I don’t pretend to be an expert in the art of ‘What Are Kids All About Eh?’
If anything my knowledge equals that of an expert on ‘Casablanca’ who is only one hour in. ‘Yeah,’ they’ll say condescendingly, ‘it’s so clear that they love each other! I can’t wait until she leaves her boring diplomat hubby and everything is resolved.’
Same with kids. I would say I’m reasonably proficient in the way that some kids act up to the age of 13 months. After that I’m pretty clueless. Of course if I was paring down my specialist knowledge I might add that I’m rather more proficient in the way that my son Tom acts and leave it at that. Nevertheless I am still shocked by the inability of some people to figure out just what kids are, do, say, want or mean.
Personally the most amusing moments come when strangers assume that they can entertain my son for verily he can be right mardy. It’s not that he squawks unnecessarily, but he’s no Robbie Williams when it comes to dispensing an easy smile. Last week he had his passport photo taken. Incidentally, what a great idea this is. It’s certainly forced Tom to think again about planning serial outrages in the skies. The young man behind the counter was only being helpful I guess, as he stared down the lens at Ol’ Stoneface who was perched on his chair and looking for all the world as though he was the only one present who realised he was The Man. ‘He can smile you know, it isn’t like an adult photo’. I had to laugh. ‘Carry on. Try and make him,’ I suggested, to my instant regret as he began to pull faces that would have made Les Dawson scream. Tom snorted, pointed suddenly past us and spat ‘BLAARK!’ It says a lot about the force of his delivery that both of us turned around and stared at the empty spot indicated. Our cat does that too; sits in front of you and glares at a point three foot above your head. Who says ghosts don’t have a sense of humour! Suffice to say that we left the shop with four immaculate shots of Tom looking pensive, probably wondering where all the Fimbles are.
I think this might be the main problem. I’m sure he expects most people he encounters to look like Fimbo. By a happy coincidence many people in Brighton do, although rather drabber versions unfortunately as Matalan specialises in black. Tom is only guilty of failing to disguise his disappointment that people look less cuddly in real life. Frankly I would like more people to be like Rocket, a comic genius easily the rival of Gervais, Cleese or Boris Johnson. If everyone occasionally leapt around the place a little more freely shouting Smelly Jelly then perhaps the world would be a happier place. Or perhaps we’d just all be living in Caroline Street in Cardiff.
The bus is always a wonderful place to find adults who apparently have never seen a child before:
There are the Glowerers who are convinced that Tom is some Howard Hughes figure who is selfishly insisting on being carried about.
The Blankers who do not even see his buggy, and who appear genuinely distressed when you point out that it isn’t a hologram and yes, actually, those seats lift up for a reason.
And the Wobblers who bobble and jump, leap and giggle and then swiftly lose interest when Tom fails to dissolve into fits of laughter. One Wobbler watched as our son gripped a biscuit in his fist and then smeared it against his cheeks and forehead, his tongue protruding. ‘Ahh, can’t he eat yet?’ he asked. Now Tom weighs as much as a good sized table, not your IKEA ones neither. This man clearly believed that not only is ‘eating’ a learnt skill, like crochet, but also seemed to assume that Tom had gained weight through some sort of fridge osmosis. I didn’t know where to start. Even Tom sighed.
For all its dowdy Fimbles Brighton is a great family city, mostly as so many pubs and restaurants are suitably adapted. Yet even here there are people who look askance at your table and find the fact that your toddler is not eating Surf and Turf frankly repugnant. Oh good God he’s not even getting it all in his mouth! These are Distasters, a clump of mutants who spend much of their free time writing to the Daily Mail because a woman in the park went against all that’s decent and got her boob out to feed a baby. ‘Why oh why must they force this down our throat!’ they beg, in much the same way that some used to splutter into their port when women expressed an interest in politics.
My last category might be as controversial as it is confusing:
Granddads. They’ve clearly had kids and yet seem determined to do things that go against the grain. For our generation my friends and I agreed that most believed that a damn good throw in the air was what most kids needed. My Dad’s first reaction to seeing Tom at 6 months was to flap his hands in his face like a drunk magician. Jane didn’t like it one bit although to be fair Tom quite enjoyed it; figured that was what you did with your hands and subsequently chucked them around like, well, a short drunk magician. In the time honoured fashion of getting back at your kids when they have families of their own Dad also taught Tom to ‘bump heads’, an absolutely hilarious trick until the first time your toddler catches the bridge of your nose.
Speaking of misunderstandings I would like to dedicate this week’s article to my burgeoning fanbase in America, especially the delectable Mara in Denver, a city she informs me is known as the ‘mile-high city’. Americans are, after all, conspicuous in their desire to atone for the sins of their past so presumably this is named in honour of those killed at My Lai in Vietnam. Next week Mara hopes to be in Houston, known as ‘the one-ton-of-ammo city’. Those kooky colonials and their spelling!
21 October 2006.
Dave Fouracre aka "Dave the Dad" is a regular feature writer here at thebabywebsite.com. Read more about his hilarious experiences as a Dad. |
Dave The Dad 35 - 15 weeks and Counting
