Farewell then, 2009. Next year the girls hit double figures and turn 10, the age at which children generally (so we’re told) stop putting marshmallows up their noses.
I’m not sure if I’m feeling relieved or nostalgic right now.
Archive for the 'Double trouble' Category
There’s been a fascinating and seasonal legal case developing at home this month which I thought you might like to hear about. The case was brought by Lauren (“the Plaintiff”) and facing her across the courtroom is the formidable legal mind of Hannah (“the Defence”). Sitting in session is Judge Dad. The case concerns two chocolate advent calendars purchased by the Plaintiff and the Defence in November 2008.
The substance of the Plaintiff’s case is that, subsequent to the purchase of the two calendars, it was discovered that the Plaintiff’s calendar (Milky Bar-themed) has only 24 doors, whilst the Defence’s calendar (High School Musical) has 25. The Plaintiff is therefore requesting an extra chocolate on 25 December to address this shortcoming.
The Defence’s argument (presented in the most robust of terms) is that this is “well not fair”, since both calendars were selected through free choice and in the absence of duress. The Defence finds it plainly unacceptable that the Plaintiff should subsequently request special treatment in respect of circumstances which, it might reasonably be argued, she brought entirely on herself.
The Judge, after careful deliberation and consultation with his judicial colleague Judge Mum, ruled in favour of the Plaintiff and ordered the court to obtain a packet of Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons and distribute one such to the Plaintiff on 25 December.
The Defence leapt to its feet to object but was swiftly overruled by Judge Dad who was running late for work.
However, subsequent investigations carried out by the Defence as part of the appeals process have revealed an intriguing twist which was not disclosed to the court at the time of the original case. Looking at the back of each calendar it was discovered that the Plaintiff’s (24-door) calendar has a net weight of 85g, whilst the Defence’s (25-door) calendar has a net weight of only 80g. The Defence has therefore mounted a dramatic counterclaim, stating that not only should the original ruling in favour of the Plaintiff be overturned, but it should be reversed, with the award now directed towards the Defence.
There followed unruly scenes, during which the Judge was obliged to clear the court.
The Plaintiff is currently preparing its appeal case and is thought to be considering a “well not fair” plea: controversial, to say the least, in light of the line taken in its original prosecution.
The Judge is currently ensconced in his chambers, searching the Internet for one-way tickets to Mexico.
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.
I woke up early this morning, and on my way back from the bathroom a little voice from the girls’ room hissed, “Daddy!”. I peeped my head in and there was Hannah, sitting up in bed and beckoning me in. Lauren was fast asleep. It was nearly time for the alarm to go off, and neither of us were going to get back to sleep, so I climbed into Hannah’s bed for a cuddle. Just at that moment there was a stirring from the other bed.
“Look,” I said, “Lauren’s waking up.”
“Don’t worry,” whispered Hannah, quick as a flash, “I’ll hide you!” – upon which she pushed my head down under the quilt. I must point out that I wasn’t entirely at ease with the idea of defrauding Lauren of her cuddle, but I hadn’t been given much choice in the matter. However, I clearly wasn’t the only one having misgivings. “Daddy,” whispered Hannah, peeping her head under the quilt, “what about your feet?”
It was then that a sleepy voice murmured, “Daddy, what are you doing in Hannah’s bed?” The game was up. Hannah looked bereft. Fairness is a double-edged sword, as twins are all too aware, and at times the best a devious little mind can achieve is to ensure the situation is equally unfair to everyone. As I climbed out of one bed and into another, Hannah picked up a book and muttered threateningly, “I’ll read a bit of Cinderella while you give Lauren a little snuddle.”
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???“
Whirling twirling whirring by Nicola Whitaker
Nicola (Hannah and Lauren’s other trained handler) took this wonderful picture recently on a visit to Skipton Castle. The bright flurry of activity in the middle is two fast-moving young girls. The whole picture is a perfect visual representation of life in our family – everything flashing past in a squealing blur of pink.
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.)
I’m not a big believer in twins creating their own languages. There’s been no evidence of it in our family anyway. They do, however, make up the odd nonsense word just like any other children. Hannah and Lauren’s favourite and most hard-wearing such word is “googy”.
Googy covers a whole range of bases. It’s a nickname! It’s a substitute for any other noun! It’s a fast-acting catalyst to monkeying about! For example:
Hannah: Googy!
Lauren: Yes, Googy?
Me/Nicola (through gritted teeth): Open… wide…
Lauren: What is it, Googy?
Hannah: Er… Googy! (helpless mirth ensues)
Me/Nicola (curiously unaffected by helpless mirth): Come here NOW and BRUSH YOUR TEETH!!
Googy has become one of those mixed blessings of parenthood. On the one hand, the girls just wouldn’t be their cheeky selves without it. On the other hand, they wouldn’t be such a pain in the arse without it either. Every now and then there’s an incident that swings the pendulum very much one way or the other. One such incident happened a couple of days ago, as I was still in bed. There was a little conversation going on just outside the bedroom door which I had the good luck to overhear:
Lauren: Googy?
Hannah: Yes, Googy?
Lauren: What’s the French for Googy?
Hannah: Er, it’s… (pause to adopt correct accent)… Gaugisse.
Praise be to Googy. Where would we be without it?
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…
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.
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.