Didsburydad's Blog

From the not so mean streets of M20, blog about being a dad, Didsbury and dealing with parental confusion

Archive for the tag “passover”

Snoring, sneezing and big big love

Didsbury Dad Mansions is Snot Central right now. The house resounds to the sound of coughing and of
noses being blown. Tissues are secreted around the house like little cat toys. My pearly-topped princess sniffs as though this terrible scourge will never end. Competitive sleep deprivation has a new friend and has taken a back seat. Yesterday, my catarrhal morning croak and sub Barry White vocal register won a lie-in til 8. Today Didsbury Wife returned early and forlorn from her morning run. A night on the Sinutab and an early morning Heffalump movie meant I had no answer, dressing duties were mine.This general spluttering which began in nursery, came home, went to work, to school, to home, to nursery, to family, to school and back is one of the Manchester-living selling points not often promoted. “Come to Manchester, once Cottonopolis – go home with an Upper Respiratory infection.”

When I got to the platform there was no one to moan with.

lurgy – visual representation 

It also ties in nicely with one of our greatest national celebrations, National Snoring Week (25-29 April – strapline “It’s just the way I’m lying”).

After the confusion of an early Easter and a late Passover, the liberal angst of St. George’s Day is closely followed by the pointlessness of National Snoring Week. Turns out this is not about promoting snoring as a postmodern family pursuit. There are no articles that begin, ” Embrace the sound of your loved ones having a good sleep after their nightcap. Good times, leave your cares behind, just come along and drift into restfulness and prove you could fall sleep in a Steelworks.”The British Snoring & Sleep Apnoea Association (not to be confused with the Association of British Snorers & Sleep Apnoea Appreciators) are having a field day. There is free postage all week (www.britishsnoring.co.uk) and a range of products that seem to have escaped from either a GCSE Chemistry lab or are a zip short of Ann Summers Gimpware. 

saving Private Kitty

I have a friend. Erm, Withington Dad, who apparently snores (obviously it doesn’t disturb him). We thought a more useful set of products could include Rib protectors for that jab telling you to get off your back, earplugs so you aren’t disturbed by being told to shut up or a long straw so if one wakes up with a dry mouth from a couple of hours catching flies and singing guttural chants you don’t have to try and find the water next to your bed. It’s a common conversation between couples everywhere. But as a great philosopher once said, “Show me a man who does not snore and I will show you a man doing no childcare…
Junior Doctors solidarity poster   

(or drinking coffee, alcohol, being overweight, eating too late, staying up watching TV, sleeping badly, finding out there are consequences to years of partying or generally being a man.)

Chic – Good Times: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=8g6bUe5MDRo

Gluttony, religion and Chocolate for breakfast

In my religion all festivals follow a similar pattern; they tried to kill us, we killed them -let’s eat. It’s an annual and generational repeatable saga. Take Passover, currently nearing its end. The Jews were slaves, God freed us by slaying first-born captors amid a plague epidemic and we left before the bread had risen.

You notice we didn’t leave the bread as we ran for our lives, we took it partially cooked. Today Jews eat Matzoh (crackers with a backdraft more powerful than your average house fire) as a tribute to our pragmatic forefathers. This notion of group identity and the importance of shared food has shaped the tribe.

Didsbury Wife and Son are Christian and Easter is a big deal. I like this. I like the fact that the breakfast, lunch and dinner (plus snacks) courtesy of Galaxy that will shape Didsbury Son’s day comes with a story and a bit of grounding; it helps. I also wish a Happy Easter to the other religions and atheists who just fancy a day on the Cadbury’s, it’s a good call.

Didsbury Son is just back from his first school trip abroad; happy yet gallically pre-teenage. I have discussed the Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy/Santa dilemma before (my only parenting tip – you don’t believe, they don’t come). This year our foreign explorer needed something a little upgraded and 2013 – we needed something doable between nappy changes and feeding for the Mighty-headed boy and his pearl-tipped twin.
So this year the Easter Bunny sent clues by text message. this worked brilliantly. Having chocolate in one hand and an electronic device in the other fulfilled all Didsbury Son’s desires and a breakfast of Minstrels, Mini-Eggs and Milk was alliterative if nothing else.
As the twins shnurgled happily, Didsbury Son followed clues sent direct from Easter Bunny HQ that led him around the house. Via little treats stored craftily he came to an Easter Egg big enough for a dad tax without complaint.
All was perfect, or it would have been had I remembered to reset his phone so that the texts didn’t come through saying “Daddy” at the top. Definitely not a Heavenly Father but a Didsbury Dad.

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Love is the Message and the Message is Love – delivered via Dr Dre endorsed Beats

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God, Toggles and Chocolate

Our house reads from differing sides of the Old Testament. My Passover is Didsbury Wife’s Last Supper – same God, different caterers. Her Easter Egg trumps my Matzo but the Charoset (pronounced by continuously clearing ones throat whilst shouting et) is gaining favour. Then comes the dilemma. Didsbury Son is an easy-going and friendly only-child; so he receives an Augustus Gloop of chocolate eggs and has no sibling rivals to steal them; just me after he is asleep and I am pretending that chocolate stimulates the creative juices, not the salivary glands. The mixing of religions can be invigorating and waist expanding and not mind if you are not careful. I am many things, but not that careful.

Cub Camp Catering Tent

May 15th is a bittersweet day. Pride at Didsbury son winning The Pip Hartley challenge on a cubs weekend, tinged with sadness at missing the last day of the football season and my lot ending on a slump that had begun pre-Christmas. As proud parents we travel out of Didsbury and even Greater Manchester. It could be Derbyshire, Lancashire or North Wales, it is all interchangeable to me. Narrow roads, grey buildings and no Flat Whites. 5Live fades too quickly and my 3G goes as we enter the gulag they stayed at with only 10 minutes gone in a pointless match to all but… dads in their early 40s with a fear of being asked to go camping.

Cub camp resembles some 70s TV imagining of post apocalyptic Britain; with toggles and orange headbands. To Didsbury Son it is a land of adventure and glory with friends, campfires and late night songs and stories. To Didsbury Wife it has Didsbury Son and is therefore the best place on earth.  We coo diligently about his team’s great navigation; breathe through our mouths to avoid the overwhelming smell of damp people sharing a small space but our pride is mixed with dread. I realise that it is muddy fields with toggles rather than football grounds and balls that I will probably be traipsing around for the next few years and the thought of a wet night in a tent is making my knees creak in fear.

There must be a football ground near here

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