blood on the sofa may be the final straw and fear for his safety.

I shuffle my bum over the stain area so she won't notice the wet bit.
Eew wet bum!

Mrs. Amazing picks up the 1001 that's still on the table. Damn it, wet bum for nothing.

'What did he do?'
I'll tell you after we eat
'No, tell me now, please, what did he do? What did you have to clean?'
Er... <Leaves room>
<Follows me>
'What did he do? Tell me?’'
<Make lots of noise getting out pots and pans>
Pardon?
'What...' <BANG> '... did...' <CRASH> <CRASH>
<Flicks on loud music>
'... he ...'
Pardon? <BANG> <BANG> <BANG>
<Led Zeppelin starts and I sing along loudly>
'.. do?' <BANG>
'Fine... Tell me after we eat..'
<Passes large wine>

And that's how I saved Boy8's life.


(I did my nails special-like for the photo)


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