A Kinder Surprise…Surprise!

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children, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting, stay-at-home Dad, toys

Ok, so I’m not as ‘down with the kids’ as I used to be. I try to stay up-to-date with some things for my children’s benefit, so I can relate to them and keep an eye on what they are up to. This isn’t so important now, but will become so as they get older, and their tastes ‘mature’.

 

I still keep my finger on the pulse of video-gaming for this reason so that, in the not-too-distant future, I will know what games are suitable for my children to play on. That’s my excuse to my partner anyway, I’m a born gamer and will probably have a joy pad in my hands on my deathbed.

 

That being said there will be no underage Grand Theft Auto 9 playing in this household!

 

Getting back to the point I’m failing to make though, I know it’s trendy for pop-stars to hyper-sexualise themselves and grab certain parts of their anatomy when they are onstage, it’s what their fans want and it drives the crowds wild. Hell, Michael Jackson was doing it years ago.

 

But I don’t want to see this in the toys that my children buy.

 

Clearly Kinder do not agree with me, as shown here by a little ‘surprise’ that my son found in his latest egg:

 

 

So you could argue that this small plastic bird is merely pointing to the ground and will then point to the sky afterwards (or would anyway if he wasn’t a lump of plastic) as part of his dance act. I don’t think so. He looks like he’s cupping himself on stage to me. As if someone has taken the spirit of Justin Bieber and inserted him into a small plastic bird.

 

Maybe it will be like Child’s Play, the seminal 1988 horror-film where the doll is infused with the spirit of a serial killer. Only instead of a serial killer it will be a young man with a penchant for tattoos, and (allegedly) headbutting people.

 

Oh I hope not, I don’t want to be woken at 3 a.m to the sounds of ‘Baby, baby, baby oooooh’ I think I’d prefer the serial killer to that.

 

Do I need this in the toys I buy for my kids? Do I have to explain to a six-year-old why the bird has his hand ‘down there’? No, I don’t so, Kinder, how’s about leaving the crotch grabbing where it belongs – onstage.

I Seem To Have Misplaced My Daughter…

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children, fun, funny, gardening, Humor, Parenting, stay-at-home Dad

…She was here just a minute ago, helping me sweep up the leaves….

 

 

 

Anyone have any ideas….?

My Son Has Put All His Toys In Compromising Positions…

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children, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting

Let me preface this blog post by stating that this is very immature on my part and, you know what? I don’t care. This had me in fits of giggles when I saw it, I hope it amuses you too. Bear in mind that these photos weren’t taken over a period of days, they were taken on the same night.

 

My son loves his bath-time toys, but maybe not as much as they love each other…

 

‘Come here’ says somewhat short Mr T-Rex, ‘come here, and give me some loving’. ‘If it’s all the same with you’ says Mr Ankylosaurus ‘I’d rather not’.

 

‘Come on in’ says Minecraft Steve ‘I’m hot to trot and ready to go’. ‘I don’t think so pal’ says Minecraft Diamond Steve ‘Unless there’s a third wheel this party ain’t getting started’.

 

‘Rid romerody ray third wheel?’ says Scooby, shuffling backwards in the direction of Minecraft Steve’s head ‘Errr, On second thoughts..’ begins Minecraft Steve. ‘Too late now’ says Minecraft Diamond Steve…

 

‘Hot damn girl’ says random young deer ‘You gots it all going on back there, umm umm that booty be mighty fine’. ‘Hang on a minute’ says random mother deer ‘Aren’t you my son? I’m sure we came packaged together’.

 

 

 

 

I may be reading too much in to all this…

Wanted: Bald Dog.

Tags

animals, children, cleaning, dogs, France, French, funny, games, Humor, kids, musings, pets, stay-at-home Dad

 

‘Can we have a dog? can we have a dog? can we have a dog? can we have a dog? can we have a dog?’ is what I hear in my memory when I think back to my childhood. Yes, I really, really wanted a dog. One that would sleep at the foot of my bed, curled up snoring away, and then waking me up with a slobbery lick of its tongue in the morning.

Now? I want a dog. A bald one.

We’ve spent the day at the French father-in-law’s. It’s miserable and wet* and so we have spent the majority (read: all) of our time indoors. They have a dog. Its hair is everywhere. We (read: his mum) bought my son a new dressing gown, it’s black and white and has the Star Wars logo splashed all over it. At least it did. Now it’s pretty much white all over.

Plus I think it now constitutes a fire-hazard.

This is due to the lovely, cuddly, hairy dog-in-residence – Fleur. She’s a beautiful Labrador,  huge soulful eyes, friendly demeanor. Complete lack of control of her follicles.

The dressing gown I can cope with, and the slippers, and the coats, and the jumpers, and and and…

But due to the confined nature of our visit the kids have pulled out all the toys – who can blame them? – to occupy themselves with. My daughter has a lot of fun with this, another pet-hate (no pun intended) of mine:

Yes, it’s a Play-doh activity set, specifically designed to allow kids to have minutes of fun creating items that vaguely resemble burgers, chips, biscuits etc. etc.

It also enables parents to enjoy hours of free cardio-vascular exercise, as they struggle to get the stuff out of carpets, hair, clothes, teeth, toenails etc. etc. When we first moved into our new home in France I made a mistake, I left my daughter alone with some Play-doh for a period of time in excess of 90 seconds.

I’m still finding bits of the stuff around the house to this day…

I love the smell of Play-doh, takes me right back to when I was six. I also hate Play-doh.

But here’s the real cherry on the cake, pictures which despite none of the materials being edible still turned my stomach. So of course I had to share them with you (read: no I didn’t).

Can you see those whispy bits sticking out of the machine? Do you now know why I felt so sick when the tub of ‘spaghetti’ was being shoved in my face? I told you the dog’s hair got everywhere didn’t I? Bleurgh.

I’m particularly proud of this next photo:

I should enter it for the Turner prize, I can call it ‘Spoiled childhood’ or ‘Hair of the dog’ or simply ‘It’s not real – honest!’. It does look real though, doesn’t it? My kids have done what all kids do with Play-doh (is that how you spell it? can’t be bothered to Google it) whereby they get several pots, all the colours of the rainbow, and then they just turn it into a brown mush.

A brown mush that is now infested, infested with white dog hairs.

You see now why I want a bald dog?

But it’s ok, turns out they want a cat.

Cats are fine.

They just make me nearly die from having a near fatal asthmatic reaction to them. Hmmm, dog hairs or asthma..choices, choices…

*I’m thinking of asking for a refund, I knew it wouldn’t be the Tropics when I moved over here to France, but if this weather keeps up I’m in danger of evolving/mutating gills. Hey, but then I can have lots of watery adventures, and maybe hook up with Jeanne Tripplehorn, just like Kevin Costner did in Waterworld (nah, if I evolve I know/hope I’ll just develop my own vacuum cleaner-like appendage).

Cultural French/UK Differences: The Lollipop Man

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children, cultural differences, education, France, French, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

For the uninitiated a lollipop man is a man/woman who stands at the side of a Zebra crossing, ensuring that vehicles stop so the children can safely cross the road. Lollipop men/women take their name from the brightly-coloured giant lollipop-like signs they hold, this catches drivers’ attentions and they then stop (or accelerate, depending on who’s behind the wheel). In the UK they usually look exactly as the chap in the picture above, generally retired and with an affable, approachable nature.

 

They do not look like this in France.

 

The lollipop man in our old village in the UK was called Paul.

 

I think the French lollipop man is called TK100016.

 

Paul wore a hi-viz jacket and whatever clothes he had decided to put on that day.

 

French lollipop man wears standard issue uniform. Standard issue for the riot police anyway.

 

Paul would always have a friendly word to say to you, and would ask how the kids were doing.

 

The French lollipop man shouted at me today because I slightly jogged over the crossing.

 

After his shift ended Paul could often be seen walking his dog around the village.

 

As soon as his shift ends the French lollipop man plugs himself in to recharge.

 

Paul liked gifts at Christmas, and would never refuse a bottle of wine.

 

I think if I gave the French lollipop man any kind of gift he would immediately, and violently, arrest me, considering it an attempt to bribe a government official.

 

Paul had a lollipop.

 

I’m 95% sure the French lollipop man has a taser. He definitely doesn’t have a lollipop.

 

Paul let us take his picture once, for one of my son’s school projects.

 

If I attempted to take a photo of the French lollipop man he would pick me up by my throat with one hand, with his other he would take my phone off me and crush it.

 

Paul used his lollipop to stop traffic.

 

French lollipop man uses his eyes.

 

I liked Paul.

 

French lollipop man scares me.

Decoding The First Day At The New School In France…

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children, education, France, French, funny, Humor, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

 

Me: ‘have you had a good day then?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes, I really enjoyed it’

 

Me: ‘Did you talk to lots of other children?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes, and I made friends with a girl from London’

 

Me: ‘Wow! So there’s another English girl there?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes she doesn’t speak much English, just ‘oui”

 

Me: ‘Errrrr…’

 

My Son: ‘And she has London on her t-shirt’

 

Me: ‘Wait…so was she from London or did she just have London on her t-shirt?’

 

My Son: (talking to me in a tone reserved for simpletons) ‘She was from London!’

 

Me: ‘Oh great, so you have an English friend then?’

 

My Son: ‘Yes, but she doesn’t talk much English’

 

I give up at this point and turn my attention to my daughter, who is happily munching an apple.

 

Me: ‘Did you have a good first day?’

 

My Daughter: ‘Yes!’

 

Me: ‘Did you talk to many people?’

 

My Daughter: (smiling) ‘I didn’t talk to anybody’

 

 

 

We found out a couple of days later that the girl in question was not actually English, she just wore a t-shirt with ‘London’ written on it. Honestly, six-year-olds, eh? The Enigma machine has nothing on them!

 

Sick Beds And Trapped Bees At The New School In France…

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Bees, children, education, France, French, funny, Humor, school, teachers, Traditions, training

One of the actual classrooms we went in, this one is where you learn English – I did have to point out though that ‘Britain’ is not spelt with two ‘T’s. Whether this will have enamored me to our new host or not, only time will tell.

It’s a miserable wet Tuesday morning and my son, my daughter, myself and the (French) mother-in-law are visiting my son’s new school. We are visiting it during the school holidays and the head-teacher has very nicely agreed to open it, so that we can all have a look around and see what my curly-haired boy thinks of it.

It’s a huge building which, the headteacher informs us is ‘Very old…deux-cent’ (200 years). There are many rooms with all kinds going on in each one and, obviously, lots and lots of French writing. I find this daunting and I’m not the one that will be attending, but my son loves it.

We enter one room and the headteacher motions to my children to approach a large box on wheels that appears to be some kind of cabinet. He then, in a very magician-esque way, pulls off one of the panels on the cupboard/box/thingy to reveal BEES! Lots and lots of bees. The idea, he says, is that the kids look after the bees, the bees make honey, and the kids eat the honey.

After showing us both sides of the bee-box he then puts the cover back on, sealing the bees away. ‘What a holiday they are having!’ I say in broken French to my belle-mere ‘The kids go off on vacation to the lakes, or the south of France, and they get to spend two weeks bumping into each other in the dark in a big box’. Potential bee-right violations aside it’s another great idea that this school has – they also have some mini-allotments at the entrance to encourage the kids to start to grow their own food.

Bit too close to the entrance if you ask me – if this was England anything they grew would get plundered when they reached a ripened state.

We carry on and enter the staff room, dominated by the head-teacher’s desk in the centre of the room. He then shows us the other parts of the room (It’s very Scooby Doo – there seem to be doors that lead off into other areas all over the place) and indicates the sick bed.

Now I can’t speak for everybody but in my village back in England the school there had a very simple approach to sick children. If you cough too much – you go home. If you are sick – you go home. Look a bit pale? you go home. It was an almost knee-jerk reaction in its speed the way in which the school would get in touch with you if your child exhibited the slightest indication that they were sick.

I’m told – after telling the head-teacher that these don’t exist anymore in England – that they do this because they understand the difficulties of working life for people with children. If your child is a bit unwell, or is sick, they take them to the sick bay and monitor them for an hour or so. If they perk up then off they go back to play/learn/whatever. If not then they will contact the parent (s).

This is another great tradition that I experienced in my lifetime that has sadly disappeared from the UK – too ‘risky’ these days I suppose, in our culture of blame. So I’m pleased that it still exists over here, in our new home.

My son is pleased as punch with his new school, which eases my mind. He’d been a bit sick the previous night and we were both worried that it was due to worry about his new, somewhat ‘alien’, learning environment. This is clearly not the case though, as he happily runs from empty class to empty class, admiring the old traditions that sit alongside newer technologies – touch-sensitive whiteboards for example.

We reach the cafeteria as our tour comes to an end and, the headteacher informs us, he will be able to dine with his sister as the nursery and the school eat together. This pleases my two children no end, ‘We will have dinner together’ they happily shout.

We head off back to the mother-in-law’s for dinner, walking down the high street, which is beautiful despite the miserable weather. As we do we pass by the local florists. ‘Look daddy!’ my son says, pointing to a bunch of flowers. ‘Oh yes, they are very pretty’ I say to him. ‘No look, there’s a bee!’. He’s quite right, there is, crawling happily over the…whatever it is (I’m not a horticulturalist, OK?). ‘It’s escaped from the school’ I tell him, and he looks back at me with huge eyes. ‘Bad bee!’ he says, ‘We’ve got to get it back!’ ‘We’ll tell the headmaster next week’ I tell him ‘He’ll send out the bee-police’.

This seems to satisfy him and we head off down the high street hand-in-hand, all four of us, looking forward to the future.

I’ve seen some scary stuff in my time…

Tags

children, fun, funny, growing up, Humor, musings, teeth

 

I’ve seen hours and hours of horror films.

 

I’ve seen limbs lopped off, heads caved in, blood coming out of every orifice.

 

I’ve watched Hellraiser 1, 2, 3 and – for my sins – 4.

 

I’ve watched Freddy Krueger stalk his victims in their dreams.

 

I’ve watched Leatherface chase down his prey with his trademark-chainsaw.

 

I’ve seen ghostface chat up and then cut up babysitters, jocks and even head-teachers in his seemingly endless spree.

 

I’ve watched no end of Japanese horrors.

 

I’ve lost count of the amount of long-haired girls that have crawled out of wells, TV sets, showers and even, creepiest of all, the back of one victim’s head.

 

I’ve Let The Right One In, I’ve been unable to reverse Irreversible, I’ve gone to Calvaire, I’ve seen what it is to be a martyr in Martyrs, I’ve had a front seat view in REC, I’ve gotten lost in the woods in The Blair Witch Project (the original, I might add)….the list is seemingly endless.

 

And yet not one of these has disturbed me as much as the brushing of my son’s teeth today.

 

He’s just lost his first tooth, bottom centre.

 

Man, that gap gives me the creeps…..

Does Your Child’s Teacher Speak A Different Language To You…..?

Tags

children, education, France, funny, Humor, languages, political correctness, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

It’s 5.30pm on a wet and miserable Wednesday evening and I’m picking up my son from his after-school club. The club is a fantastic thing as it allows me to work within normal hours safe in the knowledge that he’s being well looked after and fed.

 

He loves it because he gets to play video games.

 

I ring the buzzer on the door and wait patiently for the door to be answered. And wait. And wait. In the end I have to go and bang on the window of the room that the kids play in, startling the children but gaining the teaching-assistants’ attentions.

 

This happens frequently; they say it is because their walkie-talkies are out of range of the door-buzzer; I say, they don’t like getting up and answering the door, hoping that the caretaker will do it instead (he often does).

 

So after being let in to the building by one of the teaching assistants I notice that she has a concerened look on her face. ‘Is your son’s mum in France* at the moment?’ I tell her that that is indeed the case. ‘Oh right’ she says ‘That might explain it then’. ‘Explain what?’ I ask her.

 

‘Well’ she starts ‘He was playing outside earlier on and he went in the wrong direction and made the wrong choice, his teacher asked him to make the right choice but he again went in the wrong direction’. I look at her, trying to decipher this statement.

 

‘So what did he do?’ I ask her. She looks at me like I have just been dropped on my head and repeats the same mysterious sentence.

 

Now, at the school my son goes to I have encountered this type of language before, when my son has been guilty of using ‘unkind hands’ and ‘unkind words’. That’s fairly self-explanatory, but I’m at a total loss as to what he has, or hasn’t done, on this occasion.

 

I think the rationale behind it is that teachers don’t want to outright describe the situation, they prefer to label it in a roundabout fashion. I’d personally prefer it if they just said ‘Your son misbehaved today – he was hitting Maisie over the head with a watering can so he had to go for a timeout’ – much easier to understand than the current method of cotton-wooling the facts.

 

I wait for the assistant to fetch my son and replay the conversation in my head. And I’m still none the wiser two minutes later when my son arrives.

 

The teaching assistant looks at me ‘We’ll put it down to his mum being away I think, hopefully he’ll go in the right direction tomorrow’. I nod my head in agreement at whatever it is this woman is saying to me and leave the building as quickly as possible.

 

We will be moving to France soon where the teachers most certainly will not speak the same language as me. But, in many ways, they may actually speak a language that I understand a lot more…

 

I did actually ask my son, when we got home, what he’d done. He is a typical six-year-old boy, so all I got was ‘I don’t know’. Later that evening when I Skyped my partner and relayed what had gone on she was similarly curious as to what had happened, and neither me nor my son could proffer an answer…

 

 

*We are shortly moving to France – more on that at a later date – and so she has started her new job already – one week she’s in France, one week she’s back in the UK, one week back in France, one week in the UK then we move over there permanently.

Interesting Conversations With My Son…

Tags

children, funny, growing up, Humor, kids, musings, Parenting

 

 

 

I enter the kids’ play room to see my (recently turned) six-year-old son with his underpants and trousers around his ankles:

 

Me: ‘What are you doing?’

 

 

My Son: ‘I’m just checking my willy because it’s longer now because I’m six now and it will be getting bigger so I’m just checking that it’s bigger’

 

 

Me: ‘……….oh alright then but could you put it away now, and next time can you check that after your sister has finished her breakfast?….and when she’s not sat right next to you….?’

 

 

 

We are driving around the local city admiring the Christmas lights up in local houses, we head further afield and see some really crazy displays. The kids love it and we end up near where I used to live many years ago, I tell the kids this as we pull up outside my old home. As we head off my son starts talking about my history of habitation:

 

My Son: ‘Did you live there before you lived with me and Mamou?’

 

 

Me: ‘Eh?’

 

 

My Son: ‘Before you lived with me and Mamou did you live there?’

 

 

Me: ‘I lived with Mamou son, then you came along and then your sister’.

 

 

My Son: ‘No, no, I lived with Mamou, then you came to live with us, and then my sister came to live with us’

 

 

Me: ‘I’m not going to argue with you son, but there’s a pretty glaring flaw in your logic there buddy…..’

 

 

We are sat at home, next to the twinkling Christmas tree, there’s a nativity scene depicting Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus next to the fireplace. We are planning a move to France soon and, obviously putting these two elements together, my son comes out with this beauty:

 

 

My Son: ‘Will we pay taxes in France?’

 

 

Mamou: ‘What?’

 

 

My Son: ‘Will we pay taxes in France?’

 

 

Mamou: ‘Of course we will, why do you ask?’

 

 

My Son: ‘Well it’s just that Mary and Joseph had to pay taxes so I just wanted to know if we will have to pay taxes too’

 

 

 

Yes, only six years old and yet already aware of one of life’s harshest realities: taxes are one of the only two certainties in this life. The longer I can keep him ignorant of the other one, the better I’ll like it.