One hundred posts! (pulls party popper... nothing... darn cheap party popper) (BANG!) (Owww)...

This is my one hundredth post.

A century! <Gentlemanly claps all round>

<Politely raises keyboard into the air to acknowledge the crowd>

<Wishes had been born with just a million times more sporting skill>

<Finds chocolate under keyboard, is happy>

So what the smeg do I write about to mark this occasion?

Pie?

Chocolate?

Chocolate beer pie?

How about a sort of rambling, retrospective of the last year, that has no clear goal and is likely to be a bit overly sentimental, with the odd saucy gypsy thrown in and at least two car chases?

YOU BET-CHA! YEAH!

BabyBoy1

Well one hundred posts ago he wasn’t even one.

He was just BabyBoy. He could point at things and say Uh.

And was probably crawling about like a good’un and falling over when ever he tried to stand.

Hilarious Good times.

Now however.

BabyBoy1 is walking about. Climbing about and he's got quite a few words on him…

‘MINE’ - (Like the seagulls in Finding Nemo) This comes up a lot.

‘Noooooo’ - Is becoming more frequent.

‘Daddy WORRRRK?’ - Is his way of making sure I know I am working today, again. (Thanks dude).

‘Yas’ - Not quite sure where the South African twang has come from.

(Lethal Weapon II -’ I was just checking to see if I was standing on plastic’).

‘DarahDuck?’ (Sarah and Duck) - Still the houses favorite cartoon.

‘Noc-Naughts?’ (Octonauts) - Rapidly becoming the houses favorite cartoon.

‘CAKE!’ - Well he is a Team Parents (yay!) child. He was always going to love cake.

‘CAKE! MINE!’ <Shoves a huge bit of cake in his gob>

‘MAKE!’ <Cake goes everywhere>

And he still runs to me when I get home.

I love that. He’s still the person most happy to see me when I get home from work. He still drops everything and anything he is doing to make a bee-line towards me.

What a dude.

No matter what, consistently and without question, he loves me for just being me. And that’s smegging pretty darn cool...

Kids come and listen to this amazing song!!!

<Gang all arrive, excited>

This is Lindsey Stirling's song Transcendance, the orchestra version... It's amazing!!!

[They listen]

Boy8: 'That's not rock?' <Is shocked> 'Where are  the guitars? The singing?’

Her violin is her voice! … And she has a voice... sometimes...

Boy8: 'I just don't understand you sometimes' <Boy8 leaves disgusted>

<Turns to Miss5>

She’s taking us on a journey, it's an adventure in music, it's battling pirates on the edge of a pirate ship, it's leaping into worlds in a drop of water, it's flying through the sky and waving at the birds, it's a rush and tumble through the clouds, being able to taste the air in your heart!

<Is doing overly dramatic big arms and hands>

Miss5: <Listens and considers> ‘BORING!' <Sticks out tongue and skips off>

Philistines <Shakes fist> … What about you BabyBoy1?

BabyBoy1: 'Daddy!' <Runs to hug my leg, but hits face on my knee>

<Cries>

<Get a huge cuddle>

(You sure that’s your hat… and not mine?

‘MINE!’

Fair enough then...)

Miss5

She was Miss4 one hundred posts ago. How did that fly by?

She went round telling everyone she was forty-five, four-to-five, get it?

Of course we didn't stop her it was hilarious.

She doesn't do it now, guess she knows she’s five now.

<Weeps> That’s not as funny.

Miss5 has just got more and more interesting.

To me she's fascinating. I’ve never met anyone like her. Her entire worldview and values, and thoughts are not the same as mine. It’s surprisingly brilliant.

Watching her grow is like being allowed into a whole new amazing world of capes,  pom-poms, rainbows, hair styles (?), fierce, fierce, emotions, clawing, kicking and screaming that can shatter glass and ear drums. And talking.

And the second best hugs.

And utter madness.

And a lot more complex clothes...

Miss5: 'Dad can you help me with my dress'

Yeah sure <Looks and turns it round in hands, in wonder and confusion>

Actually... No. No I cannot. This is Level 4 clothing...

I'm not trained to operate these. I'm only a Level 2 clothing operative. Jean and t-shirts…

This is way beyond me <Hold up a bit of clothing> I mean, what this bit do?

Miss5: 'That's a plete'

A what? What is its primary function?

Miss5: '...'

What does it do?

Miss5: '...' <Shrugs>

OK.... Look <Glances around> ... I probably shouldn't do this <More glancing>

But let’s just give it a try together, shall we... It can't be that hard to put on a dress…

Miss5: 'Yeah! I believe in you Dad!'

Thanks

[Much later]

That's still not right is it?

Miss5: <Muffled> 'No'

Can you move your arms?

Miss5: <Muffled> 'I can move this one!'

Hmmm... So we're making progress at least...

(Mrs. Christmas wiggling her bottom at me on the way to swimming… 

Life can be very surreal at times with Miss5...)

Boy8

Crikey. He’s nearly 9. <Weeps>

One hundreds post ago we were in a very different place me and Boy8. I was struggling.

I was getting too cross and being grumpy. And he was getting the brunt of it.

Sorry Boy8.

I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped most of that, and have made up for it in some small way.

<Glances at Mrs. Amazing>

<Gets a small nod>

<Celebrates by raiding the chocolate cupboard>

Me gaining more control of myself is good news. Obv…

Especially as his emotions have become, let’s say shouty and loud and cross and slammy more dramatic.

The door to his bedroom is coming off it’s hinges. Really.

I’ve had to repair the stair gate thrice this year.

I had to fill in holes in the wall.

And he can be the most annoying, stubborn, obnoxious, rude little so-and-so...

But he’s also utterly amazing.

And I'm really proud of him. School’s improved so much. He’s been really brave.

There’s a girl that likes him.

He’s washing cars to make money to buy crap stuff.

He made a nice cake!

I'm teaching him to play chess, properly. Not battle chess which is what we have been playing, where you just smash all the, plastic, pieces off the board. (Love that game). Proper chess.

He’s doing things without me. I can’t keep up with everything he’s doing. No matter how hard I try. He needs me less and less. I’m so proud.

He’s away tonight at a friends house.

He goes away for three nights soon.

He’s just starting on the very first rungs of growing up. He’s doing stuff on his own…

OH KEVIN BACON WHY??? WHY???

But he called me at work today.

Because he needed me. And hearing that little voice reminded me of little he still is. He’s just acting very big at the moment. Practising.

But really he’s still quite wee.

(Arghhh! Octonaut!!! <Stomp, stomp, stomp> GOT IT!)

And you know the amazing thing?

The earth shattering thing? I knew what he wanted to know on the phone.

<Does dance>

Boy8: ‘Hi Daddy? Do you know where my football boots are?’

Yes! <Stands in shock>

I tidied all the shoes and bags, a few weeks back... and I put them in your kit bag with your shin pads!

Boy8: ‘Mum’s just checking...’

Boy8: ‘She says they are… Bye!’

I KNOW!

That my friends, is modern Dadding for you right there. 

Knew where the shoes were... <Is smug> Because that’s where I had previously tidied them too.

BOOM-POW!

<Raids chocolate cupboard again in celebration>

Hey? Which swine has eaten all the choc… Oh yeah…

<Calls out> I'm going to the shops...

X

And for those of you still hanging about, waiting for your saucy gypsy and two car chases? Well…

Gypsy: ‘I've just been shopping!’

Gypsy: ‘Look at the size of my enormous melons!’ <Holds up melons>

Cool <Is feeling a bit awkward> Isn't that your lift home leaving?

Gypsy: ‘Oh yes’ <Chases after car>

Oh wait.. Noo… My mistake... It’s not…

Gypsy: <Stops>

ActuallyYesItWas!

Gypsy: <Chases after car for the second time> <Melons pop out>

X

Football Tears (Not Mine)...

Boy8 didn't make the football team.

Gutted.

(This all happened a while back, didn't want it to be topical at all, so don't worry, all wounds have been healed and forgotten).

Oh and by football, I mean soccer, not rugby with padding american football.

They had try-outs at school and he didn't get picked.

He had practised and everything. He had his England kit on. Surely, surely? Wearing the England kit can only bring you luck and success? Surely?

But it didn't and he was gutted, big man tears, gutted.

Proper, I just dropped my phone down the toilet, and flushed, gutted.

I was at work when the guttingness (real word) happened, obv. that’s where I always am.

Mrs. Amazing told me that Boy8 had man-tears rolling down his face, as he stood there, frozen, letting it go, soaked to the bone, in his football kit he loves so much. Explaining to his Mum how today, actually, wasn't a try-out like he'd thought it was.

The team had been picked last week.

And he wasn't on it. Today was just for fun.

Apparently.

(Are you sure that boy is only 8? He looks small..)

Mrs. Amazing had a word with the utter idiot, football man.

Not to complain that Boy8 didn't get on the team. I assure you. Team parents (yay!) accept that not everyone can be on a 7-aside eight year old primary school team.

Even if they really, really, want to.

Mrs. Amazing had a word because the team selector was blind because Boy8 turned up and played, thinking there was a chance he would get on the team.

When there wasn't a chance he was going to get on the team. It had already been decided. Just no one had told Boy8, or he hadn't been listening.

Although I suppose in fairness had Boy8 rocked on that pitch and scored 15 conversions, took a few wickets and then winked out for victory (that's footie right?) he might have got on the team. Although if he could do that, I'd be out in the cold watching my retirement plan him.

Our issue is that Boy8 thought he had a chance. When he didn't.

The utter plumb football man could have saved Boy8 a lot tears.

By explaining stuff better like.

I blame me a lot too and Mrs. Amazing.

As sport was never really my thing. I liked hockey (sticks), shinty (big sticks), lacrosse (stick with nets), anything with a stick really. But 'like' and 'has skill at' are not the same things. For example: everyone in Westlife likes singing.

For me getting onto sport teams, pretty much throughout school, was either due to an enforced player rotation system, everyone got a go, or because no one else was available, by default and carefully poisoning.

Good old default and poison.

Genetically Boy8 needed to sidestep Team Parents (yay!) sporting genes.

There's sporting greatness down the generations, a bit left, and a few suspect marriages along, but it's there. Waiting to be unleashed once again like a beast in the dark, awaiting its moment to strike. Stirring in its cold cave, as the first rays of sunlight for over thirty years pierce its underground prison. The light bouncing down tunnels made my rabbits. Oh the fluffy irony...

Still... me and Mrs. Amazing do have other skills that work well in adult life. I can juggle (true story), Mrs. Amazing can do a triple back-flip one hand cartwheel (less true), I can do this dance...

<does awesome dance>

… see! we got skills.

And it's pretty rare that other adults ask to see my football skills. It’s more beer drinking ability. Or name that car (stupid game). Or share your property plans (Zzz).  

Ironically the only person that ever asks me to play football and see my football skills, is Boy8.

He thinks I've got hella skills!

‘Young fool... '
'Only now, at the end eight, do you understand..., '
'That actually I suck at Footingball’'

('Dad no kicking hard...')

Team Parents (yay!) like a good moral so we made sure we passed on a good message about this all to Boy8.

Bad luck. Try again next time. More practise, don't feel down, you've no idea what the entry criteria was, they were all the coaches family, bribes / brides were involved.

Which he seems to have taken on board.

Still I thought some special Dad love and care would help him out a bit...

<Boy8 is sat watching tele before bed>

'Sup

‘'Sup’

Heard what happened

'Yeah'

You OK?

'Yeah… Bit disappointed' <A few tears escape, but most are manfully held back>

Yeah...

Don’t worry I know what to do (I do), I'm a modern Dad.

I know that secretly he is reaching out to me for a bit of support. He is being all tough to copy me, but really he wants me to connect with me, and it's up to me to make that connection, or this moment will pass. I have to somehow show him how that it is OK to a bit teary and soft, whilst being manly and tough. Shiiiit

It's now or never come hold me close.

Luckily I know what to do (lords knows how).

<Lays on top of Boy8, flattening him totally>

'Oh man you're heavy'

Can you breath?

'J..ust'

Just counts as a yes

See! Told you I knew what to do.

Me and Boy8 just lay there chatting, one of us being flattened.

I tell him about my sporting failures, so he knows it's OK to not get in the team. I point out he is going to miss lots of cold wet mornings outside. He agrees and goes to laugh, but is finding it hard to breath with me laid on top of him.

Maybe there was some magic in the air, maybe it was the force, maybe our father-son connection worked better than it ever had before, maybe being flattened really focuses the mind, but I felt I really got through to him. I totally held his attention and he listened to my every word.

Good times. 

Good flattening times.