It’s rather bewildering to go shopping and find only dented cans left on the shelves.
What exactly is the thought process on that?
“Quick, grab as many tins as you can, it’s the apocalypse!”
“This one has a dent in it…”
“Leave it! We might be desperate, but we’re not that desperate.”
Like sex, periods and who farted in the elevator, poo and pooping is something we really don’t like to talk about. As a species, we keep up this strange charade that we don’t poop, even though the presence of toilet paper in everyone’s bathrooms suggests we’re really bad liars. It’s a natural bodily process, yet it’s shrouded by an aura of mystery and wonder, shame and disgust, as though we’re crapping out porno mags we’d hate our grandmothers to see. And that’s just silly.
Now, I’m not suggesting it’s something we should discuss over dinner, and I’m certainly not advocating we start taking photos of our bowel movements to impress our neighbours with, but as someone who suffers from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, is allergic to all different kinds of food, and spends much of his life either sitting on toilets or else desperately trying to find them, it can be a lot of fun watching people squirm whenever you bring it up. And if we can’t talk about it, we’re not only denying the reality of our experience and reassuring other sufferers that they’re perfectly normal, we’re missing out on a lot of potential humour.
From an early age I had problems with my gut. The slightest things could trigger a bout of diarrhoea – too much wheat, too much cheese, a new food, skipping a meal, even simple nervousness. I’ve taken allergy tests (I should avoid gluten, dairy, chocolate and pulses, apparently), given up wheat, and carefully manage my diet, but while severe episodes have become less frequent, my digestive system cannot be called normal by any stretch of the imagination. Indeed, I’ve been passing soft stools for so many decades, I worry what might happen to my asshole should I ever pass something hard!
I often disappear from parties, weddings, barbecues and family dinners to spend a half-hour moaning as I destroy a kindly person’s perfectly clean toilet bowl. Thanks to an episode in an Amarillo coach station, I missed my bus, leaving me stranded in Texas while my luggage travelled 450 miles away to Denver. A month ago I was sitting in traffic on a busy road when I realised I just couldn’t hold it anymore – the conclusion to this story, involving my new hat and one of my baby daughter’s nappies, I’m not going to go into here.
But why do I bring all this up on a blog about parenting? Because it’s been dominating my thoughts since I’ve spent the past six days up to my elbows in a three-year-old’s watery-porridge-like poop, and it might be all my fault.
Saturday she had a stomach ache all day and was off her food. That night it started, and by today (Thursday), it still hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s got worse because despite being out of nappies for a year, she’s become incontinent. If you want to know where she is, you just have to follow the slick brown snail trail that leads across the carpet, and there you will find her, sitting in a mess at the end of it.
Our sinks are clogged with chocolate-coated knickers; the bath tub is populated by two polka-dotted pillows and a slime-smeared rug; and there is a duvet out on the washing line in the pouring rain because it’s better out there than in here.
Some of her clothes aren’t worth trying to salvage, so have been dumped in a bin that the sea gulls have become very interested in. We’ve put her in her sister’s nappies, but as a three-year-old who is mistaken for a five-year-old all the time, they catch only some of the deluge before giving up and resigning themselves to the flow. We are drowning in a floodtide of poo, like a Biblical plague that destroys all before it, and it doesn’t look like it’s ever going to end.
The funny thing is that she’s fine in herself – other than that first day, her appetite has been good, she doesn’t have a temperature, and she has bundles of energy – and nor has she passed it to her little sister, her mother or me, so it’s clearly not viral and/or infectious. I thought it might be bacterial, but apparently not.
After she left a big brown dollop on the landing, which I stepped in at five o’clock this morning with bare feet, I took her to the doctor, who said she would put money on it being a food allergy. Despite eating wheat since we weaned her, apparently you can develop an allergy suddenly – almost overnight. We’ve been told to cut wheat out of her diet and she’s been referred to specialists for tests.
And so my daughter may well be embarking upon a lifetime of being that awkward one at the restaurant who asks for the special dietary menu, the asshole that everyone has to buy expensive ingredients to cater for, and the bastard who keeps stinking out their friends’ houses. And she will likely talk to all and sundry about the realities of living with her condition, and inwardly smile as she watches the discomfort on their faces.
Like father, like daughter.
I am 39 years old, give or take six months. That means I’ve been alive around 14,235 days not accounting for leap years. I’m good at some things, less so at others, but one thing I can say without any exaggeration or false modesty: I’m damned good at using a spoon.
Some people look at me and think I was just born with certain genetic advantages, but I wasn’t. My skill with a spoon does not come naturally but has been honed over a lifetime of practice and hard work. If we scratch out the first two years of my life (which are a little vague in my memory), let’s suppose for the next four years, I used a spoon an average of four times a day, or a total of 5,840 times. If you use anything that many times, you become an expert. You have to put in the effort to get the results.
Unfortunately, my dedication to spoons slackened off after that as life got in the way. After starting school, up until eleven, I probably used a spoon twice a day – once for my cereal in the morning and once for pudding at teatime. Although I wasn’t really focusing on my spoon-wielding skills, I still managed to get another 4,380 uses in my logbook. Quite good for the average person, but not enough if you want your spooning to take you to the Olympics.
Then at twelve I started to take things more seriously. Like a quintessential Englishman, I started drinking tea to help focus my performances. For five years, seven spoons a day, that’s another 12,775 times.
At seventeen, shortly after taking silver at the National Spooning Championships, I realised I would have to add coffee to my daily regimen if I ever wanted gold. Eight to ten cups a day, plus cereal for breakfast and yoghurt for pudding, say, twelve spoons a day for 23 years, and you’re looking at 100,740.
Total times I’ve used a spoon in my life (give or take a couple of thousand): 123,735.
That is how I became what I am today. All my plaudits and successes in spoon usage have come from 39 years of single-minded pursuit of excellence. I am, without a doubt and by any objective measure, a giant of spoon-wielding brilliance.
But apparently, I’m using my spoon wrong. I’ve been using it wrong all my life. Luckily, my three-year-old was able to put me right over breakfast this morning. How lucky I am to have such an expert in my home who is able to correct years of bad technique.
Her lectures on how to properly use toilet paper, the best way of making coffee, and how I should shave my face have also been greatly appreciated and improved my life no end.
This will take me to the next level, so look out world! If I was unstoppable before, with the help of my three-year-old’s wisdom and expertise, I will soon conquer this puny planet. All hail your new emperor.
When people ask me how I am these days, I tend to answer the same way. I point at my fourteen-month-old and say, ‘For the past two months, this one has been staying up till at least midnight every night, often till two or three in the morning, and I have no idea how to get her to sleep. All she does is scream and scream. I’ve not had a single night off in over a year and I’m physically and emotionally wrecked.’
I figured that response was fine, since it was true. However, since I can hear like a bat, I’ve started noticing people talking about me in other rooms – family and friends and whatnot – saying how I’m always moaning, I’m never happy, I’m always going on about how tired I am, etc., etc. Yes, I have become ‘that guy’. Sucks to be me.
But it’s a real problem nonetheless. She’s too young to be disciplined, threatened, bribed or reasoned with; too old to cry herself to sleep because she can stand up – and special as she is, stand-sleeping is beyond her.
Since I’m clearly not allowed to be honest, and my family, friends and whatnot don’t have the insight to realise my moaning is a cry for help, I thought I would offer the pearls of my wisdom to other parents who find themselves in a similar position: stuck with a screaming child that won’t sleep, and clinging to the end of their rope by a single breaking fingernail.
Here are the tactics and the techniques I’ve tried, considered and/or been recommended to get my daughter to sleep. Use them wisely and with a pinch of salt.
1. Don’t let her nap during the day.
Upsides: It makes her tired.
Downsides: By ‘tired’ I mean ‘cranky’. You get no down time during the day, and now she’s too irritable to sleep.
Overall verdict: Counterintuitively, kids need to be less tired to sleep, so a baby who has regular naps and is well rested goes to bed easier than one who is exhausted. The more you know.
2. Move her bedtime back a couple of hours.
Upsides: You defer the problem till later.
Downsides: You defer the problem till later.
Overall verdict: You still have to face the horrors of bedtime, only now your kid is even more tired and irritable
3. Let her stay up till she goes to sleep naturally.
Upsides: You don’t have to do anything.
Downsides: Where the hell is my evening?
Overall verdict: Who’s the parent here anyway?
4. Give her a bath.
Upsides: It’s fun!
Downsides: It’s too much fun. She’s more awake when she gets out than when she got in.
Overall verdict: A great way to kill an hour. Not a great way to get her to sleep.
5. Leave her to ‘cry it out’.
Upsides: None.
Downsides: It wakes up the rest of the household and makes you want to die. After ten minutes, she’s choking and hyperventilating and it then takes you thirty minutes to calm her down, which makes it counterproductive anyway.
Overall verdict: Might work with earplugs and sociopaths, but painful for all concerned.
6. Shout and scream right back.
Upsides: It feels good.
Downsides: It doesn’t help get her to sleep.
Overall verdict: The only people you should be shouting at are reality TV stars and politicians. Or when they’re both.
7. Take her for a drive.
Upsides: You get to see interesting places, people and wildlife, and avoid watching teleshopping.
Downsides: When you get home after an hour speeding around the countryside, she’s more awake than you are.
Overall verdict: Save your petrol money, pay for a nanny.
8. Take her for a walk.
On these mean streets? In the dark? You must be joking.
9. Give her Calpol.
Upsides: When she’s ill, it soothes her enough to sleep.
Downsides: Unless she’s ill, why are you giving your kid painkillers, you psycho? It’s not a freaking sedative!
Overall verdict: If you think drugging your kids to make your life easier is acceptable, you’re at the top of a slippery slope that leads to sprinkling benzos on their breakfast cereal and fixing their ouchies with ketamine.
10. Spike her evening milk with rum/gin/whisky.
Upsides: Your elderly relatives will respect you for following their advice.
Downsides: Are you freaking kidding me?
Overall verdict: If you think drugging your kids to make your life easier is acceptable…
11. Cuddle her on the sofa.
Upsides: It’s nice, she goes to sleep, and you get to catch up on a box set..
Downsides: It is physically impossible to get her from the sofa to her cot without her waking up and starting to scream.
Overall verdict: It’s great for killing time on the long evenings when she just won’t settle, but you’re simply deferring the problem till later. And worse, now she’s slept for a few minutes, she uses it as a springboard to propel her past midnight and into the early hours. Depends how much you want to catch up on Game of Thrones, I suppose.
12. Rock her in your arms.
Upsides: Really effective and gives you biceps like Dwayne Johnson.
Downsides: Cramp, boredom, and you’re still left with the problem of transferring her into the cot.
Overall verdict: Can work if she’s really tired, but if she’s not, get ready for her eyes to pop open and her lungs to fill during the transition.
13. Sing to her.
Upsides: You get to practice your aria with an uncritical listener.
Downsides: Pretty hard to get the right pitch and intonation when someone’s screaming at you.
Overall verdict: It can work, but you’d better keep singing because the second you stop, she’s going to give you feedback, and you probably won’t like what you hear.
14. Read to her.
Upsides: You get to do something interesting and she gets to work on her grammar.
Downsides: You have to have the light on. And even if she does fall asleep, you face the awkward prospect of having to get up and creep across the creaky floorboards without waking her up.
Overall verdict: quite good, but it can take a long, long, LONG time.
15. Stay in the room with her.
Upsides: You get to sit there and completely ignore her. You have the power!
Downsides: If she’s anything like my kid, she starts off quiet, then starts talking, then starts shouting, crying, screaming, choking, hyperventilating and then dying, until you have to sort her out. End result: she wins.
Overall verdict: She wins.
16. Bring her into your bed for the start of the night.
Upsides: She goes to sleep happily and easily.
Downsides: You still have to transfer her back to the cot, and since she’s been so happy and comfortable, it makes her doubly angry when she wakes up mid-transition and even less likely to settle.
Overall verdict: It’s better to avoid the aggro.
17. Bring her into your bed for the whole night.
Upsides: The easiest technique of all.
Downsides: Where do I begin? You have the same bedtime as a baby; you’re going to get kicked in the nuts and punched in the neck half of the night; babies are a real passion-killer; you’re paranoid you’re going to roll over and squash her.
Overall verdict: Don’t. Do. It. Once you’ve started, how and when do you stop? It might seem like the easy option in the short term, but do you really want your ten-year-old still sharing a bed with you because she never learnt to sleep by herself? Jesus, cut the apron strings.
18. Give her a relaxing massage.
Upsides: A great way to bond with your child.
Downsides: She giggles the entire time like it’s the funniest thing ever, which isn’t relaxing at all.
Overall verdict: If laughter makes you sleepy, go right ahead. If you’re normal, might be best to skip this one.
19. Give her a slap.
Upsides: I’m not even going there.
Downsides: If you want her to stop screaming, slapping her probably won’t achieve that. Well, I guess it depends how hard you slap…
Overall verdict: Not an effective tool for bedtime, or daytime, or any time, actually, unless you like the look of prison.
20. Knock yourself unconscious.
Upsides: You sleep.
Downsides: She doesn’t.
Overall verdict: Doesn’t solve the problem.
21. Put her on her back in the cot, slip your arm through the slats, place your hand on her chest and pin her to the mattress.
Upsides: You’re in the room with her; you’re in physical contact with her; she can hold onto your hand; she’s reassured that she’s not been left alone; she’s lying down and can’t stand up; when she whines you can rock her gently; you can sing to her at the same time; and eventually when she goes to sleep, you don’t have to transfer her because she’s already asleep in her cot. Job done!
Downsides: This can take up to forty-five minutes; depending on the size of your forearms and the gap between the bars, your arm will probably ache after three; once she’s asleep you’re faced with slowly removing your hand from her chest without waking her and you still have to get out of the room; and if she isn’t tired after all, you’ve just wasted three-quarters of an hour.
Overall verdict: It works. It’s time-consuming and labour intensive, but my God, it works. Most of the time. And it’s the only way I’ve figured out to get her to sleep these days. You might as well try it – what have you got to lose?
When I was just a little girl, I asked my daddy, what will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Here's what he said to me:
Oh my God, will you give it a rest, you are the neediest kid, stop it with all the gosh-darned questions, can you just give me five minutes to myself, you’re driving me insane, I feel like I’m taking crazy pills, and leave your sister alone, no I can see you doing it, get off her, GET OFF HER, she’s not a toy, just be quiet and sit still, no sit still, do you want me to take you into the woods and leave you there, go in your playroom I can’t take it anymore, no there are no dinosaurs in your playroom, no there are no dinosaurs anymore, no there aren’t, okay fine there are dinosaurs but there are no dinosaurs around here, no it’s too cold this far north, they’ve all gone south for the winter, so go away and leave me alone, and stop saying what, stop saying WHAT, right that’s it, say what again, SAY WHAT AGAIN, I dare you, I double dare you, say what again, no, no I was quoting a movie, no I don’t want you to say what again, I don’t want you to say what, oh my gosh my brain is melting, how about I put on Topsy and Tim, okay you can watch Topsy and Tim but only if you promise to stop saying what and give me a break, you promise, okay great, which episode, we’ve got fifty episodes why do you always want that one, you’ve seen it a hundred times, okay whatever watch it then, are you watching it, why aren’t you watching it, well this is the one you wanted, oh for crying out loud, leave your sister alone, no you can’t have an ice-lolly, no you can’t, stop crying, it’s five minutes to teatime, stop crying, no I’m not mean, just because I said you couldn’t have an ice-lolly, come on cheer up, be happy, leave your sister alone, no don’t you dare start singing that song, if you start singing that song I’ll, baby shark doo doo do do do do, baby shark doo doo do do do do, no it’s stuck in my head now, how many hours till your bedtime, three, THREE, oh my God how am I going to manage it, mummy, mummy can you come and look after your little princess, uh huh yeah I’m sure it’s really important but I’m trying to serve up dinner, yeah she keeps saying what again, what, yeah three hours till bedtime, no I don’t know how we’re going to make it either, que sera sera.
It’s only natural, I think, to look at your two-year-old daughter and imagine what her life might be like in the future. She leaps around the room like a baby ballerina – a dancer. She gets out her plastic stethoscope and listens to your chest – a doctor. She pushes the dog off the back of the sofa – a pest-controller.
Then there are the hints of her future character. She tries to make sure everybody is involved in whatever we’re doing – she’s going to be sensitive to the needs of others. She befriends anybody and everybody she meets – she’s going to be sociable. She lures other children away from their parents whenever we’re in a pub – she’s going to be charismatic. Or a future cult-leader. No, I’m going with charismatic.
Unfortunately, not all of it is so positive. While her behaviour is probably (please God!) normal for a two-year-old, let’s just suppose for a second that my daughter acts the same way when she’s twenty-two. Those little idiosyncrasies of early childhood would look an awful lot different in an adult.
For example, imagine your grown-up daughter, who is called Izzie, suddenly appears in her doorway late at night as you’re walking past her room and declares, in a croaky, demon-possessed voice, ‘My name’s Actata.’
‘Jolly good,’ you reply.
‘What’s your name? Oi, where you going? Me talking to you!’
‘Go to sleep, Izzie.’
‘Me not Izzie, me Actata! Come back! Me in charge!’
You’d find that a bit weird, right?
Or what if your adult daughter disappeared upstairs for a couple of minutes, then reappeared wearing some sparkly gold sandals, a pair of knickers, a fluffy hoody, bright pink lipstick, dark sunglasses and a red woolly bobble-hat, with a bag of makeup over her shoulder, and then proceeded to strut back and forth across the lounge like something from the opening scenes of Pretty Woman, saying, ‘Me going to my new house. You not invited.’
You wouldn’t be strangely proud of her imagination – you’d be freaking terrified.
But that wouldn’t be anywhere near as alarming as your twentysomething daughter stripping off her clothes in the lounge every night before bed, climbing onto the back of the sofa, and doing five minutes of star-jumps while shouting, ‘Me naked, me naked, me naked!’ followed by, ‘Girls have noo-noos, boys have willies!’
And speaking of bed, what would you think if, every night after you’d made sure she was settled, your university-aged daughter took her pillow and duvet and made a little nest in the open doorway of her bedroom, and every time you returned her to bed you found her right back on the floor in the doorway again ten minutes later?
And what would you say to a grown-up daughter who claims ‘exercise’ is rolling off the arm of the sofa to fall flat on her face on the floor, time after time after time? Or who demands her dad sing to her every time she sits on the toilet to coax out her poop like a particularly gross snake charmer? Or who, whenever you’re driving the car screams, ‘Go, go, go! Faster, daddy, faster! Do your horn!’ Or who runs away from the cat every morning crying, ‘Don’t let her eat me, daddy, she’s going to eat me!’ Or hits her sister in the face with her doll Lucy, then claims it was Lucy who did it, not her.
Projecting into the future, there are only two types of adults I’ve met who behave anything like that. My daughter is going to be a melodramatic, free-spirited, adrenaline junkie nudist hippy who goes her own way, works as an actress, wears tie-dyes, conducts seances in her spare time, and is a shining beacon of what life can be like if we listen to our inner voice and refuse to conform.
Or she’s going to be a meth addict.
I’m really hoping it’s neither.
In the interests of full disclosure, I’m writing this while wearing my third pair of trousers today.
By the time your second baby comes around, you’re pretty sure you’re unshockable. The first introduced you to diarrhoea so explosive it went up the walls, poo so gravity-defying it could somehow climb from the nappy up and out the neck of a sleepsuit, and vomit so pungent it melted the clothes from off your body. I’ve had piss on my nipples, shit on my neck and puke on my toes. The second child? A breeze.
And it has been. My four-month-old Rosie has been much easier, as far as that sort of thing goes, than her sister. She’s always snotty – my clothes are held together by snail-trails at the moment – but she isn’t particularly poopy or pukey. Indeed, other than a poo that jumped into my lap like a rocket-propelled sausage when I was changing her at about four weeks, she hasn’t grossed me out once.
And then today happened.
I was sitting on the sofa with my baby on my lap, happily cooing and gurgling and squawking to herself, as she does from half-five every morning. The Olympics was on the TV, my toddler was playing with a colouring book, and all of a sudden I noticed my testicles were getting incredibly warm.
Weird, I thought – my baby’s sitting on my thighs so it’s not her. But now my butthole is getting hot, too. It’s like I’m lowering myself into a lovely relaxing bath. What the hell is going on?
I lifted up my baby and discovered the awful truth – her sleepsuit was sopping wet. It was dripping down between my legs onto the sofa cushion, and then soaking up into my jeans and boxers. And yes, my nether regions were now swimming in baby piss.
It’s amazing how quickly urine goes cold. I stood up and as my boxer shorts tightened against my balls, I couldn’t keep a look of horror from crossing my face. You know the one – the look that comes over you when a pleasant, refreshing fart in a restaurant turns out to be something a little more than gas.
Screaming at the utter horribleness of it all, I handed the baby to my wife and hobbled upstairs looking like John Wayne after riding a stallion for twelve hours. Yuck, yuck, yuck.
Stripping off, I washed my junk in the sink, relieved to be free of the curse, and changed into fresh underwear and jeans. I went downstairs, to where my wife was changing the baby, and sat down on the sofa to watch.
Why does my butthole still feel wet, I wondered to myself. And then I realised I’d sat down in the puddle of urine still soaking into the cushion, and my newly-sterile groin was covered in baby pies again!
Poo from your face to your feet? No problem. Puke from my nipples to my nuts? Unpleasant, but I’ve got it in the bag. But white wine on my wedding tackle? You can get the hell out of my house.
I guess I’m still shockable after all.
There’s this idea out there that children, because they aren’t tainted by the vices and peculiarities of society, are possessed of a special kind of wisdom that we lose as we age. They haven’t yet learned to lie, so their utterances are factual, and honest, and tap into a purer, more innocent state of being. If you want to hear truth, so the logic goes, ask a child – they’ll tell it to you straight, without sugar-coating or prevarication. People have even written books about how we can learn to live a fuller, happier life simply by listening to the instinctive wisdom of our children and incorporating it into our daily lives.
What a load of bollocks.
I’m not saying that kids don’t have their moments, but I’m really not sure we should be taking life advice from people who think it’s okay to scratch their arseholes in front of mixed company.
While it’s true that children can be very honest and address subjects normally taboo in polite society, that doesn’t mean they’re right – and they’re normally pretty far from it. It’s not because they’re stupid, but because they just don’t have the experience. Like tonight, when my two-year-old delighted in telling me that ‘Mummy’s got really big nipples’ – given she’s only ever seen three other pairs (mine, hers, and her baby sister’s), she has nothing to compare them to. Honesty is therefore not a measure of truth or reality – it’s just a two-year-old’s very unqualified opinion about something she knows nothing about. (For the record, my extensive knowledge of slightly more than three sets of nipples suggests they’re pretty-much average-sized, not ‘really big’ at all).
Likewise, innocence doesn’t show us a purer way to live – it just shows us ignorance. Like when my daughter tries to play hide-and-seek in the car, pulls her T-shirt up over her face, and cries, ‘Where am I, daddy? You can’t see me! Me hiding.’ Or when after clearing the dinner plate because I tell her eating it will make her grow up big and strong, she stands on tiptoes, reaches to the sky, and says, ‘Me bigger now?’ Or when she tells me that she’s not old enough to be a boy yet, but will be one day – although, to be fair, given the current predilection for transgenderism, she may well be right on that one.
Even so, you can’t trust a child’s judgement because the way they think is just too weird and unpolished. Over dinner this evening, my daughter leaned over towards me and said, ‘Me hope you fart,’ and then went straight back to eating. And she will not stop stripping all her dolls from her Sylvanian Families playsets because, ‘Me like them naked.’ And a few days ago she said, ‘Me not like you paint my nose. Me not like bogies.’ I’m not entirely sure what ‘wisdom’ I’m supposed to glean from these little pearls.
She can be snarky too. My wife was busy today so I took the little one to swimming lessons. Since I’ve not done it in a while, I said to her, ‘You’ll have to tell me what to do.’
From the back of the car, this sarcastic little voice replied, ‘You get in the water…and then you swim.’
Gee, thanks.
She can also be rather creepy at times. The other day she came up to me and, out of the blue, said, ‘Daddy, please may me have a knife?’
‘What on earth do you want a knife for?’
‘Nothing. Me have one?’
She’s two, for God’s sake!
Just as bad was when we were out driving. She suddenly said, ‘Daddy, me wearing pants or a nappy?’
‘Pants.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
And then an ominous silence.
‘Do you need the toilet?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she replied. That was one uncomfortable car journey, I can tell you!
But then, I guess there was one positive thing she did this week. For the umpteenth time while bathing my daughter, my wife asked for help putting the baby to bed, so I snapped, ‘For crying out loud, just give her her dummy like I’ve said fifteen times already.’
My daughter looked up at me, subdued, and whispered, ‘You mean to mummy.’
‘No, I wasn’t being mean, I was…okay, maybe I was being a little mean.’
‘You say sorry to mummy.’
And she wouldn’t let it rest until I had apologised. And she was right.
So maybe we can learn some things from our children. As a general rule, however, I think I’ll be happier not taking guidance on how to live my life from someone who, this evening while sitting on the toilet, was sobbing because, ‘Me not like poo coming out of my bottom!’
Not exactly worthy of the Dalai Lama, is it?
Why have you emptied the cupboard onto the kitchen floor? No, don’t walk away. Come back. Don’t hide in that cupboard. Are you listening to me? Izzie? Come out of there. Come out or you’re on the naughty step.
‘Okay, daddy.’
Right. Good. Why are you sticking out your bottom lip? That’s better. Now, come here, I want to talk to you.
Leave the water bottle alone. I said leave it alone.
‘This broken.‘
It’s not broken.
‘This broken, daddy.‘
Don’t change the subject. Come here. The count of three. One, two…
Good. Stop sticking out your bottom lip. Now, why did you empty all the baking tins out of the cupboard when mummy told you not to?
‘Mffmffjmmmt.’
You have to open your mouth when you speak.
‘Mffmffjmmmt.’
No, you have to open your mouth. I know you’re capable of talking because you’ve been doing it all day. So tell me why you emptied the cupboard, and this time, open your mouth when you talk.
‘Muh huh bluh muh nuh juh bluh.’
That isn’t any better. Think about what you want to say and then say it. Why did you empty the cupboard when mummy told you not to?
‘Me sit in my chair.’
Fine, sit in your chair. Then tell me why there are baking tins all over the floor. No, look at me. Why are you sticking out your bottom lip again? That’s better. Now. Why did you disobey your mummy?
‘Mmf luff juh buh muh Daisy.’
Only one word of that was in English. What about Daisy?
‘My friend Daisy.’
I know she’s your friend. What’s that got to do with this?
‘Mmf luff juh buh tell me.’
Daisy told you to empty the cupboard?
‘Yes.’
When did she tell you to empty the cupboard?
‘Yesterday.’
You haven’t seen Daisy for a week. Are you lying to me?
‘No.’
Lying is naughty.
‘Me lying.’
So Daisy didn’t tell you to empty it?
‘No.’
Then why did you empty it?
‘Mummy tell me.’
Your mummy told you to empty the cupboard?
‘Yes.’
The person who told you not to empty the cupboard told you to empty the cupboard?
‘Yes.’
Are you lying to me again?
‘Yes.’
So why did you empty the cupboard all over the floor? Suck in that bottom lip. Do you know why you emptied the cupboard?
‘No, me not know why.’
Well, at least you’re honest. When mummy tells you not to do something, don’t do it, okay?
‘Okay, daddy. Me go in my playroom now?’
No, let’s pick these all up off the floor and put them back in the cupboard, please.
‘Daddy do it.’
No, you made the mess so you can tidy it up.
‘Me want daddy do it.’
And me want holiday, but we don’t always get what we want.
‘Me not want holiday.’
Then you’re in luck. Now, please put all of these baking tins back in the cupboard.
‘Mummy do it.’
No, mummy’s not going to do it. Where’s this bottom lip thing come from?
‘Me need a toilet.’
Do you really need the toilet or are you trying to get out of clearing up?
‘Me need a wee-wee. Me not wear a nappy, me not wee-wee in my pants.’
Fine. Come on, let’s go sit on the potty.
‘You not look at my wee-wee.’
I won’t look at your wee-wee. Come on, take your trousers down, and your pants, there you go.
‘You not listen, daddy.’
I won’t listen. There. Are you doing anything?
‘No. Me not need a toilet.’
Goddamnit. Okay, stand up then. That’s it. Pull your pants up, and your trousers. There, all done.
‘Me play in my playroom now?’
No, you’re going to tidy up first.
‘Why?’
Because I said so. No, don’t sigh at me.
‘Me not want to tidy things, daddy.’
Why not?
‘Me naughty.’
Well, don’t be naughty.
‘Why?’
Because it’s not nice.
‘Me not want to tidy.’
Look, how about this – if you put the baking tins away, I’ll come in your playroom with you.
‘Okay.’
Thank God. Okay, that’s one. No, leave the water bottle alone.
‘This broken.’
It’s not broken, it’s meant to be like that. Now, put the baking tins away before I scream.
‘Daddy sad?’
No, daddy isn’t sad.
‘Daddy cry?’
No, daddy isn’t going to cry.
‘Daddy cry. Do it. Do it now.’
Wait, you want daddy to cry?
‘Yes. On my birthday and mummy’s birthday.’
Why would you want me to cry on your birthday?
‘You always do.’
What? You’ve completely lost me now.
‘Me play in my playroom with daddy?’
Put them away, and then I’ll play with you. I said don’t sigh at me.
‘Why?’
Because…oh for crying out loud, I’ll put one away and you put one away, how’s that? Okay?
‘Okay, daddy.’
Okay, good. Here, that’s one. Now it’s your turn. It’s your turn. Pick that one up. That one right there. Where I’m pointing. Where I’m pointing, look.
‘Me not see it.’
Okay, now you’re just mucking me about.
‘Me not see anything.’
Right, that’s it. Straight to bed with no supper. Come on, up to bed.
‘No, me not go to bed. Me not tired. Me busy.’
With what?
‘Me got to put things in the cupboard.’
I know. I know you do. I told you to do it. Ten minutes ago. Ten minutes. You’re driving me insane, child, insane. Do you understand?
‘Daddy want a cuddle?’
Aaaaaaaawaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!
Oh Rosie. You might be my favourite 11-week old, but I can no longer pretend this isn’t happening. For the purpose of saving our relationship, I have to be honest with you. I love you, from the tips of your ginger-tinged hair to the tops of your tiny little toenails, but there is no denying it anymore: you are the fartiest creature I’ve ever met.
Your early weeks weren’t so bad. Yes, when I fed you, you puffed like a steam train against my thigh – puff, puff, puff – but they were quiet and polite, like little girl farts ought to be. What happened, sweetheart? Why did you change?
Was it to teach me a new vocabulary of wind? Was it so that I could experience such diversity of parps and pumps that I would never again take for granted the simple biological process of breaking wind? Well, honey, lesson learned – you have successfully educated me. Here follows a chart of flatulence, a wind atlas, if you will. And now it’s done, can you just stop it now?
The Wind Atlas
The broadside – a fart so loud and resonant it’s like all the cannons on HMS Victory firing at once – BOOM! Has been known to send the dog running for cover.
The fire at will – like the broadside, except the individual gun crews reload and shoot as fast as they can, leading to a ragged series of explosions.
The warning shot – this is a single cannon shot, with minimal powder, as though testing the barrel is clear. Often presages further shots to come.
The ripper – the sound of tearing cloth; short, fast, with a certain amount of vibration. Tends to make people check you haven’t burned a hole in your baby-gro.
The zipper – like the ripper, but longer and slower, like somebody zipping up the door to a tent or awning.
The follow-through – starts off like the zipper, but before the tent is completely closed, a lemon gets stuck in the zip and is loudly squished. Often followed by a shocked look on your face, as if to say, ‘How did that happen?’
The cough fart – quite a skill, this one, like patting your head while rubbing your stomach. It’s a simultaneous cough and fart, done in such unison it’s almost musical. Normally in clusters, two and two. Ringo Starr wishes he had your sense of rhythm.
The sneeze fart – not as percussive as the cough fart, and not always exactly in time, either, this is nevertheless a worthy addition to your repertoire. Except when flying snot enters the fray; then I could do without it.
The laugh fart – it’s not that funny.
The tearjerker – despite the name, this is in fact a series of seven or eight farts, normally of either the ripper or zipper varieties, that results in tears. Strangely, the crying tends to arrive halfway through the sequence and then continues beyond the climax.
The snake – this is one of those farts that slips out when you’re all relaxed, and sounds like a gentle sigh, or a grass snake hissing away to itself under the sofa. Or the valve being released on a pressure cooker before it explodes.
The squirty cream – anybody who has ever used squirty cream from a can knows the sound it makes, that aerosol whoosh – schshhhhhh. Well. Somehow you do that. And it’s gross.
The South West train – I know you’re pushing; I can see it in the way your face is turning red and your legs are ramrod straight and lifting out of your chair; and then you relax because it’s obviously been cancelled and – bloop! There it is. Just a late arrival, that’s all.
The whale song – like a relaxing CD, this is a distant whistle that sounds like a cetacean trying to communicate. Normally has me searching the room to find the source of the sound before I realise it’s you. Makes me worry for your safety if you ever swim in the sea.
The disappointment – this imposter arrives when your belly is so hard I could bounce coins off it, and after half-an-hour of massaging your abdomen we’re treated to a piddly little, weak ass ‘phut’, that does nothing for any of us. Better nothing at all.
The rocking horse shit – after pushing and straining and straining and pushing, nothing comes out and your belly softens and shrinks by itself. A relief for all involved, and it happens so rarely, it’s practically a myth by now.
There. Now just stop it. Nobody should need to fart so often or in so many different ways. We’re feeding you milk, for crying out loud, not baked beans! Two-dozen farts per hour is damaging the Ozone Layer. So just stop.
But at least they don’t smell. If they did, well – then we’d really have a problem, wouldn’t we?
Aspie Daddy 