A father’s ponderings on twins and their devious ways
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.
I can’t believe it’s been so long since I last shared the girls’ jokes with you (over a year now!). Time to make amends with an absolute belter from Lauren this morning.
Lauren: Daddy, do you want to hear a really bad joke?
Me: OK.
Lauren: OK, so… what’s the difference about a witch…
Me: Between, Lauren. What’s the difference between.
Lauren: Oh yeah, OK, right… what’s the difference between a witch and…
Hannah: A biscuit!
Lauren: Hannah!
Me: Hannah, don’t interrupt, let Lauren tell her joke. Go on Lauren.
Lauren: OK, so, right, what’s the difference about a witch…
Me: Between.
Hannah: Stop interrupting Lauren, Daddy.
Me: Shush, Hannah.
Lauren: …between a witch and… erm…
Hannah: A biscuit!
Lauren/Me: HANNAH!!
Lauren: Hang on, it’s on my joke book… [fetches joke book]… Oh yeah, right: what’s the difference between a wizard and the letters K, A, S, M and E?
Me: I don’t know.
Lauren: One makes spells and the other spells MAKES!
It’s all in the timing.
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’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…
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???“
At the age of five and a half, Hannah and Lauren’s grasp of “square words” is still not quite there. A conversation from earlier today:
Hannah: “Daddy, Lauren just said ‘pupils’!”
Lauren (in protest): Hannah started it!!
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.)
Getting dressed this morning, the girls decided to put me on the spot with some rapid-fire arithmetic.
Lauren: Daddy, what makes three and three?
Me (blearily): What…?
Hannah: Six!
[Much chuckling and cackling ensues because they beat me to it and I am a dunce.]
Hannah: Daddy, what makes… four… and four?
Lauren: Eight!
[Shrieks of laughter at expense of village idiot.]
Lauren: What makes… nine and nine?!
[Pause.]
Hannah: Daddy, what makes nine and nine?
Me: Eighteen.
Hannah: Oh.
[They chuckle for reasons best know to themselves.]
Hannah: What makes… ten and ten?
Lauren: Infinity?
Me: No, twenty.
Lauren: So, what makes a hundred and a hundred?
Hannah: Infinity?
Me: No, two hundred.
Lauren: Is two hundred and two hundred inifinity?
And so on. I can see this taking some time.
Like all other parents of small children, we’re usually woken up by either (a) arguing, (b) a series of loud, alarming bumps and bangs or (c) chirpy nonsense. The preferred option is (c) - it just doesn’t get your hackles up like the other two do. Sure, it’s far from ideal to be woken up before dawn to answer how many sleeps it is until Beti’s party1, or whether owls have willies2. But with practice it’s the kind of thing you can respond to whilst still asleep, rather than leaping into fully-awake conflict resolution mode from which there is no return.
Yesterday started with Lauren hurtling into the room some time around half past six. “Mummy!” she chimed. “Is today my real birthday or did I dream it?”
“No,” came a groggy reply from the pillow next to me, “you dreamt it.”
“OK!” And off she skipped.
1 “Lots, and I was just enjoying one of them. Her birthday’s not until December. Go back to bed.”
2 [Long pause.] “Good question. I’ll get back to you on that one.”
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…
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…
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.