The Future Is Finally Here

AS a kid I remember watching t children’s show Blue Peter and seeing a segment about a house of the future. There were lots of cool gadgets in that house but what i  remember vividly is the presenter saying “switch off the  lights” and the house lights automatically switching off.  I thought it was cool but also so far-fetched that such a thing could really happen – lights you can talk to? Cool but Ridiculous.
40 years later …. its finally happened. In my house.
I about a smart plug connected it to Google Assistant and now my daughter can lay in bed and switch off her bedroom light by voice alone.
The future is finally here.

 

Bonding Among The Ballcocks

Last weekend we visited my parents. While wifey and mum went shopping with baby I decided to spend some man time with dad. I asked him what he wanted to do? Go fishing? Go down the pub? Watch some football? Anything you want dad, my treat. But I knew what his answer would be – “Visit Wickes.”  Wickes, the DIY superstore.

I hate DIY.  When I was 10, dad said to me that he didn’t want me to grow up like him and have a manual job (he used to be a welder, he is retired now).  He urged me to read and educate myself and take my studies seriously. He wanted me to be white collar not blue collar.I took this to heart and decided not to get involved in metalwork and woodwork at school. Consequently I have no interest in DIY. I’d rather be at home lying on a sofa watching TV, like the documentary series One Strange Rock.

But to Dad, Wickes is his Wembley, his Gucci, his perfect day out. Amongst the ball cocks and plasterboard he is at home. If they allowed him to, he’d stay in one of their sheds.

As we wander the aisles, him in nirvana fondling sandpaper and lovingly caressing screwdrivers, I try to feign interest whilst stifling my yawns.

Now that he is retired and bored I ask him why he doesn’t get a job working at Wickes.
“I’d hate dealing with the public asking stupid questions about grouting and plumbing,” he says.
“Like me?” I’m always phoning him up to ask the best way to fix a shelf that is wobbly or what do when a fuse blows.
“Your my son, thats different.” He says.
It’s a tender moment. He is not a man to express emotion but that’s as close to a “I love you” as I am likely to get.

With that in mind I have decided that I am going to get involved in DIY. Now that I am a father I have decided to put my hatred of DIY aside and learn how to use a power tool and grout and all that manly stuff.  So I have invited dad to help me do up our bathroom. When I asked him, I could swear he had tears in his eyes.

Potty Training

On Saturday when wifey announced that she was going to a day spa  and  “don’t  you remember you agreed to look after baby for the day”, my first reaction was fear, closely followed by horror.

She told me weeks ago. I vaguely remember wifey saying she wanted a day off  but I was watching football at the time and didn’t pay full attention. She is a cunning one wifey. She used to make her controversial proposals just after sex, when lying in bed with my soppy grin and serotonin flooding my body I’d happily agree to anything.  But we rarely have sex now, so football is the new post-coital.

Its not that I don’t love my daughter its just that as millions of mums and dads will testify to, they are bloody exhausting.I function best as a daddy when I can give her a short period of fun attention. Read her a book, jump on the bed together, dance to a rave tune. Babysitting all day is a different matter. It’s also a totally inappropriate term when there is no sitting involved. More like, baby sit down-get up -run around-sit down-get up-try and read the paper-get up.

As she left there was anther wifey curve ball – “remember we are potty training so no nappies, just watch her and when she looks like she is doing a poo or a wee move her to the potty.”
Great. I can’t even watch the telly now.

As baby plays with her tea set I watch her like a hawk and look for the signs. But I can’t see any. So after ten minutes I elect to sit her on the potty.

She sits there reading her book. Quite content. She’s obviously been observing daddy’s toilet time. After 5 or so minute she gets up. I look inside the potty. Nothing.

30 seconds later she has shat all over the carpet.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

“Uh oh’ she says.

It’s the first of many accidents.

Between potty time we watch animated penguins dance for over an hour on You Tube. We go to the park and go up and own the slide over 20 times in a row. We read the same nursery rhymes dozens of times. We jump on the bed. I bath baby, feed her and she is sick. (On reflection, jumping on the bed after breakfast was not the smartest move.)

She also pees in the kitchen, and the lounge twice. All before 10.30 am.

By the time wifey arrives back home at 8 that night glowing from her facial and all day pampering I am a broken man.
But overjoyed.

“She peed in the potty. She peed in the potty. It was only a little one. But she peed in the potty” I excitedly tell wifey, slightly delirious.

I choose not to mention the 9 times she didn’t.

I love football because in a game of football you have high drama, periods of boredom, tears, joy, elation, disappointment, frustration, excitement, all packed into 90 minutes. Child care is similar. Except its like watching or playing 10 games of football back to back.

Respect to all mothers of the world and all stay at home dads. I salute you.

Liam Gallagher on Parenting

The unique wisdom of Oasis singer Liam Gallagher on the problems of parenting.

When you’ve got kids, you worry, make sure they don’t turn into a f**king lunatics, but then theres nothing wrong with being a lunatic. I guess making suer they don’t turn into f**king squares. That’s the most important thing isn’t it?

What would be the first sign of them turning into squares?

Listenig to Coldplay. Listening to Noel Gallagher’s Flying Birds…IF i ever caught them at one of their gigs they’d be trouble. I’d stop their pocket money or I’d dish out loads of old photos of them with nappies full of sh*t and put that on the internet and say ‘Cop that dickhead’. That’ll do it cos they think they’re cool now they’re 16,17.

50 Shades of Parenting

It all started with an innocent question over breakfast.
Darling have you got a pilots license? Asks my wife.
You mean can I fly a plane? I say.
Yes.
No.
Oh.

A few days later.
Darling. Have you got a pilot’s uniform?  She asks.
What like a fancy dress outfit?
Kind of.
 No. And you know how I hate fancy dress parties.

The following morning.
Darling I want you to tell me what to do. I want you to assert your manliness. Really? Are you sure?
Yes.
But you hate it when I tell you to pick up your dirty clothes off the bathroom floor. You get angry and tell me not to treat you like a child.
I like the way you said dirty. I can be very dirty sometimes can’t I? She says seductively.
What’s going on?
She moves in closer.
I want you to dominate me. I want to be your submissive.

Then the penny drops.
You’ve been reading that Fifty Shades of Grey haven’t you?
She smiles.
Yes I have and its opened up a whole new side of me. I want to be your sex slave. I will have sex with you whenever you want me to.

But when I tried it last week you told me to get off because you were watching Desperate Housewives.

You should have insisted. That’s what dominants do. You should do what you want whether I want it or not.

You sound like a Conservative talking about rape. How about you tell me when you want me to dominate you and I’ll pretend I don’t know and then I’ll sneak up behind you, grab you and carry you off to bed.

Mmm that sounds nice. But be careful of your back. You don’t want to have to  go to the physio again.

Ok I’ll drag you across the floor.

I like that. But make sure there aren’t any of baby’s toys in the way I don’t want to get injured like when you stood on her xylophone and you cut your foot.

Ok. So you’ll give me the sign. I’ll pretend you haven’t given it to me. Then I’ll sweep the floor of all known toys, pull you across the floor and into the bedroom. Where I will have my wicked way. Loudly and manly.

Not too loud though honey. We don’t want to wake M.

Being a Working Dad

A little something I wrote for the esteemed Tesco Magazine on being a working dad.\

Whoever says Sunday is a day of rest has never been a parent. The official day of rest for working parents is Monday. In the office, my work colleagues don’t demand to be read stories or chased, or ask me to draw pictures of cats. And not even demanding TV presenters writhe around on the floor screaming.

I believe that looking after kids full time is way harder than any day job. That’s why for centuries men have chosen not to do it – they worked out that hunting animals or going down the pits or even going to war was preferable.

man and child happy

I come from a long line of working dads. My own dad chose to work as many hours as he could to earn money to buy me the things he never had as a kid. But although I got what I wanted, I didn’t get what I needed – his time. When my dad was around he was often tired and irritable. I didn’t want to make that mistake.\r\n\r\nSo with my wife and I both working, we decided to form a tag team. One morning I get Maia ready and then my wife takes her to the nursery. Then the next day we swap. It is like a military operation, but we get the job done together. As a bonus, I’ve found being a dad has made me more disciplined at work. I pack more in to my working day so I’m home in time to read to Maia and put her to bed at least three evenings a week.

There’s nothing more beautiful than coming home and hearing “Daddy, Daddy!” and the sound of little feet as Maia rushes to greet me. Our father/daughter relationship comes down to quality versus quantity. I might spend fewer hours with Maia, but because they’re limited, I treasure them more and she gets to see my best side. And while I salute the dads who’ve chosen to stay at home, I know it’s not right for my family. Being a working dad is what works best for all of us.

I Love Mondays

Whoever says Sunday is a day of rest has never been a parent.

The official day of rest for working parents is Monday.
In the office.

One of the main changes in lifestyle of being a parent is how you treat the weekends.Pre – parenthood, weekends were for sleeping and decompressing – two days of rest from five days of work. They were characterized by lie-ins and lazy Sunday mornings, papers in bed, chilled afternoons in front of the TV, a visit to the pub and a bit of adult frolicking. (Oh I get tearful just things about those halcyon days! nNow, its up at, or before, the crack of dawn, screams and constant demands for attention. A small flat in Central London only holds so much attraction for a young child. Lazing around isn’t an option, we have to do things. We have to go out  and stimulate M. Weekends are spent  hanging out at the park, swimming, visiting the local inner city farm, going on play dates, visiting friends who also have kids, or exploring new areas of the city. Thankfully, we live in the capital and so there are plenty of things to do in London, whether it be art galleries or museums or restaurants.

M is only two, so ancient artefacts and art might be beyond her grasp but the large spaces are great for running around in and playing peek-a-boo!

The good thing is that we do have fun as a family exploring London, which is genuinely one of the greatest cities of the world. The flip side is that constantly doing things is exhausting.

By Sunday night I am dreaming of a nice relaxing week in the office.

My work colleagues don’t demand to be read stories, or be fed, or ask me to draw pictures of cats. And even the more confrontational and annoying ones, when I ask them to do something for me, have never resorted to throwing themselves on the floor screaming.