The Didsburyest – #Westfest15, Bradley Folds and David Beckham.
Apologies for the lack of posts recently. Give me another week and I will be back with more nappy nights, pre- teen blights, all-new Co/op ( correctly renamed Copo by @ Craftwords) bites, cortisone in the elbow plights and trying to book before they are two free flights.
I’ve been to Japanese Festivals and 80s nights. I’ve been to two capital cities and failed to find a coffee better than Fusion Deli and a brownie to match And the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon.
I have fallen asleep standing up dreamed of being Bill Murray’s pal in Lost In Translation Tokyo and discussed Hipp Organic v Home Cooked with a master chef.
Tonight proved a microcosm of my thwarted attempts to blog. As Carrie Matheson and Saul Berenson said goodnight I planned a couple of hours writing Homeland quality masterpieces in between work proposals.
First the mighty headed boy ( now a spit of 70s football icon Francis Lee) coughed himself awake. Armed with Benilyn and love I cooed him to sleep but the creaking of my knees awoke Princess Pearlyhead whose lungs are developing nicely. I eventually made it downstairs where I could swear I heard music. Didsbury Son ‘s alarm had gone off at midnight. He slept through, blissfully purring as some aimless quiffed British Bieber warbled on. He slept, but he managed to wake everyone else. Karma. – you owe me one.
I am man hear me Roar.
Stop the Clocks, then ring the bells for daddom and call me Emperor. This week I have been in sole charge of the Earl of Round Heads and Queen Smiley of Didsbury. No disasters, no trips to casualty, I even remembered which one wears pink and wasn’t abusive to any of the pinheads in the park who mistake a walk with a double buggy for an invitation to invade my personal space and wrongly guess the sex of my children.
Following a guide more powerful than Gina Ford (i.e. a list with times on it from Didsbury Wife), I completed my first serious stint as a Stay at Home Dad (well actually a sit in Café Nero as long as possible dad) I am now an expert and ready to host patronising Q&As with other nervous fathers. My tip is get a big sheet of paper. Now write four things in bold letters – FEED CHANGE PLAY SLEEP. Whatever the issue, the answer is usually one of these things.
Then set your alarm for planned feed and change times and bingo. It is like falling off a horse – painful, leaving you with sore limbs, dirty and smelling. The twins were filled, emptied, cooed to and got to sleep on time and it was only this morning I realised that I had not shaved, had only glanced at basic hygiene and my T-shirt looked like an advert for Persil (before).
After Day 1 I was knackered. After Day 2 I felt a rush of appreciation for anyone who spends all day with children (except PE teachers – they have their own ring in hell). On Day 3 it suddenly clicked (cue Little House on the Prairie theme tune).
I planned the day as though it was a show, working backwards from getting them down at night (curfew) to morning feed and change (load-in). Once I had this worked out it was easy and I even gave The Might Headed boy low-slung jeans so he looked like a roadie. With the mechanics sorted there came the revelation. I enjoy this. They are good company and Didsbury Wife has them so happy it isn’t that hard. I was transported back to a little Didsbury Son. The babies laughed as I gooned about and gave me the kind of instant approval as I entered their eyeline you can usually only get from an X Factor audience if you’re Olly Murs (insert this year’s Olly Murs).
In a few hours my plan changed from world domination at whatever it is I now do to being a combination of Anthea Turner, Nigel Slater, David Beckham and Timmy the Lamb. Obviously, all this is until the football season starts; then they need their mother.