Jetlag is a cruel beast. A big fat mumma of a cruel beast.
I land back in Manchester on Saturday feeling like I've just been dunked in a vat of sleep juice. And it's straight into a full day of running around manically with the kids. Lily and Lawson are round as well. So it's double the excitement. Cunningly - I offer to take the kids to see Toy Story 3. This is a masterstroke - it's dark in the cinema. I can sleep. Ahhhh - sweet precious jetlagged sleep. Like the dead.
Two hours later and I'm in the middle of an impromptu dance-off between Lily, me and Fintan at the front of the cinema whilst Buzz Lightyear performs a quick tango with Jessie in the background. Hmmmmm. Things have not gone to plan. My head is wobbly and I wonder what sleep was.
Later that night - Sarah and I attempt to watch a film together and for the first time in my life (as Sarah points out) - I actually fall asleep on the couch. This is shocking. This is a sign of "man weakness". Men just don't fall asleep on couches. Not unless drink is involved. Large buckets of alcohol. Ashamed of my failings - I head to bed.
At some point in the night, Fintan falls out of bed with a whacking great thud. I run in. And there he is. Still snoring on the floor and now wedged underneathe his bed. I pick him up and he never even breaks snore. That's my boy!
Sunday - and I attempt to lawn mower my way through a thick jungle of vegetation. The grass is so deep out back that there are lost units from Iwi-Jima still hiding in the scrub. I wade into it - narrowly avoiding a Fireman Sam Firetruck and a toy saucepan. Neither of which would do much for my blades. Fintan shouts directions on a constant basis.
"Stop Daddy STOPPPPPP!"
"Carry on Daddy. Carry on!"
He starts digging next to our little Mexican Banditto Gnome by the apple tree.
"What are you doing Fintan?"
"I am digging for treasure in the Temple of the Sun."
Ok. So now everything's perfectly clear. When the hell did Fintan learn about The Temple of the Sun? In fact - what the hell is the Temple of the Sun?
"Fintan? What's the Temple of the Sun doing in a garden in the outskirts of Chester?"
"Carry on Daddy..."
We will never know. One of life's great mysteries - until Baldrick and the Time Team pay us a visit.
Somehow I survive an insanely brain-mushed week and make it to the Bank Holiday. We're off to Dublin to see the rellies. This combines nicely with nursery handing over "Rosemary" the teddybear. We have to take her everywhere and write up her diary for the week. I am a little confused at this. Since when were teddy bears ever female? - Boo Boo - nope, Winnie? nope, Baloo - nope, Yogi - nope, Big Ted? Little Ted? Let's face it - woman bears just don't cut the honey mustard. How the hell they ever pro-create I'll never know. There must have been a Mrs Big Ted to make Little Ted after all (assuming they're related).
So...I manage to leave her on the floor in nursery within five seconds of being handed her. This is not a good start. Surely to God I shouldn't be put in charge of something as important at this? Kids easy. Bears...very very complicated - bears have issues!
We get a picture of Rosemary and Fintan at John Lennon Airport and somehow convince Ryanair that it's a good idea if she flies the plane as well. The pilots offer to take Declan for us and have him sitting up in the cockpit as well - Sarah and I see our chance. We consider making a bolt down the emergency exit slides and a mad dash across the runway - but the temporary insanity abates.
And Lo - we make it to Dublin and we are having a fantastic meal at Deborah's house - and the kids are happy at nana and grampa's house - all tucked up in bed - and then there's a call...and Declan is giving his best impression of the exorcist - and vomiting all over the place by all accounts and Fintan is shivering with a high temperature and not very happy at all.
So we head home to take on dual sick baby duties. I opt for the elder - thinking - this will be a cinch. Late in the night Fintan cuddles up to me. It's a lovely moment between man and boy. A bonding between father and son. I smile to myself in my half comatose sleep. This is great...this is what life is made for...this is...soggy...
"Fintan - you're wet. You're wet!" Oh crap - he's just peed all over me in his fever. And I thought he was cuddling up to me. Nooooo - he just wants to get warm!
I lie in bed shivering for a bit and the Wonderpets theme tune rolls round in my head repeatedly. I can't get it out. I can't shake the bloody theme tune! "And Ming Ming too...we're wonderpets and we love you..."
Eventually I nod off and wonder what joys the new dawn will bring...
Just after dawn I find myself lugging a single mattress down the stairs and into the garden and begin scrubbing it down with fairy liquid and water. I rest my hand on the swing and climbing frame in the garden where I've set up the mattress. My hand comes back brown and sticky - I panic for a second...nope - not poo. Paint. Whooppee. Paint. I forgot the frame just got painted.
Later - I head back into the house and notice a stain on the floor by Declan's bed. I inspect it up close. Sniff. Seems all clear. Now for the test dab. Hmmm sugary - syruppy. Calpol. 13 maybe 14 hours old. I should be in CSI. These skills become second nature to a dad.
Three days previous, I had a a nasty incident with a work shirt and some marmite - for a second I made the most amateur parenting error of all time - the test dab and lick. Never - never under any circumstance test dab and lick anything that is brown. Just ask my dad - only a few weeks before, he came into the kitchen, picked up a rogue brown pellet and said the immortal lines..
"Has Declan been at the Chocolate Buttons again?" As he held up offending article for close inspection.
"No dad. He didn't have any buttons today..."
Never has a poo been dumped in a bin quicker. Ever.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
Sunday 15 August 2010
Day-glo rhino hunting, Pink Floyd reggae dub drum n bass mash ups and gorilla beatings...
Friday night and we are headed over the border. Into darkest North Wales. Wrexham. I've seen it on Sky tv late at night on "Binge drinkers go crazy". It usually involves really angry women fighting in the street and blokes lying in their own vomit (after fighting in the street). And now I was headed into this warzone. I had visions of Ross Kemp running past me in a flak jacket and blue helmet with a camera crew bolting along behind him. But I'm glad to report - I was utterly wrong. Ok - there was a sixty year old woman at the pub having a full-on shouting match with her hubbie with one boob hanging out (neither appeared to notice). And there were about a million twelve years olds poppin' wheellies on their mopeds outside Maccy D's. But...that's par for the course on a Friday night anywhere in the UK these days.
The authorities must have been spraying some form of happy gas in the streets of Wrexham town this Friday night cos by the time we got to the gig at central station there was nothing but happy people all about us. Alternatively - this might have had something to do with the Rasta / Dub gig we were headed to. I managed to convince my wife, friends and sister-in-law (my brother-in-law was already a convert) that listening to a live version of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon reintrepeted as a Dub Drum 'n Bass Rasta wig-out was a great idea. And how right I was.
It's the most electic crowd I've seen at a gig for years. Some sort of strange hybrid of a million random gigs. There was the loved-up bloke who spent the first ten minutes hugging everyone (until the bouncer removed him from the venue whilst employing the innovative "deadly hand on throat vice grip" technique), the gang of about thirty ageing Trainspotters (who suddenly turned into gyrating legends once the music kicked in), the white guy at the bar wearing the fake rasta hat with fake dreadlocks (I'm still not sure if that's liable to get you a kicking or respect for paying homage to the band) and then the random mix of students and spritely youngsters like my good self. Either way - the Easy Star All Stars nailed it - horn sections, an MC who blew the crowd away and some serious grooves. Quality. Pure Quality. And on the way back - we had Queen's Flash Gordon blasting from the car whilst we did our very best "Gordon's Alive?!" Brian Blessed impressions and Wayne's World head bobbing. A truly great night.
Which leads me to Saturday night. Putting Declan to bed is always rather interesting. He's like a male silverback gorilla in heat. Usually he beats me senseless with his hands whilst I pretend to be asleep (thus convincing him that yes - what a good idea - maybe I shall fall asleep myself). Eventually I always have to defend myself and open my eyes to see where the next attack is coming from. And that's when he starts to giggle inanely and pretend snore. This goes on for many hours. He thinks it's a hoot. After days of hand pummelling - I start to feel sorry for female gorilla's.
So Sunday morning and Declan wakes in prime assault mode. The alpha male gorilla is ready to play. I am groggy and tired and the only thing keeping me going is the prospect of Match of the Day coming on in an hour (yep - 8am for all those who don't get out of bed until midday...or "lucky bastards" as I choose to call them).
He begins by smacking me in the head with a replica of the space shuttle Atlantis. And then progresses to a giant red fire engine. Fintan meanwhile is now sitting on the couch on a multi coloured chair he has placed on the couch - oh - with a giant yellow JCB digger truck balanced on top of the chair as well. The digger truck is making "beep beep" reverse noises. The red fire engine is telling me "nee naw nee naw - great fires of London...Fireman Sam to the rescue!" and the space shuttle is jammed on it's launch mode (imagine a really annoying roaring jet engine placed next to your skull). So things are pretty calm and relaxed. I take a foam sword to the nuts during the Wolves Stoke highlights (great goal from Wolves by the way) and I am immobilised for five minutes. Fintan places a blue blanket over me and rubs my leg sympathetically. He comes back with a yellow foam shield and recommends I use this to defend myself. I watch the rest of match of the day from behing a blanket and foam shield. It is safer this way.
And then we head into town with Glenn and Deborah and the kids and sit by the riverside eating ice cream and listening to the sweet summer jazz being played on the bandstand. It's like a scene from Trumpton. It is perfect and wonderful. Later we hunt for giant perspex rhino's and play hide and seek in the park and ride the toy train. And I wonder if Glenn and I could stop the train if we stood in front of it and really braced ourselves. Deborah and my wife advise against so we'll never know. And now - now it is time for bed. If only I could convince the kids!
The authorities must have been spraying some form of happy gas in the streets of Wrexham town this Friday night cos by the time we got to the gig at central station there was nothing but happy people all about us. Alternatively - this might have had something to do with the Rasta / Dub gig we were headed to. I managed to convince my wife, friends and sister-in-law (my brother-in-law was already a convert) that listening to a live version of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon reintrepeted as a Dub Drum 'n Bass Rasta wig-out was a great idea. And how right I was.
It's the most electic crowd I've seen at a gig for years. Some sort of strange hybrid of a million random gigs. There was the loved-up bloke who spent the first ten minutes hugging everyone (until the bouncer removed him from the venue whilst employing the innovative "deadly hand on throat vice grip" technique), the gang of about thirty ageing Trainspotters (who suddenly turned into gyrating legends once the music kicked in), the white guy at the bar wearing the fake rasta hat with fake dreadlocks (I'm still not sure if that's liable to get you a kicking or respect for paying homage to the band) and then the random mix of students and spritely youngsters like my good self. Either way - the Easy Star All Stars nailed it - horn sections, an MC who blew the crowd away and some serious grooves. Quality. Pure Quality. And on the way back - we had Queen's Flash Gordon blasting from the car whilst we did our very best "Gordon's Alive?!" Brian Blessed impressions and Wayne's World head bobbing. A truly great night.
Which leads me to Saturday night. Putting Declan to bed is always rather interesting. He's like a male silverback gorilla in heat. Usually he beats me senseless with his hands whilst I pretend to be asleep (thus convincing him that yes - what a good idea - maybe I shall fall asleep myself). Eventually I always have to defend myself and open my eyes to see where the next attack is coming from. And that's when he starts to giggle inanely and pretend snore. This goes on for many hours. He thinks it's a hoot. After days of hand pummelling - I start to feel sorry for female gorilla's.
So Sunday morning and Declan wakes in prime assault mode. The alpha male gorilla is ready to play. I am groggy and tired and the only thing keeping me going is the prospect of Match of the Day coming on in an hour (yep - 8am for all those who don't get out of bed until midday...or "lucky bastards" as I choose to call them).
He begins by smacking me in the head with a replica of the space shuttle Atlantis. And then progresses to a giant red fire engine. Fintan meanwhile is now sitting on the couch on a multi coloured chair he has placed on the couch - oh - with a giant yellow JCB digger truck balanced on top of the chair as well. The digger truck is making "beep beep" reverse noises. The red fire engine is telling me "nee naw nee naw - great fires of London...Fireman Sam to the rescue!" and the space shuttle is jammed on it's launch mode (imagine a really annoying roaring jet engine placed next to your skull). So things are pretty calm and relaxed. I take a foam sword to the nuts during the Wolves Stoke highlights (great goal from Wolves by the way) and I am immobilised for five minutes. Fintan places a blue blanket over me and rubs my leg sympathetically. He comes back with a yellow foam shield and recommends I use this to defend myself. I watch the rest of match of the day from behing a blanket and foam shield. It is safer this way.
And then we head into town with Glenn and Deborah and the kids and sit by the riverside eating ice cream and listening to the sweet summer jazz being played on the bandstand. It's like a scene from Trumpton. It is perfect and wonderful. Later we hunt for giant perspex rhino's and play hide and seek in the park and ride the toy train. And I wonder if Glenn and I could stop the train if we stood in front of it and really braced ourselves. Deborah and my wife advise against so we'll never know. And now - now it is time for bed. If only I could convince the kids!
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