Dave the Dad 21 - That's Entertainment

I was introduced to a marvellous game for the first time last Monday, the old ‘Sick But Stuck With Kid’ game.

I had been feeling peaky for a couple of days and, despite the fact that I have the constitution of a box, tumbled drastically downhill on Sunday night. Next morning when Jane asked about my health I croaked a little, creaked a lot, cranked for all my worth. And then she ate her cereal and left. As the car sped off I glanced at my lovely son, bundled with energy and an unaccountable amount of Saturday’s newspaper and I nearly cried.

I’m not saying my wife was unsympathetic but I had to question her parting shot of opening the dining room chest in order to introduce Tom to the Chunky Crayons. He immediately invented a game, being highly motivated in this field. Pick a word, any word and if it’s a noun Tom could use it in some way for entertainment. He’d have a go with a few adverbs but nouns are safer. Of course you don’t need to be a genius to realise that crayons plus walls multiplied by magnolia equals havoc for someone feeling queasy.

An hour later and he was still running around in his nappy hurling crayons as though he had come straight from the Paris barricades. By now we had divided most of our morning between the hallway and the living room; finding crayon, waggling crayon at dad, smiling cheekily, shrieking as dad heaves his poor body up, sprinting to a blank spot and scribbling furiously before dad wrestles his fingers free. In his favour he was entertained and so we were able to dispense with the hysterics that can sometimes accompany Tom giving up something unsuitable. Like the cat poo picker-upperer for instance. It’s like a big plastic, stinking, disgusting, stomach turning magnet. Try getting Halle Berry’s Oscar from her; it’ll give you a taste of what we go through with Tom twelve times a day.

I had to escape. Get him somewhere he would be occupied, safe and where, hopefully, he would hardly notice me. Churchill Square! A mall of glass and metal housing every conceivable high street store and a place that I usually only visit in my nightmares. But, and it’s a J-Lo but, it does have an ungodly number of kids shops, including -oh be still my feverous heart- the Early Learning Centre. This did the job manfully. Lovely assistants (who appear to accept that kids aren’t normal people) lots of toys out to play with, lots of other kids, lots of mums huddled in corners frantically peering into their purses whilst their offspring’s arms shed plastic. I spent an unfeasibly pleasant hour wandering about after Tom, occasionally receiving rubber dinosaurs or expressing surprise or re-placing the boxes on a shelf or squeezing interactive teddy bear hands. He was fascinated and very well behaved and although I froze at one loud ‘Uh Oh’, moments later, I was relieved to be presented with a wellington wearing Tinky Winky.

One of the highlights of the morning away from the Early Learning Creche was the escalator. Now Jane isn’t good at these; at the age of 30-odd she continues to hesitate before stepping onto one and holds on for dear life once in place. Her story is that a school friend lost two fingers on one in the past. How, I can’t imagine! Presumably she was walking on her hands after losing both legs whilst using a toilet. Anyway, I personally have no problems on these ‘devil’s stairs’ and thought not at all about introducing Tom to one. He thought it was marvellous. Predictably. The glass! The metal stairs! The people moving in the opposite direction! The untold damage one might do if only Daddy wasn’t holding on quite so tightly! My mistake was to tell Jane later that evening. She stared at me for so long and with such animosity that I began to wonder if I had accidentally said ‘I’ve been teaching Tom how to juggle rabid badgers.’ A task that Tom would, predictably, enjoy even more.

By 12.35 we were back, my sweats were under control and Tom had yawned twice. Things were going swimmingly.

Soon he would go down for his nap, a sparkling oasis in the still centre of the day where silence soaks through every room, except for Tom’s as he snorts, snuffles and farts in his sleep in much the same way that a wildebeest might. And then, 1.07 the Boilerman arrived to clean the flues. Brill. What is it about some visitors that they obstinately fail to pick up on the fact that you are whispering and simply continue to shout? Either up/down stairs or randomly about that woman at No. 83 who continues to think that her boiler is faulty but if she’d only check the gauge then….

‘Actually my son has just gone to sleep,’

‘Ohho, kids eh. Our youngest used to drive my wife mad! Mad I say! Absolutely mad!!
Madmadmad!!!’

Each ‘mad’ resounded like a sulphur-crested cockatoo being fed through a juicer. Within ten minutes he’d brought out an industrial hoover that had clearly been designed to find any remnant blood that might be locked in stones. I gave up and went downstairs.

This ends well. Tom slept through the mini tornado, bless him, and awoke 90 minutes later to a rested and palpably recovering father. Of course it all came at a cost. After an hour spent hurtling around the shop I did feel obliged to buy something. Tom had his eye, and mitts, on a life-size wooden replica of the battle of Thermopylae costing £49. I bought him a ball. He loves it.

February 27 2007-02-27

Dave Fouracre