Archive for the 'AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!' Category

Striking while the iron’s hot

Published on 28 March 2006 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Education, Funny and Maddening. 7 Comments

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.

Can-you-do-that-to-meee???

Published on 9 March 2006 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Double trouble, Funny and Maddening. 3 Comments

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???“

Smaller than a mouse’s whisker

Published on 16 January 2006 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Funny and Overheard. 1 Comment

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.

The Special Spoon

Published on 30 October 2005 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Double trouble, Funny, Maddening and Pictures. 7 Comments

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.)

Beards down

Published on 16 June 2005 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Funny, Maddening and Pictures. 1 Comment

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…

So... beards down?

“MY BABY HASN’T GOT FAT EYES!!”

Published on 25 March 2005 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Double trouble, Funny, Girls will be girls, Maddening and Tech Dad. Closed

Another little faux-innocent needling session is going on as I type, on a par with the “STOP CURTSYING!” incident. They’re mostly mumbling, so my attention was only drawn to it when Hannah shouted angrily, “NO, LAUREN! MY BABY HASN’T GOT FAT EYES!” The conversation went on something like this:

Me: Lauren, stop annoying Hannah.
Hannah: But Daddy, but she said my baby has got fat eyes!
Me: Lauren, just stop that.
Lauren (grumpily): OK. (Back to a sotto voce mumble) She’s got a blue coat, Hannah.
Hannah (mumbling): Yeah, she’s got a blue coat. And red cheeks.
Lauren: And pink lipstick.
Hannah (in delight): Yeah, pink lipstick!
(Pause)
Lauren: And fat eyes.
Hannah: NO LAUREN!! DADDY!! LAUREN SAID MY BABY’S GOT FAT EYES!!!
Me (distractedly): Girls, can you just keep the noise down while I blog all this…

Oh, before you were born

Published on 16 March 2005 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Funny, Maddening, Tech Dad and Trouble with words. 6 Comments

As a Man of a Certain Age, one of the most significant events for me in recent years was obviously the release of the original Star Wars trilogy on DVD. I was particularly pleased by this cinematic landmark because Hannah and Lauren had, until that point, only seen the new episodes, and I was growing increasingly anxious that they might come to accept them as The Star Wars Films, with the originals seen as some kind of quaint curiosity for old duffers. When I think back to my parents commenting that Tom Baker wasn’t the real Doctor Who, it still seems like a lot of fuss about nothing. But if I just change a few of the words – change it to me, for example, insisting to obliviously shrugging daughters that Ewan McGregor isn’t the real Obi Wan Kenobi – the situation suddenly takes on a horrible gravity, of the kind that could keep me awake at night.

So, it was clear the girls needed to be correctly indoctrinated as soon as possible. Well in advance, I alerted them to the fact that the DVDs would be released shortly, and managed to arouse some kind of passing interest, albeit in the arrival of what they called “a new R2-D2 film”. Clearly there was no time to lose.

On the day the DVDs arrived I came home as early as I could from work and the girls and I sat down, with an appropriate sense of ceremony, in front of the telly. By about half an hour later, any thought of educational progress had been abandoned and I would happily have chewed my own leg off for just a few hours on my own with my DVDs, my memories, and a kitchen foil tube for a light sabre. Here’s what happened.

Poo-ageddon

Published on 25 February 2005 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Double trouble and Funny. Closed

My Mum and Dad tell a wonderful story about waking up one morning, when Simon and I were two, to the delightful sound of children’s laughter from the next room. They lay in bed listening to our shrieks and chuckles until eventually deciding to peep in and see what was causing such enjoyment. What they found was each of us standing over a full potty, gleefully flinging handfuls of poo at each other. There was poo everywhere: on us, on the carpet, on the walls, on the curtains.

How I’ve laughed every time I’ve heard that story! Ha ha ha! Imagine that! Poo everywhere! Ha ha ha! I even mentioned it in my best man’s speech at Simon’s wedding. How everyone laughed! Ha ha ha!

Fast forward 28 years (a phrase I’ll be using a lot in this blog). Hannah and Lauren were about 18 months old. I got a phone call at work from my wife Nicola at around half past three. “How soon can you get home?” she asked urgently. I offered a guess that I could leave by five. She said, “Just get here as soon as you can. It’s Poo-ageddon.”

I left work immediately.

When I got home, the house was eerily calm. I noticed a draught coming in through the kitchen and went to investigate. The back door was open, but there was nobody outside: just two dripping wet highchairs and the hosepipe hanging from the outside tap. Coming back indoors I noticed a strong smell of disinfectant in the kitchen and dining room.

I finally found them all in the bathroom: girls in the bath, Nicola wearing apron and rubber gloves, and with a smear of something across her forehead that, under the circumstances, encouraged me to keep my distance. It turned out that by a terrible stroke of fate, both girls had simultaneously suffered from a nasty bout of diarrhoea whilst wearing ill-fitting nappies. By the time I’d arrived home, the results had been efficiently eliminated from the girls’ clothes, hair and eyelids, the highchairs, the floor, the table and the walls. Nicola was just about coming round to seeing the funny side.

All in all I count this one as a lucky escape for me from the demons of my pre-school past, but if Nicola has to cope with too many of these on her own it can only lead to an unhealthy blame culture. Let’s face it: it’s my fault. They threw poo because I threw poo, and someone decided I had to pay. Simple as that.

“STOP CURTSYING!”

Published on 24 February 2005 in AAARGHH! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!, Blog News, Double trouble, Funny and Maddening. 1 Comment

I was trying to get the girls out of the house this morning for school. It’s a mission at the best of times, but today it’s snowing which means (a) they’re extra-excited, and (b) they need more layers applying before we can leave. As I was trying to get their woolly hats on without disturbing their hair bobbles, and guide twenty wriggly fingers into four pairs of over-sized gloves, they fell effortlessly into one of those modes where one of them does something perfectly harmless just to piss the other one off.

Picture the scene: the hall of our house is approximately 2m square and contains two doorways, a cupboard, a wooden chest, the bottom of a flight of stairs, me, two small girls and around 300 pairs of shoes. I’m stumbling around trying to zip up coats, apply hats etc. Lauren, now fully equipped and ready to go, is standing right in front of Hannah, wearing a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression and bobbing up and down holding her skirt. Hannah, who I am trying to get ready, is ignoring all my barked commands because she’s too busy stamping her foot and shouting “LAUREN! STOP CURTSYING!!!”

The only thing that gets me through moments like this without having to go for a nice lie down is the fact that I know Simon and I were just the same, if not much worse, when we were that age. We’d use anything to annoy each other, and it was always something innocuous so that the one doing the annoying could shrug innocently at Mum and Dad when it came to the hour of reckoning. I’m just disappointed at our lack of range that we never thought of curtsying.

Hence this blog. It’s therapy, really. Please bear with me.