This blog seems to have got quite brewing heavy recently, so I’ve corralled a few non-sequiturs on the matter of children, and the raising thereof.
On updating blogs
It’s something to do in your spare time. Bitter laughter.
On having two children
One is enough.
On potty training
Just when you’re adding up the cost of a lifetime supply of nappies, and subtracting the tuition fees they’re clearly never going to need, they suddenly get it.
Three years ago, I was an cold, emotionless husk, and fiercely proud of it. Now, having offsprung two offspring, I find myself angrily cuffing my eyes at all manner of shallow pap including, I’m thoroughly ashamed to say, an advert where a guy loses his jumper. Most recently, I came dangerously close to losing my stoic equilibrium watching this exemplary display of sportsmanship – and lost it entirely when Alpha told Alistair Brownlee “Oh, well done lady… Good helping!” (She doesn’t really know what ‘lady’ means)
On living dangerously
We managed to get rid of the kids for the weekend; and spent it putting up Ikea furniture. We remain on speaking terms!
On the approbation of strangers
Occasionally, while out and about, randoms will tell me admiringly that I clearly have my hands full or that I’m doing a great job. This is kinda nice, because I totally do, and totally am, but do they say the same thing to women with two kids? Do they balls.
I’ve developed a sort of shuffling gait that ploughs aside the mantle of toys on the floor, so I don’t trip while carrying Beta.
It would be nice to defecate without supervision but the round of applause afterwards is quite nice.
On parenting styles
We’re trailblazing a pioneering new parenting style called ‘Toddler-led weening’. It involves Alpha trying to jam carrot sticks into Beta’s face. Hopefully, we can make non-adherents feel bad about themselves, which is obviously the end-goal of all these sorts of things.
On SilverCross prams
If you suddenly find you desperately need to talk to dozens of harmlessly crazy old ladies about how things ent what they used to be, then you need to get a SilverCross pram, quick.
*Me: Singing along to Sam & Dave*
*Alpha, witheringly: No daddy. You’re not a soul man*
On sick days
It’s often stated that no-one cares if you’re sick in this line of work, but if you’ve got a kind toddler you may get an endearing five minutes of sympathy and, if they’re into pretending to be doctors, you could even get your uvula assaulted with a plastic otoscope. The fact is, though, I’m sick much less often these days. I suspect this may have something to do with not having my will to live relentlessly ground down by punitive education reforms, vampiric senior managers, shifting goal posts, unspoken and arbitrary demands and pointless, unremitting, redundant, sisyphean paperwork. Bitter? Yes, please, and a whisky chaser.