How Many Pieces of Lego Have You Hoovered Up?

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annoyances, cleaning, Family, funny, Humour, kids, stay-at-home Dad, toys

I believe I broke through the £300 barrier today – that’s the approximate value of Lego I have hoovered up.

In days gone by I would bend down and pick them up, but then I discovered that ‘accidentally’ hoovering them up was easier. I also realised I was fighting a losing battle, as for every 1 piece I picked up my kids would drop 6 more.

I draw the line at figures (complete figures only, heads still go up the tube) and pieces in excess of 10cm, but everything else is fair game.

They get everywhere. I guarantee that if you look under any parent’s sofa it will look like a Lego-battleground; heads, wheels, arms, blocks, lights, tools, legs, those pointy corner bits – they’re all under there. I recommend the narrow attachment for this. Another tip – if you can’t quite reach them all under there, and you have a rug – drop it at one side of the sofa and the resulting breeze will blow the parts towards you – as well as all the dust-bunnies.

The kids might not be happy, but at least when I go for a pee at 4 a.m I don’t wake the house up with my cries of anguish after stepping on Lisa Simpson’s Lego-head.

Cost-effective? No.

Easier life? Oh yes.

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).

My Achilles’ Heel: The Washing Machine

Tags

children, cleaning, Humor, stay-at-home Dad, technology

 

OK, let’s get one thing clear: that is not what the front panel on our washing machine looks like. But it may as well do.

 

I’ve taken on-board a lot of tasks since becoming a stay-at-home dad, certain areas are very clearly outlined – by myself I might add – as my domain. Vacuuming – that’s all mine, and I love it. Does that make me sound sad or strange? I don’t care, I love the look of a nice, clean carpet – it generally stays clean for three minutes due to my children somehow generating crumbs even when there is no food in the nearby vicinity; but those three minutes are glorious.

 

Washing up? That’s all me too. I am master of the dishwasher, I know where all the different crockery, pans, storage tubs go. I even like a nice bit of old-fashioned washing up, just to make sure everything is spick and span. I do get grief for this though, as my partner cannot understand why I would manually wash up when we have a machine to do it. I just like to, isn’t that enough?

 

Ironing? Another area of expertise for me. I take care of all my own and the kids’ clothing. On the days when all the little items of clothing are dry it can seem like you are ‘at the board’ forever. And just when you think you are at the bottom of the pile another lot will be revealed. I never iron my partners clothes though – this is because the majority of them are composed of a material so man-made that they generally go ‘pfffffft’ and shrivel up on contact with anything hotter than, say, the heat generated by a small mouse breathing out.

 

You can also ‘treat’ yourself by ironing towels. Towels are so easy, just big oblongs of material, that take no time to do but, and here’s the main thing, a pile of nicely ironed and folded towels always looks great, and like you’ve expended much more effort than you actually have. You know what? I never thought I’d ever type out a sentence like that.

 

Yet one thing in the household still eludes me: understanding the washing machine. I constantly think that the aforementioned towels – of any shape or size – can be put in with any wash. They are just towels after all. This is incorrect. I additionally think that certain items, say ones that have been worn for years, will be fine in the washing-machine with anything else. This is incorrect. I often think that the pile of clothes in front of the half-full washing machine can also be stuffed inside, as they must simply be waiting to go in there. This is also incorrect.

 

Then there are these things:

 

At the last count we had approximately 86 of these scattered around the house. I tried to cull them one week but was told off as they were ‘needed’. Really? how many does one house really need? And why are they all in different colours? and different sizes? I know they go inside the washing machine, but how much liquid do I put in them? And, most crucially, where do they come from? I have never seen one of these in the shopping basket, or attached to any washing powder/liquid, so I must simply assume that my partner bought a pair to breed and they have simply created an army of…these….things… I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY ARE CALLED!

 

Oh and that brings me onto washing powders/liquids. Non bio..Bio…Powder..liquid…I’m lost. I once tried to buy some, trying to make an independent decision for once. The incorrect box of detergent has been sat in the back of my car for so long that I am going to hold a birthday party for it soon. But on the plus side it did make my car smell nice.

 

And as if the control panel on the washing machine itself isn’t complicated enough, then there’s the labelling on clothing. It’s like the makers of clothes and the manufacturers of washing machines got together and decided to create a system to drive men insane. Here’s a very accurate description of how my eyes perceive clothes’ labelling, apologies in advance as it does contain swear-words, but I feel it gets my point across better than words alone could:

 

 

Look at those symbols, it’s like some hellish form of Hieroglyphics. How do I understand these? Is there a training course? Do I need to go on retreat for two weeks to a special monastery to study the ancient arts of clothes-washing?

 

Our previous washing-machine broke a month ago, and we had to get a new one. When the delivery guys came to fit it I took one look at this shiny-white baffling contraption and simply stated ‘I hate washing machines’. One of the guys looked at me, instantly understanding ‘They’re not designed for us to use’. I had to agree, and that’s why, in this household anyway, the washing machine will never fall under my jurisdiction.

 

 

 

 

 

Please note if any of this comes across in anyway as sexist then I do apologise, that’s not my intent, rather I just wanted to illustrate the fact that it is all just a total mystery to me.

Hello from the other side…(of the room)

Tags

children, cleaning, funny, Humor, stay-at-home Dad

 

Hello, did you miss me? You’ve just finished vacuuming, and look all cosy, sitting there on the couch. Maybe you’re about to relax and watch an episode of Silicon Valley, Curb Your Enthusiasm or something of that ilk. Or maybe you’ll just read a book.

Except you won’t, because you’ve just seen me. Yes, as the sunlight flows across the room, there I am. Revealed in all my glory.

A clump of hair, nice and long and resplendent in my brunette glory, I’m probably from your partner, after all you always say she molts like a labrador. So here I sit, staring at you, the lone clump of hair you failed to suck up.

Well, that’s what I am today, tomorrow I might be a few odd crumbs that you missed, or maybe a bit of dry cheese. And you just know that you’re going to get up and get that vacuum out again, and I’m going to stare at you until you do.

Oh and I’m not on my own because…

HOLLAAA!!! You missed me too baby! All that washing  up and you didn’t see little old me sat here shining away at you did you? I watched as your hands fumbled around in the sink, searching for any other items to wash up ‘afore you pulled that big ‘ol plug out. But baby, I hide. Yes, no matter how much you search, you’ll never find me. And as that water drains away there I am: the last teaspoon in the sink.

Now watcha gonna do? You gonna just rinse me under the sink or are you gonna man up and rewash me? You could just put me in the dishwasher, yeah take the easy way out. It don’t matter none to me, cuz I’ll be back here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…

But hey now, don’t have me doing all the talking, there’s plenty more of us folks want a chat like my friend here…

Ahem! Hello there sir I have been most pleased to let you know that I am still awaiting recycling. You have gone outside in most unpleasant weather, I know this sir because you were very vocal about it during your walk to the recycle bin. And sir, I know that your feet are now wet and you have removed your socks, but unfortunately, sir, you have forgotten me – a yoghurt pot.

Yes, in the grand scheme of things sir I am inconsequential, but ask yourself this sir. Can you live with yourself knowing that your otherwise pristine kitchen is contaminated with a piece of forgotten refuse? You know the answer is no.

At least today I am only a yogurt pot sir. Try to recall your state of mind when I was THREE yoghurt pots. Also sir, the incident where you had just been to the recycle bin and your lady partner – who leaves hair on your carpet in clumps like some kind of Afghan Hound if I may be so bold sir – finished her 2.5ltr bottle of water and then casually left it on the counter.

Oh sir, the words you used then as you went back outside.

But worry not sir, we are just everyday annoyances, it is just life. I mean, sir, it’s not like we do it on purpose…do we?

The Sad Tale Of The Twelve Little Stikeez…

Tags

children, cleaning, funny, Humor, kids, musings, Parenting, toys

Author’s note: For the uninitiated Stikeez are a collectable toy sold by Lidl, the food supermarket, here in the UK once a year, for one month. This is the story of what happened to twelve of these plucky little toys in my house…

Man. What were we thinking? We were just raw recruits, fresh out of the packaging, we didn’t know no better. We just wanted to get on and do our tour, we figured it would be a breeze; get in, get played with, get out.

Shoved together in that Austrian Supermarket pit-of-hell, we clung to each other, as we were carried back to the place that would become our prison. And for some, our coffin.

Things were ok at first. We got played with, got stuck to surfaces and licked. But that was ok, because that’s what we were designed for. But then strange things started happening.

We were supposed to be played with by the large one, one of the guys heard him getting shouted at, and we realised he was four. That was ok, he was a wise guy and liked to play rough, but we was built for that.

It was when the smaller one got hold of some of us, that’s when things went wrong. She wasn’t even two. My god…what were they thinking. 36 months and above…36 MONTHS AND ABOVE it said..RIGHT THERE ON THE PACKAGING.

There were whispers that there had been other Stikeez originally, but some of them hadn’t even made it out of the car. The little one was quick with her hands, and she liked to pick stuff up…but she liked to throw stuff away too. And she did it real quiet.

Crabbo, used to cry himself to sleep at night, one of the other guys, Fluffle, said he was crying for his twin, said he remembered seeing him in the car…with a little fist wrapped around him.I had a word with him. Asked him to sleep somewhere else, his cries were disturbing the rest of the crew.

Also he glowed in the dark.

Not long after the little one got her mitts on us, the first of my crew disappeared.

Fishy, god, why Fishy? He was the heart and soul of our crew. Then one fateful bath-night he went up with the kids as normal…and never came back. Some of the guys say they can hear him up there, on nights when the kids are especially dirty. They say his wails come through the plughole.

Bucktooth bought the farm next.

He went in the great Lego massacre of 10.36am, Wednesday. The big guy, we heard him called ‘daddy’, just lost it. Started screaming ‘I’M TIRED OF PICKING UP THESE BITS OF BLOODY LEGO’ and then he got out the big suck machine. We know to hide when the big suck machine comes out. It’s dangerous. But them Lego kids…they don’t know no better. They ain’t smart like us see?

They just stood there and got hoovered up. Little pieces, wheels, arms…Finally Bucktooth couldn’t take it no more. He ran in to try to save a Lego man, with Boba Fett’s body and Spiderman’s head, and… that was all he wrote.

The glitter girls were next. We all loved them. They brought a feminine touch to the gang, and helped keep us warm on those lonely nights when we’d been left inside the cupholder in the car. They went out one day, all four of them, full of joy and laughter. They went out clutched in the little one’s fist. They went out…but only one came back.

Sparkle didn’t speak much after that. We couldn’t make head or tail of what she said. Just occasional snatches, things like ‘she kept putting us in her mouth..my god..the drool’ and ‘why would you put a Stikeez there…why?’.

We tried to keep an eye on her but one night she slipped away and we found her the next day, on the way to school. She’d got outside during the night, and hid underneath the back wheel of the neighbour’s car. That weren’t no sight to see, let me tell ya.

Fluffle and Wuffle…they got some stick over their hair, but they was real stand-up guys. We all was. That’s the way they manufactured us. They went to school with the big kid, you could see the fear in their eyes. They weren’t supposed to go to that school. None of us were. We knew the rules, and we’d heard the rumours about toys that went to school. But that one day daddy was distracted, with the little one doing a ‘big smelly’ as we called it, in her pants. While he was dealing with that, the big kid just picked up Fluffle and Wuffle and stuffed ‘em in his pocket.

We never saw ‘em again…

Things unravelled quick after that. Whaley and Pinko went to a birthday party, and well, Pinko…he don’t see too good no more. We think what happened was he wandered into the wrong kid’s backpack…Whaley went in after him and…man..Whaley was only a pup, his manufacture date was just this year…

After that it was just me an Crabbo..he cracked. Started ranting about how he wasn’t gonna take it no more. He was gonna do something about it. He was gonna go looking for the others, and get the gang back together and make things right. He went native, went in to ‘the jungle’ out back. I see him sometimes, when the night is black, well I would, after all he glows in the dark. He just sits there next to the bins…just sitting there staring at the moon.

So now there’s just me…the last of the Stikeez dozen. I don’t know how long I’m going to last. It gets lonely out here, and them Lego kids ain’t much for conversation. I haven’t been stuck to a surface in weeks. And my suction cup is beginning to desiccate.

My time’s almost up…I’ve seen the way the daddy looks at me when he’s vacuuming…the end’s close. I can feel it. I’ll be with my buddies again soon…

Pvt First Class Bobo ‘Bluey’ Jones

I’m Going To Marry My Vacuum Cleaner

Tags

children, chores, cleaning, fun, Humor, kids, love, melt down, musings, Parenting, technology

Why do I bother vacuuming?

I get on this hamster wheel every day.

I follow the trails my children leave around the house like Hansel, or Gretel. But there’s no sanctuary at the end of my trail of breadcrumbs. There’s no witch waiting to fatten me up, and then put me in an oven either.

No, there’s only more breadcrumbs. And the occasional piece of shrivelled up ham.

I treasure those brief moments where everything looks nice and clean. Admiring the vacuum cleaner’s marks on the carpet, like contrails in the sky.

It lasts overnight sometimes.

Then the kids wake up.

And the lovely sucker goes back to work, eating all the food that doesn’t quite hit the target.

She’s got the best diet of anyone in our household, despite just being an appliance. There’s not a day goes by when she doesn’t gorge herself on cereal, bread, cheese, meat and the occasional sock (good for roughage are socks).

She’s better than a dog when it comes to finishing meals. She’s not fussy. And she’ll never leave you a present in your slippers.

She’s my first, and last, line of defence against the enemies of cleanliness in my household – my children.

Sometimes, they even create work while I’m vacuuming. Following me round while I hoover up.

They eat biscuits while they watch me.

Their eyes glint with mirth, while they chow down on Mr Crumblie’s Extra Mega Crumbly Biscuit (NOW WITH 50% MORE CRUMBS KIDS!). They leave a trail that is all but guaranteed to lure ET into the house, if he ever comes back to see Elliot again.

I’m going to marry my hoover, I might as well, we spend so much time together. One can’t work without the other.

I spend more time touching it than I do my partner. That’s not sick, or warped.

Or is it?

No. That’s just one more part of being a stay-at-home dad.

Tune in next week for:

‘WHAT I DID WITH THE DISHWASHER, AND HOW I JUSTIFIED IT TO MY PARTNER’