Huffing and Puffing

Dad's are good at getting cross aren't they? Mine was, seems I am too.

It's built in I think. The average Dad’s natural reaction to things that are annoying and small is to go into shouty, cross, huffing and puffing Dad mode.

Then because, us Dad’s, are normally the most scary in the house, and prone to it, we end up being shoved into the disciplinarian pigeon hole.

And it’s a sodding tiny box with very little wiggle-room in it.

But it is fine, because it seems to suit the average Dad’s natural parenting skills and no one else seems to be doing it.

But if you start believing the hype, that huffing and puffing is a good idea, before you know it, you’ll be 84 wondering why you spent most of your life shouting at the kids, and why don't they call?...

On at least 3 occasions (yes 3 entire occasions) that I can think of, I've been called in, headhunted if you will, subbed in, to get all huffy and puffy at someone else's kids for them.

‘Could you shout at Brandeenian for me?’

Yeah sure! No problem! I never really wanted to form any kind relationship, other than one of fear and anger, with your child anyway, because you named her Brandeenian!

That can't be right can it? Surely Dad’s get to be the fun ones, not the shouty ones.

Why can't it be more like this:

'Can you eat all my kids sweets?'

<burps> Way ahead of you.

'Can you thrash this boy at Wii Tennis because I'm fed up losing?'

I'm your man! How defeated do you want? English football drubbing or more a classic batting collapse?

'Can you show us how you so brilliantly, with no rests, manage your temper and emotions throughout your work day?'

THIS NEVER HAPPENS!

Of course the tricky thing is, getting huffy and puffy as a Dad works!

It's easy too, and it's pretty effective most of the time. Which isn't too surprising, because if we use me and Boy8 as an example, here are our (love English!) physical stats:

Height:  

I'm 5'lots" (really) and he's ~110cm.

Which means I need to start measuring myself in cm too. And I'm twice his height, which is a huge advantage. Plus shin guards would help me.

Body Weight:

Er... Well lets not share too much... Lets just say he still cannot move or lift me at all, whereas I could still pick him up and run up the Rocky steps with him in my arms (and then die).

Reach:

I'm like Mr. Tickle, and his reach is lame. He has tiny T-Rex arms.

Shouting Volume:

I'm loud. Hella loud. I wouldn't like to shout-off with a lion, tiger or bear (oh my), but say a big, viscous, rabbit or Womble, hells yeah! Rarrrr!

Boy8's shouting is pretty good. But it's more annoying than offensive. It's likely to get him bopped faster, rather than repel intruders.

So really, it's no wonder me getting all huffy and puffy works. It's like a bear standing up and growling at a lemur, not even close to a fair fight. If a bear started shouting at me and telling me to do stuff, I'd probably do it. I must look like an bear when I'm cross.

(USE YOUR KNIFE AND FORK!!! RARRRR!!!)

GOD! What about Miss4 though? She's tiny in comparison, I get huffy and puffy with her too.

I SUCK!  What a bully I am. Damn it. How did that happen?

Shit, shit, shit. I don't want to be a bully! They suck!

(Would you shout at Miss4? No)

Luckily Mrs. Amazing is on hand to dispense wiseness, sageness, and mintyness.

And more luckily for me, I don't actually want to be a huffy puffy Dad. They suck. No one hugs or kisses them, they just get saluted and secretly sworn at.

Here's what happened:

Boy8! Come to the table, breakfast time.

'OK' <Continues playing with Lego>

I wait...

And wait...

<Staring at him, with building anger>
Boy8. Breakfast now!

'<Says nothing>' <Continues playing with Lego>

I wait more...

<Starts chopping nothing>

My anger rises and I am just about to go all huffy and puffy on his disobedient butt, when Mrs. Amazing points out that huffing and puffing doesn't really work.

In fact, weirdly, that's exactly what he wants.

Is it?

'Yep'

'He wants your attention and knows this is one way to get it'

Can I punch him instead?

Can I take his Lego and shove it up his nose?

eBay him?

Interesting...

So what do we do? What do I do? What's the play here?

Being patient is all new to me...

'We wait'

Ha ha. Nearly had me there.

You thinking frying pan?..

'We wait and ignore him'

Right...

Then, frying pan?

(The boy... Not me...)

But we do wait (Without frying pan).

We wait and I have to fight the urge not to walk over to him and pull him by the ears to the table have further words. It's bloody hard to do. I can almost feel me growing up as I do it!

<sticks out tongue and cycles off with bum sticking out>

He even kept on playing Lego, which nearly tipped me over the edge. As watching him doing precisely what he wanted to do, and not what I wanted him to do was, let’s say, a bit teeny weeny bit annoying.

What a git. How interesting the mind of a 8 year old boy is.

Eventually, magic happens, and Boy8 fixes himself! Mrs. Amazing is a genius.

Boy8 stops playing Lego on his own and comes over to the table to join us for breakfast.

He was even nicely behaved (for a while...).

I make a mental note to avoid getting huffy and puffy with him when I want him to do stuff, play the mind games instead, out think him (this is soooo gonna backfire).

<Learns nothing>

6 ways to deal with Boy8 when he won't do what he is told when I can bloody remember to do them, and am not too knackered, or stressed, or drunk:

1. Wait and ignore. As above! This is the approved grown up approach. If you can, choose this one, every time. Don't get confused between this method and just SHOUTING as loud as you can, it's easy done...

2. Run at him as fast as I can. It scares the crap out of him, obviously I slow up before I get to him sometimes. The sudden change in emotion can knock him back into good Boy8.

3. Pick him up and hold him upside down until he laughs. This works.. because... er... It just works, nuff said.

4. Leave the room. Sodding off and doing other stuff often works. He wants my attention? Then he better come find me...

<Hides in the pub>

Yes, I will have another!

5. Sing as though you are in a musical.

Willlll youuuuu-ooouuu GET toooo-oooo the <falesseto> tabbbblllllllllllllle!!!

It is impossible not to do what the music says (Note: does not work on wives).

It's even harder for Boy8 to get pissy with someone singing like this.

6. Whisper. The secret weapon. When all else fails, whisper. Nothing is more menacing than a Dad whispering rather than shouting.

Heh heh.

Good luck Boy8.

Sports Day

Boy8 has his sports day this week. So does Miss4. Great. Both during work time, obv, that'll go down well with the boss.

Mind if I sod off to watch children not compete against each other for a couple hours?

'If I had 44 pees, which pee would be next?'

Err...

Oh right... P45... Yeah good one... Ha... (Wanker).

<Fake smiles>

Still a decision has to be made:
a) Go to both.

This is possible, but harder to wangle (I like that word, wangle, wangle, wangle). But it'll be a lot of work time to make up, or holiday wasted used.

b) Go to one.

Going to one means that one child will be forever mentally scarred that their Daddy didn't come to their sports day, but did managed to attend a rival sibling's sports day. 

c) Go to none.

Tempting. But I like these things, they are always a laugh and quite a lot more fun than work. Plus they normally have ice cream all my favourite people will be there. 

I choose d). Yes secret option d) Go to the nursery one as they have proper races. 

Unlike the primary school one, which works so hard on making the whole of sports day non-competitive that it's... well there isn't any competition. It's just the kids playing with stuff, in an organised way.

They run through hoops etc. in their 'teams' for a random amount of time, then they all move onto the next activity. That it, for 2 hours.

There's not even Mum and Dad's races. Booo! It's a bit boring (Sorry Boy8... You rock though!).

I like watching people compete. It's fun. That's what sport is about isn't it?

Let's ask Wiki: (fount of all knowledge) (It's written by Stephen Fry you know):

“Sport (or sports) is all forms of usually competitive physical activity which,[1] through casual or organised participation, aim to use, maintain or improve physical ability and skills while providing entertainment to participants, and in some cases, spectators.”

Yep! That's what I thought. Sports and indeed anything called 'Sports Day' should definitely involve some kind of competition. 

I know, I know, it's good really. The kids don't need to be involved in races that reaffirm their physical failings at such a young age.  No one needs to feel like they can't win when they are 5.

Better to wait for until they are teenagers, or adults, when they really can't cope with it and then smash their falsely inflated physical egos :)

How about letting them compete, but then make no fuss at all over who wins or not?

In fact, better still why don't we just randomly select a winner each time. 

'... for coming 19th, John Johnny-Johnson wins this bottle of Scotch'

'... for coming 5th, Sandra WinkleSmitheTaper wins this years free entry to the Pussy Cat club'

'... for not really trying and giving up halfway, Ivanna McDonalds wins this cabbage'

Anyway...

I arrive at Sports Day from work and head straight to the ice cream van and find Mrs. Amazing and BabyBoy1, who is delighted to see me, result! (He's now my favourite).

The races proceed, hats are blown off and it's all very good fun. Miss4 does us proud. Some children cry here and there, but mainly it is light hearted and fun. 

Until the Mums and Dads races start. At Boy8's school they do not do the Mums and Dads races as adults have been hurt too many times. It is too competitive and it's been stopped for the safety of those that compete and those watching. Fair play.

The organisers of the nursery Sports Day either don't know about this, or they don't give a crap and just want to see the parents in pain. (£10 on the last one).

The Mums race is first. There are two heats with a prize to the winner for each heat. Actual booze! Now that's a subliminal message you can be proud of.

‘Kids! Do sport and win booze! Your parents do!’

Bless.

(If this was the prize, imagine the carnage… Go on.... Eww... )

Mrs. Amazing declines both heats due to a serious allergy involving something I couldn't quite hear. She pointed at her ankle a lot and then saw an old friend that she had to talk to immediately. Same happened last year, poor love, nasty those allergies.

There are two fallers in the Mums race. Two Mums so hell bent, or Mums around them, so hell bent on racing for real, that they stumble and crash into the ground. It really is brilliant to watch. You don't often get to see grown women run as fast as they can, and then crash. Beautiful.

But then because it's the Mums and Mums are nice, those losing the race help the fallers up and cross the line with them. That's nice isn't it.

Then it's the Dads race and the tone of the entire Sports Day changes.

It's still fun, but with a bit of danger. It's going to be a spectacle and everyone knows it.  

Dads around the playing field stop what they are doing, as they realise it is time. It is time to compete.

Sandwiches are put down. Phones switched off. Children handed back. Shoulder, leg and ankle muscles are quietly and casually stretched. Excuses are said. Lies are told.

'Daddy are you going to win?'

Hell YEAH!

It doesn't matter about winning...

<Rubs calf to wake it up>

... It's all about the...

<Does squats>

taking...

<Lunges>

... part.

<Sit ups>

Oh! and you must look casual about it. If you look like you are taking it seriously by warming up, and then win, everyone will hate you and call you a competitive twat behind your back forever, for taking it so seriously. Of course if you take it seriously and then lose, you're still a twat for taking it so seriously.

All in all don't take it seriously, or do, but hide it really, really well. It's tricky.

Oh really? There's a Dad race?

I did not know that.

That is brand new information.

'Are those running shoes?'

They're for work. Got a... er... rush job on...

'They've still got a label on then?'

Shhh...

<Visualises the track in mind>

Slowly and as coolly as all the Dads can muster, we line up ready. Some remove shoes, seeing that other have trainers on. I have trainers on, as planned that was lucky.

I've been to these before and know you never go in the first heat. That's for Dads that have a chance of winning, Dads who have jobs involving something more physical than typing or answering the phone. Tossers Gym teachers, fitness instructors etc.

The last heat, that's my puppy, there’s my lane, the last heat is where I belong.

Luckily for me I WAS subjected to the scarring and mental torture that competitive Sports Days provide. I know my place in these races. I know where I am likely to place, and more importantly, I am fine with it. The good Lordettes did not see fit to bless me with sporting prowess, or even any basic sporting ability, no they went with other stuff. Like typing speed. yay.

Which is fine, really, only just not so fine on Sports Day.

So I make only two requirements of myself for the race, that as long as I achieve them both, I will feel like a winner.

1. Don't be fecking last. (Just no).

2. Don't fall over.

The first heat starts and as I watch 15 grown men run as fast as they can past their wives and children. It's really quite a sight. It's noisy and it's fast.

There's some actual danger here. If any of the men fall and get trampled, which they definitely would, it would hurt. Worse would be a Dad falling into the kids. Ohhh the mess…

(The Dad in front fell near the line)

(The guy behind him was disqualified for ‘limb chopping’)

There were two fallers in the first heat. Both limped off.

The winner gets his booze and looks proud of himself. We all hate him a little. 

I can't really remember much of my heat. It's kind of a blur...

I remember thinking I was running too fast for my own legs and they might fall off at some point.

I remember slowing down as there was jostling in front of me and I would rather lose than fall.

I remember the man behind me falling and the thud shaking the ground.

I remember exactly who I beat, but will forever, pretend I don't.

Then it was over and I didn't fall and I didn't lose.

Thank fuck.

I walk back to my family (trying not to pant, and ignoring the spots before my eyes). I pass one of the fallers who has mud all up his t-shirt. Poor dude, dignity wise, that's gotta hurt.

Miss4 smiles at me as I get back. She doesn't care if I win or not (which is BLOODY lucky for me).

'Well done Daddy!' and I get a kiss and hug.

Best prize ever.

Willful Baby

BabyBoy1 is becoming a stubborn smegger wilful.

I have no idea where he gets it from, it is a mystery.

MYSTERY! <Shakes fist>

He lets us know what he wants through pointing and 'uhuhuh' noises. It's cute. Awww.

Unfortunately though, he also he lets us know what he doesn't want by screaming and shouting.

Some joyful examples (with translations *): 

You need to have your nappy changed

'ARGHHHHHHHH'

*But I like sitting in poo... hands in...

You can't lick the plugs! No.

'ARHGHGHGHGHGHG'

*But I REALLY want to, I got a buzz off that last one...

Yeah... That was my bad... Sorry...

'ARHGGHGHHGHG'

*OW! You bastard!

(I say nothing)

'ARGHGHGHGH'

* Cool noise huh!

Poo stays... in... nappies!

'ARGHGHGHGHHGHGGHGHGG'

*SHARE THE POO!

<Loses wrestle with BabyBoy1>

Fine... To the shower we go... I hope you're happy.

'ARGHGHG' 

*I am happy. I shared the poo.

The last two disagreements resulted in me and BabyBoy1... fighting... 

<Hangs head in shame>

Queue the music... <Cough Cough> now please Frankie... 

Rather a David and Goliath fight to be honest (I'm Goliath btw.). Except this time David is only armed with a mean eye poke, and lets face it, David is never going to win.

But I know, a grown man fighting with a 1 year old is only going to have one winner loser. Me (the grown up).

vs.

(Bible stories told through beer)

Last night we fought whilst Mrs. Amazing was out. 

I wanted him to go to sleep so I could eat my tea. He wanted to smile at me and be cute (damn his adorable blue eyes).

This morning we fought whilst getting dressed. I wanted him to have a nappy on his butt and the poppers on his trousers done up. He wanted to dive face first off the changing mat, and spend the day 'hanging' free.

Both fights ended up with me getting cross and frustrated and him getting cross and frustrated. Like father like son... Stubborn Wilful.

It was the second fight that made me stop and think, and it's unsurprisingly all my fault and not his. Nope, not his even a little bit. None. Nadda.

All me (You muppet) (Shut up Brainzilla, you suck).

The problem here is not BabyBoy1 becoming wilful... it's me not letting him become wilful. 

Here is my little boy tentatively stepping down his first paths of choice and independent wants, and what do I do? I block the way with my great big brick wall of grumpy Dad NO!

As normal, I need to chill and think.

No one wants to be a brick wall, except maybe orphaned bricks.

I need to out think BabyBoy1 and show him better ways to get what he wants, such as bribery. Because, and I'm sorry for this BabyBoy1, I'm your key role model in this life (GAWD NO! WHY! WHY!). Heaven help his tiny kicky toes.

So I am still struggling with BabyBoy1, trying, but failing, to get his nappy and poppers done up. I am just about to explode into flame as a whole leg of poppers pops bloody open, again...

When Mrs. Amazing walks, gives BabyBoy1 her keys, and walks out.

BabyBoy1 is instantly calm enough to dress and even being cute again.

Lesson learnt. (I hope) 

<Learns nothing>

The Kill Order

The kill order has been given.

We, team parents (wooo!), have decided that any spiders found in the house, are to be killed.

Yes I know, we are utter monsters and deserve to burn in the firey, firey, fires of hell for entirety for committing mass spidercide.

And we're sorry. May the spider gods forgive us, I'll sacrifice the cat later to appease them (I won't) (I will).

But on the other hand, we are not sorry at all.

If you would Axel...

In fact we're fine with it because:

a) There are millions of them. In the house. Millions! Spider extinction is not the problem here.

b) I hate walking into spider webs when half asleep. If they would avoid leaving webs between the bed and the kettle, and the microwave, their mortality rates would be so much better.

c) They are tiny and it's easy. (Not a great reason I admit, but if it was tigers I'd probably be building them a little house instead).

d) I hate dusting and spider webs increase the need to dust. (I never actually dust, but dusting-guilt is almost as bad as actually dusting).

e) Picking up a tiny spiders at 4am and taking them safely outside, when BabyBoy1 is screaming, just ain't going to happen. The cat would get in and he's a git to get back out.

<Shows you scratches>

(It’s not dew, it’s Vodka… Shush…)

So sorry house spiders. The line in dust and food across the kitchen floor has been drawn, your time is up, either pay rent or time to get out.

Maybe I should put up a polite sign like the council do.

Dear Spiders,

Sod off.

The squishing humans.

The only real problem is we are being watched constantly, by Babyoy1, Miss4 and Boy7. So we try to be careful with our spidercide. We can't be seen to be purposely killing tiny defensive-less little creatures. Don't want to teach them bad stuff.

Far better we do it sneakily so they don't see.

Awww no! I accidentally killed that spider with the broom. 
Why god why! 
<Shakes fist>

'It's still moving'
Is it? <bang bang, bang>

'Yeah... it's dead now'

Nooo! Why god, why? <Shakes fist>

It may not seem a big issue but will Miss4 really understand the difference between squishing a spider or a hedgehog? Or even the cat? (crosses fingers).#

So we try our best to be responsible spider murderers. If questioned we will admit what we are doing. But it is not to be fun or entertainment at any level. Squish. Done. Very matter of fact.

However... It's not the same with Ants though. Squishing ants is fine.

We have too many ants in the garden. Some ants are cool. Crazy little fellas doing there ant busy stuff. Cool. But at present they are gaining a metre of territory daily and are starting to take over. What we really need is more spiders to eat them... Ohhh... <Learns nothing>

There is no need for a 'Kill Order' with Ants though, unlike spiders, it's a gibbon. Ants are always on the kill list. Just like flies.

Our methods of dispatching Ants are the same as everybody else's: Gruesome and medieval.

Hell we even show the kids what we are doing and why.

Example 1: Boiling water with Boy7

'What are you doing with the kettle outside?'

<necks tea>

I am going to pour boiling water on this ant nest. Wanna watch?

'Yeah'

<Pours scalding water onto the huge, unsuspecting, colony of ants>

'Oooooo... gross... Do it again…

'Look there's larva, that's a baby ant... floating away…

'Ewww... Do it again'

<high fives all round>

Example 2: Stomping with Miss4

'Can I stomp on the ants?'

Yes. Yes you can. I'll help you!

<Dance off ensues>

<Someone other than me wins> (Damn it).

Example 3: Squishing by hand with Boy7

Squish.

How long have you been doing that?

Squish.

'An hour, two... Why?'

Squish.

You realise you are cackling out loud?

Squish.

'No'

Squish. Squish. Squish.

<Boy7 cackles>

Hmmm.... <Edges away... concerned>

Yesterday I found Miss4, with a flip (could have been a flop) on her hand hunting a teeny, tiny, spider in the tiddly (utility) room.

What are you doing?

'I'm going to squish the spider'

But it's only a little one... I'm not sure about this... You shouldn't really...

WHAM <Squish>.

'GOT IT!'

She walks back to her seat proud as punch.

I reluctantly high five her, unsure of what message we are teaching this little girl.

(Weapons of Spider-Destruction. Favoured by 4 year old girls)

Bit of a weird message we sent the kids then...

All living things are precious, you mustn't kill them.

(Except for ants and flies, and sometimes spiders).

... Seems fair...

<Squish>

But I'm glad I'm not a spider... Or an ant, or a fly...
<Squish>
<Cackles>