A father’s ponderings on twins and their devious ways
From Lauren at tea-time tonight:
Imagine if you had two rabbits, yeah, and they were both called Penny, and you were dropping one of them off at the train station, right, and then her owner said, “Let’s go and pick up Penny,” but you thought she meant Penny the pasta!!
It turns out she was referring to penne. Hannah laughed so hard she almost choked.
December fever is upon us. It barely seems a couple of months since last Christmas but as I type, the girls are dancing round the landing shrieking a song they just made up that appears to be called “It’s Four More Days Till Christmas.”
Today is the 3rd of December. They’re supposed to be going to bed.
The next 22 days are what makes or breaks a man. Wish me luck.
This year’s April Fools’ Day prank:
Unfortunately I forgot to blog it until 2 April. Still… erm… April Fool!
The girls got recorders for Christmas. They’re both downstairs abusing them now.
So far they have only learnt one note: that piercing one you get when you blow too hard with all holes uncovered.
Shriek! Shriek! Shriek-shriek-shriek!
Mike Oldfield this ain’t. I am approaching the point of despair.
A word from the wise: if your children ever come into posession of recorders, buy ear muffs or leave home.
Happy New Year everyone! I hope your Christmas was as joyous but not quite as mindlessly hyperactive as ours. 
The girls and I went to our local park yesterday, where they’ve installed a whole load of new play equipment. One of Hannah and Lauren’s favourites is one of those tyres hanging on chains. They had a go with their friend Thomas and I rather recklessly decided to stand in the middle and film them going round me with my cameraphone. I ended up getting dizzy and falling over. Here’s the footage!
Health warning: you should probably not watch this while eating or handgliding.
(There’s a YouTube video here that you won’t see on the RSS feed. You’ll need to view it on the website instead.)
Are you feeling dizzy yet?
We appear to have a serious mouse infestation this morning. Worse still, there’s no sign of the costumes we just finished making for Lauren and Hannah’s school play, The Night Before Christmas.
Does anyone have any tips for dealing with this kind of pest issue, especially when they start striking poses in front of cameras?
I knew this whole Grease thing was a bad idea.
Hannah and Lauren are having an unexpected day off today due to a burst water main at school. We’ve also brought one of their class mates home with us, so I’m working upstairs while the three girls play in the living room.
I just went to check on them and, of course, they are watching Grease. Their friend bounded across the room and grabbed my hand.
“Mark! Mark!” she shouted, “Isn’t it right that you need to have sex to have a baby?”
Hannah and Lauren looked on with wide-eyed curiosity.
“Erm… what… well…” I explained.
“My mummy told me,” she continued. “I know what having sex is, but don’t worry, I won’t tell them.”
I have now escaped to the spare room upstairs where I’m sitting with the door closed, typing this and planning my next move. Frankly, I’m terrified. They’re only six! This is all Travolta’s fault. Would sex have reared its ugly head if they’d been watching Wallace and Gromit? Of course not.
Oh hell, someone’s coming up the stairs. Perhaps I can climb out of the window and make my escape? Help!!
I’ve just sat through a pretty uninspiring first half between Poland and Ecuador with Hannah and Lauren - the girls’ first exposure to international football. I would liken the experience to trying to pay attention to the first 45 minutes of a corporate fraud trial with a bag of angry wasps in your pocket. I managed to miss Ecuador’s only goal because Hannah decided at that precise moment that she needed to take my photograph.
To be fair, though, they were pretty attentive and most of the distractions came from football-related questions. Here are just a few that I was called upon to resolve using my expert football knowledge.
Q: Why are lots of the football players little children?
A: It’s only the grown-ups that are footballers. The little boys just come on at the start to sing for a bit then they go off again.
Q: Why is that man holding his heart? Is he poorly?
A: No, he’s singing his national anthem so it’s a bit like he’s saluting.
Q: Why is that goalkeeper running around and playing football and not staying in the goal?
A: That isn’t the goalkeeper, he’s called the referee.
Q: What’s a referee?
A: He’s like the teacher. He makes sure that everybody’s playing nicely.
Q: Is England the ones in white or the ones in yellow and blue and red?
A: Neither, England play tomorrow. This is Poland in white and Ecuador in yellow.
Q: Are Brazil playing?
A: No, just Poland and Ecuador.
Q: What was the goalkeeper holding up then?
A: He’s the referee, sweetheart. It was a yellow card, which means somebody’s been naughty, like tripping someone up. If you get two yellow cards then you have to go off. Or if you’re really really really naughty he shows you the red card and you’ve got to go off straight away.
Q: Do we want Poland to win or the other ones?
A: We don’t mind really. But hey, who will we want to win tomorrow??
Q: Brazil?
A: No, England! [slightly peevishly - we must have been through this a million times now]
Q [about 10 minutes later]: Is there an orange card?
A: No, just red and yellow.
Q: So what happens if someone’s really really naughty?
A: They get the red card and they have to go off.
Q: I thought the red card was for really really really naughty?
A [after long thoughtful pause]: There’s just red and yellow, Hannah.
Q: Why does the goalkeeper wear those big gloves?
A: Because he’s the only one who’s allowed to touch the ball with his hands. [This rash assertion was successfully challenged during a subsequent throw-in.]
Q: So the rest can’t touch it with their hands?
A: No, otherwise they’ll get a yellow card. [Is it yellow or red? I'm past caring.]
Q: What if they touch it with their legs?
A: That’s fine, legs are OK. And heads, and chests. In fact they can touch it with any part of their body except their arms and hands.
Q: Any part?
A: Except their arms and hands.
[There is sniggering]
Q: Even their widgies?
A: No, I think that might hurt. Just watch.
Q: Daddy, what’s the off-side rule?
A: Oh look, girls, bed time!
OK, I made up the last one but I swear the rest are genuine. 2 matches down, only 62 to go…
I got a text message last night from my brother Simon (pictured above). Simon is dad to 9-year-old Beti who has been mentioned elsewhere on this blog.
Beti just suggested I phone you, put on a silly voice and say “Hello, I’m phoning about that mustard you ordered.” She’s been giggling ever since.
It sounds like the makings of a classic practical joke to me! But it also has me thinking, rather dauntedly, about the future combined forces of Hannah and Lauren at that age. The signs are not good. Their 5-year-old arsenal of trickery already includes:
Once they gain Beti’s level of sophistication I suspect there will be no limit to their evil.
There was a raging debate going on in our bed at 7 o’clock this morning. It went something like this:
Hannah: I’m Darth Vader! RAAAARRGGHHH!!! (Note: this is a Darth Vader who wears a nightie and roars like a tiger. No heavy breathing required.)
Parents “shriek” with “fright”.
Lauren: I’m Barbie!
Parents sigh with relief.
Hannah: I’m Darth Vader!!
Lauren: No-o! I’m Darth Vader now!
Hannah: OK.
Lauren: I’m Darth Vader!! RAARGGHHHHH!!!
Shriek!
Hannah: I’m Darth Vader!! RAA…
Lauren: No! You’re Barbie!
Hannah: But I want to be Darth Vader!
Simultaneously:
Lauren: Mummy, Hannah won’t be Barbie!
Hannah: Daddy, it’s my turn to be Darth Vader!
And so on, forever. It’s funny how quickly we can be out of bed some days.
The girls are cock-a-hoop today because the dinner ladies’ strike means they can take lunch boxes to school… with eggy sandwiches. We’ve been resisting the pressure to switch from hot dinners to packed lunches for over a year now. Our argument is that making packed lunches takes time and will make us (even) late(r) for school in the mornings. Countering this is Hannah and Lauren’s considered position that but… but… but X takes packed lunches, and so does Y, and even Z doesn’t have hot dinners any more, and we’ve got pink lunch boxes with pictures of princesses on them, and awhh, it’s not fair!
You can see how finely balanced this thing is.
We’re expecting a full-on assault at home time tonight, with stories of how much fun they had, and how healthy they feel, and how honesly, the eggy sandwiches haven’t made them parp any more that usual. It’s going to be tough. Any suggestions for a counter-attack will be welcome, but please make it quick.
I’ve tried to spell the title of this post as closely as I can to the way it sounds. I’m sure other parents of twins will recognise it straight away. It’s what Hannah and Lauren say when they detect that some kind of fun is going on that involves their sister but not them. Some examples:
Example 1: I pick Hannah up in the air - for no particular reason, other than that she’s small and cute. Hannah squeals with delight (oh yes, that’s why I do it). Lauren appears from the next room pleading, “Daddy, can-you-do-that-to-meee???”
Example 2: Whilst brushing Lauren’s teeth I let her stand on my feet. Lauren chuckles. Hannah is there in an instant, the plaintive cry already forming on her lips: “Can-you-do-that-to-meee???”
Example 3: It’s dinner time. Lauren is already at the table but Hannah is dawdling. I go and grab Hannah and swing her through the air towards the dining room. Lauren abandons her plate and jumps down from the table, with the heart-stopping realisation that she has just missed out on a momentary split second of fun. “Can-you-do-that-to-meee-Daddy???”
I could go on. It happens several times a day. It got so irritating that I started pre-empting it with my own rendition, complete with That Whingy Voice. All it’s achieved is that the girls now ask it in an imitation of my imitation of their whingy voice, which is at least twice as grating as the real thing.
I am convinced that, in the moment a soon-to-be-Lauren was plucked from her mother’s womb, a still-ensconced soon-to-be-Hannah took one look around her and thought, “Can-you-do-that-to-meee???“
We recently went to visit my brother’s family, including our niece Beti. Beti is nine, and Hannah and Lauren idolise her. She’s a wonderful girl - funny and sensible in just the right proportions - but sadly, in the company of Hannah and Lauren, she occasionally deteriorates into a third cackling loony.
We were driving out somewhere, and for reasons that were never fully explained to me I was taking the three girls while the other adults all got to go in a separate car. En route, we drove past one of those dinky little Smart cars.
“Look at that car!” said a voice from the back seat. “It’s smaller than a person!”
There followed a good minute of helpless cackling.
“Yeah,” said another voice, “it’s smaller than a dog!”
More cackling. Now Beti chipped in.
“It’s smaller than a rabbit!”
And so on. The smaller it got, the funnier it got - mouse, grasshopper, ladybird, drop of blood (!), until eventually we got to “smaller than a mouse’s whisker”. At that point the back seat finally fell quiet as three little brains tried to think of something even smaller than a mouse’s whisker. I began to wonder if Beti had encountered any microsocopic life forms in her science lessons yet, but I needn’t have bothered. One of the twins happily provided the answer to the conundrum.
“It’s smaller than Daddy’s winky!”
My attempts to stop the game at this point were ignored.
It was only later that the paradox occurred to me: that my “winky” is alleged to be not only smaller than a mouse’s whisker, but also (if we re-examine the original premise) larger than a car. This is hardly the blog to discuss such things in detail, suffice to say I would happily settle for somewhere in between.
In our kitchen drawer we have many teaspoons. Moreover, we’ve been able to identify four different types of teaspoon within our collection, a testament to the many that have escaped into the wild over the years and had to be replaced with mismatching ones.
Of these four types, three are recurrent within the collection. The fourth, however, is unique. There is only one of the Fourth Type Of Spoon. Its comrades have long since departed for the great cutlery drawer in the sky. It is the lone survivor.
This fact has not escaped the attention of Hannah and Lauren, who have accorded this spoon the highest of honours. It has become… The Special Spoon. For eating yoghurts there is simply no contest: the Special Spoon is The One.
Note: Two girls. One Special Spoon. (Tell me if I’m ladling this on a bit thick.)
All manner of deviousness can now be observed at yoghurt-eating time, as the girls compete for the ultimate eating experience in which there can be only one victor. For example:
Lauren: Daddy, Hannah’s got the special spoon!
Hannah: But Lauren had it yesterday!
Lauren (starting to cry): No I didn’t, Hannah did!
Hannah: I didn’t! Honestly, Daddy!
Lauren: And she’s got the special pants on!*
Me: Right, Hannah, if you’ve got the special pants you can give Lauren the special spoon.
Hannah: Gwmph. (Sound of spoon being popped into mouth.)
Lauren: But it’s got her germs on it now! (Tears.)
Me: Hannah, give it to me. (Spoon is seized.) Lauren, shall I wash it for you?
Lauren shakes head woefully.
Hannah (brightly): I’ll have it, Daddy!
Me: Hannah, get a spoon and eat your yoghurt.
After all this ritual kerfuffle, you would be forgiven for imagining that the Special Spoon has some kind of compelling aesthetic properties that set it aside from mere normal spoons. Perhaps it’s got a handle in the shape or a cat? Or a picture of Barbie on it? Perhaps it has a unique shape to the bowl that somehow makes yoghurts taste better?
Nothing of the sort. And here I throw open to you, the readers, the Special Spoon Challenge! The first person to correctly identify the special spoon from the collection below wins a very special prize!**
* Oh yes, there are special knickers too. They’re tatty and pink with a yellow cat on. Don’t get me started.
** (May contain germs and traces of yoghurt but you can always wash it.)
Hannah and Lauren have discovered the joys of playing the classic children’s game Guess Who. The trouble is, they’ve discovered different joys to the rest of us, which turns a game with them into a supreme test of will which would challenge the likes of Florence Nightingale or Nelson Mandela.
For the record, here’s how a normal game of Guess Who goes:
Player 1: Does your person have a beard?
Player 2: Yes.
Player 1 knocks down all people without beards.
Player 2: Does your person have red hair?
Player 1: No.
Player 2 knocks down all people with red hair.
And so on. But who wants to play like that… when you could play like this?
Hannah: Does your person haaaaaaave… [long pause]… a beard or a moustache?
Lauren: A moustache.
Me: No, Lauren, just say yes or no!
Lauren: OK, no.
Nicola: You mean yes?
Lauren: Yes. A yellow moustache.
I hang my head in despair.
Nicola: Right, come on Hannah.
Hannah: Sooo… moustaches… down?
Nicola: No, think - their person has got a moustache. So…
Hannah: So people… without moustaches… stay up?
Nicola: No, they go down.
Hannah: Oh yeah!
Hannah and Nicola knock down the moustaches. I suspect Nicola’s knocking down the non-yellow ones too.
Me: Right, our go Lauren.
Lauren: Has your person got a bit of a funny face?
Hannah: Yes!
Give me strength…
