06/08/2017 - Day 11 of the School Holidays -
Looking back at it, it was a moment sometime on Friday afternoon when I hit my lowest ebb. I sat in the kitchen dejected, my beard unkempt, my exhausted eyes fixed blankly on the bottom of my coffee mug. Two long weeks of childcare had taken its toll – my resolve lay in tatters, buried somewhere below the thick layer of banana skins and biscuit packets that had accumulated on the lounge floor. I glanced up. Connie, our 5 year-old, lay in her trademark position on the sofa surrounded by Haribo wrappers and filth, having stayed in the same seat for so long that the cushions were now permanently indented with her tiny outline.
‘Daddy – get me my popcorn’.
I dutifully got up, shuffled 20 feet across the room, nudged her bowl of popcorn that sat a fraction out of her arms reach a mere 2 inches closer to her, then watched her slowly raise a kernel to her lips, place it carefully on her tongue and chew down on it lazily – her beady little eyes never once leaving Moana on the TV screen.
‘I’m thirsty. Get me a drink. I want squash’.
It was then I realised. I’d finally been broken by my two daughters. Conditioned. No longer a normal functioning member of the human race, I was now reduced to a mere household robot – built to serve my children without so much as please or a thank you. I got her the squash, but told myself that something would have to change. I wasn’t going to take it any more.
Thankfully, as of Saturday, help is now at hand. My wife Sarah, a proper adult and a responsible parent is now off work for the next fortnight. Yes, her fragile state has been well documented recently on here, but four hands are better than two, even if two of them are but one step away from incarceration. It couldn’t have come soon enough. Suddenly I had someone on my side. A companion. No longer outnumbered, we stood a fighting chance against these ghastly tyrants. United once more, we confirmed our marital bond with a few early morning games in the bedroom.
Before you get too excited expecting some juicy Jilly Cooper sordid material (sickos, the lot of you), I’d like to remind you all that we’ve been married 8 years and have two children, so a night of passion comes around about as frequently as an Emile Heskey goal. I’m talking about the classic parent take on the party game ‘Sleeping Lions’, subtly blended with elements of ‘Who Blinks First’. It’s a fairly common phenomenon, but for those without kids who are unsure of the rules, here’s how you win that highly-prized lie-in –
Both parents lie in bed keeping up the ludicrous pretence that they’re still asleep, despite their children arguing and flailing about all over them like 2 angry foxes fighting over a mate. After some 20 minutes of intense discomfort, the children will eventually get bored of the parents and head into another room. The parents continue to lie there stock still, dead to the world, trying not to flinch as they hear their worldly possessions being systematically smashed to smitherines by the little bastards in the room next door. Eventually something will happen that one parent will deem to be a step too far and they’ll snap – perhaps one of the kids stabs their sibling with a screwdriver (don’t worry, we only use Rolson safety ones in our house), or the electric shorts, or one of them goes unusually quiet. The bottler caves in, slopes slowly and quietly out of bed knowing the game’s up, then goes to check everyone is still breathing and has the correct number of limbs. This person has effectively lost. Their punishment for being the first to crack – sorting the kids out with breakfast whilst the other lies there like the cat has got the cream. It’s actually better than sex if you win.
Sarah lost this time. I held my nerve like a professional. I have developed an astonishingly high threshold for this game – Connie practically broke my nose with a ‘Little People’ ambulance once as I lay prone on the bed, yet I remained steadfastly still, my eyes weeping gently as I bit into my pillow. Livvie could be clumsily waving a machete 3 millimetres from my cornea and I’d lie there unflinching if it meant I’d get a peaceful shower.
After we were both up the day was busy – coffee with old friends, checking out Livvie’s new preschool, then heading to the pub afterwards with a bunch of local parents and our small army of children. It was lovely on the whole, the only blemish on the day being the sad discovery of a dead field mouse in the pub garden. The loss left myself and a group of under-fives I was refereeing with some philosophical dilemmas, as we sat for some 10 minutes around the tiny fragile carcass grappling with the big existential questions. We had a lot to cover. We got straight down to it and addressed the obvious first –
‘Why do things have to die?’
‘Ask your mum’.
‘Where do mice go when they die?’
‘Ask your mum’.
‘What was his name?’
‘….Colin?’
‘Why are both of Colin’s eyes hanging out?’
‘Ask your mum’
‘Can I pick up Colin?’
‘No’.
We muddled our way through it and followed it up with a small, respectful ceremony. Sarah wrapped Colin carefully in a napkin, said a few words and lay him to rest in the nearest bin. Unpredictably, this would then turn a nice afternoon at the pub into a slightly more macabre affair with several of the children turning detective, forensically searching the pub garden for other dead creatures, then bringing them to us to examine. Memories of Colin were shortlived. One child found a ladybird. “Yes! I’ve found another dead one! Its definitely dead! It’s a ladybird!” “Chuck it in the bin with the old rat!”, another offered. Connie’s haul was rather more disappointing. She thought she’d found a dead Caterpillar in a spider’s web and rushed gleefully to tell me, but upon closer inspection it turned out just to be a bit of leaf. The disappointment was palpable. ‘But it IS dead, daddy. IT IS’.
Sit down, Connie. I hate to break this to you – It’s not a dead animal. The first stage is denial.
NB - I'm a piano teacher from a small Sussex village who writes about being a dad of two (Livvie - aged 3, and Connie - aged 6). My stuff reads a bit like a diary. Try searching Kinderscenen on Facebook if you’d like to read more. It's not all about deceased animals, I promise.
Finally Ladies and Gentlemen – please raise your glasses – To Colin.
More info: pianodadblog.wordpress.com
