My muso days are over

Like many music obsessed parents, I always thought I’d pass on my ‘good taste’ in music to my children. I’ve always envisaged them sitting rapt at my feet as I tutored them in the subtleties of classic seventies progressive rock, the energy of punk and the earnest commentary of singer songwriters that adorn my record collection.

Of course the kids had other ideas. “Boring!” they’d shout as soon as one of my CDs was inserted into the stereo or car entertainment system. They much preferred a host of children’s favourites by the likes of Danny Kaye and others which have been slowly but surely driving me round the twist.

Recently we came upon a happy middle ground in the shape of Eighties zany pop duo They Might Be Giant. They’re best remembered for the annoying Birdhouse in Your Soul song, a tune that has always grated on me. However my wife loves them and chanced upon a video of the band’s song E Eats Everything on YouTube. This is a sort of Sesame Street animated ode to the letter E and other letters in the form of a description of their favourite foods.

Our two boys found it absolutely hilarious and insisted that it went on repeat. Its funky guitar riff was so naggingly insistent that even musically pretentious dad could appreciate it.

I then discovered that the band have actually recorded two albums worth of child friendly songs devoted to the alphabet and numbers (Here Come the ABCs and Here Come the 123s). As well as being sneakily educational, they are funny and enjoyable to both adults and children with some corking tunes spanning a gamut of styles including country, pop, Eighties electro and prog rock.

Car journeys are now a delight as we can sing along en famille to ditties such as Who Put the Alphabet in Alphabetical Order, I Can’t Remember What D is For, and the ever hilarious 7 song.

For now it’s a great half way house between my musical preciousness and their desire to belt out nonsense lyrics. And at four and two, there’s still plenty of time to introduce them to the delights of Yes, the Ramones and Nick Drake. I haven’t given up.

Fast entry

I'm wondering if I can come up with anything interesting to say in the 10 minutes before I got to pick up J from school.

It's the final week of a less than full day. He gets picked up at 2pm. Today I had to leave him at the door of the school for the first time after a few weeks of taking him right into the classroom. It seemed to go okay -  no floods of tears, but he wasn't that pleased.

From next week he'll be doing a full day, until 3.15, which will help me and the wife out. He arrives home so early that it's tough to know what to do with him at the moment. Half the day is still available and he has no shortage of energy. I don't know what I'll do with him toady as I'm on duty while Mrs Holiday does some work. The park maybe. Not craft please - AKA making a massive mess in the house and then leaving me to clear it up. No TV - save that for when real desperation kicks in.

So, no, nothing interesting!

Starting school

I can remember my first day at school very clearly. Decked out in a tweedy jacket and shorts combo getting my picture taken on the doorstep with my best pal John.

Taxi: the school chariot

The thing I remember most about the day though was the reaction of another young boy, William, who was so freaked out that he ran away as we lined up in twos to enter the class. Well, we were only four years old, and the lining up was being done by a stern, uniformed janitor who everybody was still terrified of years later.

Dropping J off for his first day was an odd occasion. He's a confident and very sociable child, so I wasn't really expecting any problems, even though several of his nursery friends were off to a different school. He's doesn't really have a problem making friends, but I had underestimated how little he likes change.

As we arrived at the school to take him in, one of the classroom assistants was handing out name stickers. He usually only has one volume - booming - but this dropped to barely a whisper when she asked his name. I hadn't really got the requisite lump in my throat until then. Not when he reluctantly appeared for the first time in his full school uniform (complete with hastily shortened trousers - one leg each from me and Mrs HH), and not when we packed him and his brother into the bike trailer that is now his school taxi.

But the hoarse whisper really got to me and I was quite upset on the way out, especially as he had been unusually clingy that morning. I'm sure I wasn't alone. The first day of school is one of the classic growing up milestones. Lots of parents looked more anxious than their children on that day. I don't know why we were all fretting so... they were only in class for about two hours.

That was almost two weeks ago now, and it's safe to say that the school is still bedding them in fairly gently. This week he's staying for dinner and finishes at 2pm. It will be another week and a half before he's staying for a full day. I suppose it makes sense. Some of the children there are tiny and there are a few who still seem fairly upset by it all. Luckily for us J seems to be getting on okay, especially now that dinners are on the cards.

And that's another change from when I was at school. I never looked forward to my school meals. Lumpy tatties and gristly mince. Yuk!

Loving the 'Lympics

Suddenly everyone loves the Olympics. I think Tony Parsons summed it up best when he said: "Sneering at the Olympics is like sneering at Christmas... Time to stop synchronised moaning."

Stadium arcadium: Olympics happen here

As a fairly recent ex-resident of the Olympic borough of Hackney, and having the council tax Olympic surcharges to prove it, I have to say that I was always up for it. And not just for the regenerative powers of the Games. I think the jury is still out on that anyway, and I never really bought that idea that the stretch of the River Lea that is now Olympic Park needed saving. Yes, it was a bit wild, but it was a fascinating, and unique urban wilderness, which many people loved. I can understand why they were opposed to seeing it going. Hopefully the new Queen Elizabeth Park will be something equally unique, although very different of course.

No, the real reason I was up for the Olympics is pure, unadulterated excitement about the Games. Nothing this big has ever arrived on my doorstep before. Who wouldn't be excited? Well, Iain Sinclair obviously, although he's had plenty of column inches, a new book and ongoing art projects out of it. He can't be anything but excited, if only at the negative potential of the whole enterprise... if that makes sense.

Anyway, seven years after London won the bid, more than a year after applying for tickets, and a few days after Danny Boyle's jaw-dropping opening ceremony, it was our turn to head to the Olympic Park for a morning session of ladies basketball. To be honest, it could have been a crack of dawn liaison with the Outer Mongolian shove halfpenny B team, I didn't care - we were in!

Go Team GB: no.1 fan

Luckily we went on a beautifully sunny day when even crappy old Stratford couldn't help but look gorgeous. We turned up suitably early, aware of all the stories of security-induced queuing hell. As it happened, entry to the park was slick and painless.

Smiling volunteers with large pink foam hands pointed the way from Stratford station to the park, and a one way system ensured an easy crowd flow. Everyone looked so happy that I was on the verge of tears. The Olympic volunteers will probably be the stars of the show. They were so keen and eager to please that they created a great impression. There was obviously a lot of pride on their part in being involved.

Troops were on the airport style security gates and got everybody through without fuss and with a smile and a joke. Job done!

Once inside you are hit by the size of the place. Everything is on a vast scale, with walks between venues taking up to half an hour, according to signs. The McDonald's is the biggest in the world*, and the stadia are huge. At the same time, the gardens have been planted with lots of lovely wild flowers that don't require gallons of water - ironic given the summer we've had.

Hoop dreams: the basketball arena

I knew little about basketball but the event itself was great entertainment. Expecting a fairly serious and sterile event, I was surprised to be given the full NBA experience with a garrulous American MC explaining what was going on, interviewing fans and generally geeing everybody up. There were practically no empty seats apart from the regulation Olympic family benches, where about a tenth were occupied.

We took out four year old, who seemed to enjoy himself. It was a gamble, and I'm not sure how much he'll remember in years to come, but at least I won't have to answer for his absence when he asks about it - unlike his two year old brother who we left with Nana. He made it through one and a half games of basketball, which is pretty good I think, even if he probably found the tipping seats more fun than anything. By the end of the day he was exhausted and slept all the way home on the train (cheap tickets to encourage people to leave the car at home - they've thought of everything).

Mascots meet: Wenlock, or is it Mandeville?

The next day we went to archery at Lords without a child in tow. It was another great day, and left me wishing I'd got more tickets. Still I guess we're lucky to have got something as lots of people missed out completely. Luckily the TV coverage is excellent, but if any corporate sponsors need a body to fill a seat, I'm very available... athletics, cycling, gymnastics, handball, synchronised swimming. Anything accepted.

Verdict on London 2012: don't believe the cynics... if you can find any.

* A word on McDonald's. There's plenty to dislike about them, and I know it's controversial to have a fast food outfit associating itself with elite performance, but logistically it's hard to see who else could have handled it - Jimmy's Farm? All of the smaller food and drink stands were out of their main selling point (no pretzels at Pretzels R Us; ditto Churros and Coffee, Waffle stand, and anything cakey - this was at elevenses, before the lunch time rush started. Glad we took sandwiches.) The Golden Arches was rammed at lunch time, but it had a system in place that was serving the masses pretty damn quickly and the prices were on a par with what you'd pay in the high street. Also, it had its crack four-star staff serving, and not the work experiencers of some of the other stands. We even got a seat. When you're wrangling a rapidly tiring four-year old, sometimes it's the only thing that will do.

Post nappy

It's been a long time coming and I think it has almost snuck up on us, but I think we may be through with nappies.

Little brother started showing an interest in using a potty fairly recently, so we decided to take a deep breath and give it a go. It wasn't something I was particularly looking forward to. Not that I have horrific memories of potty training his older brother. In fact he was surprisingly easy. It only took about a week and he was dry in the night as well.

The youngest one drinks a lot more so I thought it would be more problematic with lots of late night missions to change sodden bed sheets. That may yet happen, as we are still putting him to sleep with a nappy. However they've been dry every morning since he 'got it'. There may be a few one off accidents once he goes commando, but I don't think he'll do too badly.

Daytime was the initial challenge. You've got to watch them like a hawk for any giveaway signs that they're in need of relief. I haven't always been quick enough. On a recent visit to a church play group he managed to flood the play floor twice in the space of about five minutes - no idea where that lot came from.

But the last couple of days have been accident free, which is great. I'm very proud of him. It was odd watching him running freely around our local library this morning without the telltale toddler big bum. He looked more streamlined, and like a little boy.

So, another milestone almost passed. I won't miss the pong of the nappy bucket, or carrying around all the changing kit (although there's always something else to lug about - like the potty!)

There's only one problem. What do we do with the last mega pack of Pampers?

Torch relay in Colchester

True Brits: Colchester braves the rain for the torch relay

The countdown continues.

Today the Olympic torch rolled into town on day 49 of its journey to Stratford. As luck would have it, the weather was truly appalling which was a real shame as yesterday was gorgeous. Maybe it was just as well that it was so bad as the number of people in town to watch was huge. Crowds were several deep all along the high street.

It was an early start for us even though we are only a few minutes from town. Usually we're awake at the crack of dawn but I almost overslept after a fitful night due to younger son being ill in the night. He was also being kept awake by his ride-on fire engine wailing constantly in the garden throughout the night, so I had to shuffle out in the downpour at about 3.00am to deal with that.

So we were all a bit slow out of the blocks and by the time we made it to town it was packed. I perched J on my shoulders to give him the best view I could and was reliant on him telling me when the action was bout to happen. He was probably more excited by the Police outriders than the torch runner who passed us in a flash. Oh well, at least I can say we were there, although my best shot from my camera phone was pretty rubbish. Mind you I was trying to hold on to a wriggly child at the time. Luckily the local paper is uploading a few better effort.

Little did I know I could have watched the whole thing live online.

An Essex castle

To the beach on a gloriously sunny Sunday. Half of our part of Essex seemed to have the same idea, but luckily the expansive plage at Frinton had room for all. And, as we arrived at low tide hours of beach time stretched before us.

It's always a bit of a toss up between Frinton and neighbouring Walton on the Naze. Frinton's reputation precedes it as a more sedate and refined option. You can get a pint and fish and chips there nowadays, but you have to be prepared for a walk to get them. The cliffs are higher than at Walton too (well, there aren't any in WOTN), so if you're pushing a buggy laden with all your bits for the day, it can be a bit awkward.

Walton is a bit more 'Kiss me Quick' fun, with its pier, handy high street selling beach goods, and nearby cafes. However the clincher on Sunday was that you can park for free in Frinton. It's six quid in WOTN! Cheapness won the day, especially as I'd raided the fridge for a scratch picnic of leftovers.

Once on the beach we quickly commenced the traditional British sport of competitive sandcastling. It's quite a serious activity in these parts of the world. I remembered to bring our buckets and spades this time - the spindly plastic sort that cost about 50p. Others arrive with heavy duty earth moving gear, just sort of a JCB. There's something about a vast expanse of virgin sand that encourages the digging of the 'Essex hole'. As its name suggests, this is a vast tank trap of a cavity that serves no other point than to provoke envy and awe in other beach goers (well, the male ones).

We had to satisfy ourselves with a more modest affair. For once it was a team effort as the two boys managed to resist knocking down the castles as soon as they were constructed. I'm sure you'll agree that their restraint was worthwhile.

Can they build it?

First poo in a potty*

* Please note that this entry has visual evidence at the end. Please scroll carefully if you are easily upset by the sight of poo in a poe


There are many important milestones in a child's life: the first smile, first word, first tooth, first step...

As the title of this post suggests, there is another one that is quite important. Our two year old toddler has a habit of plonking himself on the house potty and grinning, before looking between his legs to see if there has been any issue. Recently this performance was more considered when he sat down with a look of concentration, and not a little effort, and proceeded to huff and puff in the usual fashion.

Suddenly he stood up and turned to point at the poe. And there 'it' was. A shiny nugget of purest poo. It was not the biggest turd, but it was perfectly formed and brought us both great joy. He knew he had done a good thing, probably because I was so excited. I don't think I made such a fuss when he took his first steps.

Partly I think this is because I was imagining that this act would mean that toilet training would be a doddle. We were very lucky with his brother. By the time we started his induction, he got it straight away and had very few accidents, even during the night.

I have since learned from other parents that this is not always the case, so I'm not expecting it to be so easy the second time around, especially as our toddler drinks a lot more milk before going to bed than his brother ever did.

My hopes of pain free toilet training were given a further jolt a few days ago when I came downstairs to discover that he had removed his nappy and pooed in the small cupboard under the stairs. This had become smeared all over a sports bag of mine and another bag which have since been binned. Oh well, maybe he's not ready yet.

Evidence: the nugget

Preparing to be a dad - a retrospective

This is a column that I've written for the esteemed organ that is the Colchester NCT and District magazine, on the subject of preparing to be a dad. For those who don't subscribe, here it is, by the power of cut and paste.

Dads! We’re everywhere these days. At ante-natal classes, in the birthing room, holding up our end at stay and play, and waiting in line for the nappy change. You can’t get away from us.

Research by bodies like the Fatherhood Institute has shown that men are increasingly looking to play a bigger role in the lives of their children. There is also evidence that active dads have a profoundly beneficial effect on the lives of their children across a range of measures, including happiness, academic achievement, and staying on the straight and narrow.

I always thought I would be a dad. It just seemed the natural state of affairs that I would look to start a family at some point.

However, looking back on that time when my wife and I discovered we were expecting our first child, I don’t think I really knew what we were letting ourselves in for. Like many dads to be, my feelings were a mixture of excitement, apprehension and anticipation. There was also a sense of the whole process being slightly unreal, especially for me. My wife, Charlotte had the benefit of morning sickness to remind her that, yes, this really was happening.

For me, the clincher was the first scan. At that stage there was little outward sign of what was happening to Charlotte’s body. The visual evidence from the scan suddenly brought home the fact that things were developing very fast. I remember particularly being amazed that the identifiably human shape displayed on the monitor at 12 weeks. Suddenly everything seemed very real indeed.

A big concern at this stage is wondering what sort of dad you will be. My own dad passed away when I was 13 so I was never able to ask him what it was like. However, I had strong and happy memories of him which are probably the basis of everything I try to be as father.

I wanted to be as involved as possible in the pregnancy, to understand what was going on, so I attended midwife appointments as well as scans and ante-natal classes with Charlotte. Maternity services are becoming more dad friendly so there is no reason why you shouldn’t be present. Being involved in as many aspects of the pregnancy as you can really does prepare you for what’s ahead. It also makes you a bit more able to make choices about the sort of pregnancy and birth you would like.

One of the great things about pregnancy is that it covers quite a long time – certainly long enough to consider the many and varied implications of the new life for your future and relationship. The first few months when practically nobody else knows are a lovely time of planning, dreaming and scheming, before you let the world into your secret.

Pregnancy is also a worrying time. In the early stages of the pregnancy I don’t think either of us wanted to get too excited about things in case anything went wrong. Like many first time parents to be, we were probably over nervous, and our second pregnancy was more carefree in this respect.

One thing that surprised me about my own feelings was how quickly I developed a sense of protection towards both my wife and my unborn child. It was almost a primal thing and I did start to feel a bit of a caveman which was something I wasn’t expecting. This was accompanied by the realisation that I was about to become the main breadwinner, which provoked more of a nervous gulp than Neanderthal roar.

If I could offer any advice to first time dads, it would be this:

                                        

·         Try not to worry and enjoy the pregnancy. It’s very different to being a parent. Not better, or worse, but different, and it’s just the start of a long and exciting journey.

·         Your partner is your closest ally in the unfolding adventure. Take care of each other.

·         Enjoy your last moments of being child-free. From now on everything is going to be very different.

There’s a great quote by screenwriter William Goldman in his book Adventures in the Screentrade. He says “Nobody knows anything.”

Goldman is saying that there is no replicable formula for creating a hit film. What works for one blockbuster will be box office poison the next time round.

There is a similar logic to fatherhood. You can learn valuable lessons from other people, but ultimately it’s a journey of discovery and there is no one route to becoming a great dad.

Sick of being sick

What can you say about kids being ill? Basically it's a pain in the frickin' neck.

Obviously, it's worrying too. You hope that it's nothing too bad, and that they get better soon. Our youngest has been poorly this week. We're not really sure what it is, but it doesn't seem life threatening. However it has been quite tedious, especially since he has been throwing up for a good part of the week and we've been confined to base for most of it. As his older brother has been fine it has been even tougher, as he's practically been bouncing off the walls. It might have been better if they had both been projectile vomiting.

I'm not an unsympathetic father, but there does come a point when you're rinsing vomit out of the umpteenth change of clothes of an evening, when doing a Reggie Perrin feels like a good career move.

Mummy has gone out this evening, which I don't begrudge her, but in the meantime, sick toddler has woken up and summoned a strength he hasn't had all week to demonstrate that neither me nor his beloved Nanny will do when it comes to wrestling him back into his cot. After lying like on the couch a limp rag all week, he's suddenly turned into Avocado Baby with the strength of ten.

It's good that he's back to his old self I suppose, but mummy, please come home soon, for all our sakes.

Dads on TV

They're blooming everywhere at the moment it seems. Well, two programmes in successive nights on the subject of fatherhood counts as a flood in my house. In this case, the programmes covered similar ground with a slightly different approach.

First up was Channel 4's Daddy Daycare, a series where flailing (or should that be failing) dads are given the opportunity to up their game by total immersion therapy. Three candidates, deemed to be slightly slack in the dad stakes, are parachuted into a nursery where they suddenly find themselves in charge of dozens of ankle biters.

Of course the obvious question is why not simply leave them in charge of their own charges for a week? This would give their put-upon other halves some, no doubt, much needed rest, as well as giving the dads a chance to reflect on what they are missing out on. But this is TV and that's probably nowhere near as novel as dropping them into a very busy nursery, where they soon flounder. Hardly surprising really. I don't think I'm a hopeless dad, but I would struggle to be in charge of a whole nursery class. It's not a fair comparison.

In true reality TV fashion, the dads eventually come up trumps, learn a few life lessons, and disappear over the horizon to make way for next week's chumps.

And that's one of my main issues with this type of programme, the way dads are set up to fail before they've even started. There's no show without Punch, and no daddy reality show without dads being made to look a bit foolish, as if they didn't really know what they were doing as a matter of course. Imagine if producers took the same approach with every programme about motherhood. They don't of course. Mothers are routinely presented as having some sort of inner knowledge that clicks into place as soon as baby arrives. The reality is that many mums struggle in the early days and that it is a learning journey for everybody, so why perpetuate these lazy stereotypes?

The second programme in this week's TV Dadfest was BBC's A Dad is Born. Again we are presented with three dads, 'to be' in this case. They were from slightly different backgrounds: a millionaire businessman; a recruitment consultant, and a Hungarian chauffeur. This being TV land, it almost goes without saying that they all live in London, quite possibly within Zone 2.

What was interesting about them was the extent to which imminent and then actual fatherhood levelled out some of the differences between them. Even the most immediately unlikeable of the three, Greg who made his mint from 'greed is good' style motivational, day trader training, became a more sympathetic specimen through the prism of fatherhood.

Hungarian Viktor wanted to be a better father than his own drunken, violent dad. He delivered a really touching piece on how, when his daughter asked him what he did in the parenting wars, he would have an answer. Basically he was nappy changing, singing to the baby and being supportive to his partner who seemed to have a case of the baby blues.

Jamie, the recruitment guy, was the kind of involved modern dad that I suppose many of my generation of fathers see themselves as. He'd done all the classes, read lots of manuals (I can't hold my hand up to that one, but I did listen as my wife precised the important bits), and generally seemed to be approaching the whole experience as one that would be appreciated better if in full possession of the facts.

Of course, these proved to be completely useless in the face of the actuality of labour. Like all of us, I expect, he wasn't prepared for the enormity of the aftermath of the birth. You can't be told, or read up on it, you have to experience it. Nothing prepares you for how tired you will feel, how useless you will feel, or how scared you will feel at times.

But nobody can prepare you for how good it all feels either, although A Dad is Born did a pretty good job of conveying how starstruck these three guys were by their new babies.

Wobbly teeth

Our eldest started complaining the other day that one of his teeth was wobbly. He's quite an imaginative child, so I didn't take that much notice at first (bad dad). But sure enough, he's correct. The upper left incisor shows distinct signs of movement.

This perplexes me as it seems too early. He is four and a bit years old, and according to a cursory search, teeth do not usually start to fall out until about six. [Newsflash. Somebody else says they can drop from about four - he's not a freak.]

At the moment he seems quite unbothered by it, which is good. However I feel guilty that we haven't got him registered with a dentist, and that we've been pandering to a growing sweet tooth of late (he takes after me in that respect).

He does brush his teeth every day, which is good, but I'm now worried that he'll end up looking like a gummy lad who comes from a deprived household where your five a day is boiled sweets, biscuits, cakes, crisps and pop.

Growing up, I had cousins like that. They drank nothing but fizzy drink when growing up (according to my completely non-judgemental mother) and chomped on sweeties like it was the end of rationing. The result, I remember quite clearly was that they had gaping, rot infested cake holes for a good part of their childhoods until their adult teeth came in. Funnily enough now they look like the Osmonds, such is their toothiness, but at the time they were a cautionary tale about the perils of not looking after your teeth.

Coming from the Central Belt of Scotland, where tooth decay was a rite of passage, I'm rather aware of how important this is. In my extended family false teeth were the norm. It was partly a generational thing. People routinely has their teeth removed as dentures were considered to be less trouble. I'm currently reading a biography of Clash frontman Joe Strummer, who had appalling teeth, and apparently he refused to brush his teeth while at boarding school as a lad, so they would fall out and he could have fake ones like his dad.

Mind you I'm not surprised that people neglected their teeth in the Seventies as a visit to the dentist was quite a horrible experience. That's certainly how I remember it as a child. I can still conjure up the taste of the gas that they gave me for extractions. I don't think this completely knocked me out as I have a vivid image of spooky cartoon like figures dancing about in front of me, only to wake up soon after feeling really nauseous with a sore mouth. I'd leave the dentists clutching a blood stained hankie to my mouth, probably to be rewarded with a bar of Highland Toffee.

For years I didn't go to the dentist. I kidded myself that this was because of my semi-itinerant lifestyle as a student and in the post university years, but really I think it was because I was scared of going. About eight years back I noticed that my teeth were quite discoloured and I eventually plucked up courage to go back thinking that I was bound to have a backlog of dental work waiting.

Amazingly, after almost 20 years absence, I only needed a  bit of a clean. Since then I've tried to be a bit more conscientious with regular check ups.

I don't want to pass on my phobias to the kids, but was not sure when the right time to start taking them to the dentist was. The answer is probably 'before now' but the wobbly tooth incident has forced my hand and we'll have to get them both registered as soon as. I'm sure dentists have become a bit more child friendly over the years, so and I'm on the lookout for a good one in Colchester - suggestions please.

On a broader note, the toothy episode is a poignant reminder how kids keep growing. They don't stay little for long. I was giving J his night time cuddle a few days ago and told him that I'd have to make the most of this as soon he probably wouldn't want a cuddle (or a schnuggle to give it the rather icky name I created).

"Don't worry daddy, I'll always have a schnuggle for you," he replied.

[Heart breaks!]

The cost of bringing up children

Kerching: prices are rising

An interesting survey today puts the cost of raising a child until the age of 21 at £218,000. This staggering sum is produced by an insurance company, so there is an agenda here of getting parents to think more carefully about finance.

Initially the sum seemed way over the top to me, but on closer inspection, they are not that outlandish. The biggest two elements - making up more than 60 per cent of the total - are education and childcare. The education element assumes a child is going to college and the parents are picking up the tab, which may or may not be the case. For childcare, a large chunk of the £62,099 racked up over 21 years is accounted for by the assumption that your child is in full time nursery care from six months until they go to school. For many parents, this is simply not the case. One or both of them, may take shorter hours to spent more time with their child, so childcare expenditure is lower.

Elsewhere the costs assumed for items such as food, clothing and leisure do not seem unrealistic. That's not to say that many parents don't spend less on them. Clothing costs tumble when you have older siblings to pass on from, and not everybody has an annual holiday (here the annual allowance of £740 for your child does seem a little generous to me, especially if you're having a camping holiday in Norfolk, for example).

Cheap holidays: a day by the seaside won't break the bank

Overall though it's quite a sobering picture. All parents get to know how expensive children can be, but having it presented in this way is rather stark.

It goes without saying that this economic approach does not reflect the 'payback' that parents get from their children. You can't really tally this up in pounds and pence, and it sounds mushy to even talk about it, but what you get back from children is a very tangible thing. It lifts you when you are down, it makes you laugh harder than a ticket to the latest comic sensation, and it provides a sense of purpose that can seem lacking in the daily grind. I often feel skint, but I rarely find myself blaming my children for that. When you are a family, you really are all in it together.

Predictably a lot of comments on blogs and newspapers today are from the militantly 'child free' who leap upon these stories as a way to berate parents. "It's your life style choice, so don't moan about it," they say.

As opposed to the lifestyle choice of being an intolerant prick I suppose.

Fit dad

Since having child number two I don't think I've done any real exercise. He's 21 months now, so that's quite a long time without breaking sweat.

I used to be pretty fit before we had the kids - I ran, went to the gym, played five a side every week. I think I was in pretty good shape.

But when our first son came along it quickly became apparent that there weren't enough hours in the day to do what I wanted to do. Something had to give.

(It does make me chortle to myself when I hear from mums and dads to be who can't comprehend what time thieves babies are and grandly announce that they'll use the early 'quiet' months for a spot of self improvement - to learn a new language or to start making their own jewellery. I'm sure I was the same and thought I'd be able to tap out my long-awaited first novel with one hand while rocking the cot with the other.)

Anyway, it wasn't just the great Hackney novel that went by the wayside, but also any sense of myself as a person who had time to attend to his physique.

Initially you're just too tired to go for that run, or to hit the gym. It also quickly becomes apparent that such self-indulgences take second place to the needs of the new kid in town. To be fair to Mrs Holiday, she was more into the idea of me going off jogging than jogging down to the pub to wet the baby's head. I can still remember the first time I went out with a mate for a couple of pints after J was born. It was probably a few more than a couple, but I was only out for a few hours, however the put down I got when I got back in still sends shivers down my spine.

That was an early lesson in how things had changed. Suddenly you have to think of other people. Not just the nipper, but also the put upon mother who also wouldn't mind getting out for a couple of drinks thank you very much.

However with just the one child, there was the occasional opportunity to disappear for a run. The gym membership quickly became surplus to requirements though as there was no way I could justify being away from my station for that amount of time.

When the second child came along, even the odd low level workout became pretty much impossible. Not only was there so much more to do, but the tiredness was cranked up another level. You also start to notice the toll that kids take on your health. Knees and backs come in for a real pounding with all the kneeling down and bending over you have to do. On the other hand, I've always thought that your arms get a pretty good work hoisting babies and toddlers - check these guns! They're better than any dumbbells with the added benefit that you get a smile as you're working out.

Now after ages of moaning about not having the time to do anything I've committed myself to getting off my butt and doing some exercise. Last night I went for my first run in a long time. It wasn't a marathon, but it was a start. The good thing was that I didn't simply keel over with exhaustion. Hopefully it's the start of getting back into some sort of shape before my two boys are pushing me around in a wheelchair.

Speak like a child

I've been looking after our youngest for a day a week for a few months now. He has turned 21 months and his language is really starting to develop.

There was a lovely moment today when he looked at me and said "Daddy kind."

It would have brought tears to my eyes if it wasn't for the fact that I was cleaning his bottom at the time. He'd just squeezed out the sort of mega poo, which is about as close as men get to giving birth, so I'm not surprised that he thought I was being kind.

What did surprise me was that he knew the word in the first place and had an idea of its context.

I had been at a stay and play earlier where one of the mums told me that a health visitor had told her that her 18 month old daughter should be able to say 50 words by now. That seemed a lot to me, and although it was only a few months ago for KidA, I'm not sure he would have made the target.

He's been a bit slower developing language than his big brother, or so it seems (memory plays tricks on you. I thought his brother was a walking, talking genius at roughly the same age until videos proved that he wasn't quite the prodigy I remembered.) One of the things about young 'un was that he had a highly developed sense of grunting which was quite expressive and got him a long way for a long time.

Recently I suppose he's discovered that grunting has its limits and is being more adventurous with his speech. It's quite a magical time and there's something new every day, some of it rather poignant.

From quite young he has referred to himself as 'you', which is understandable, as that's what everybody else calls him. But the other day he started using 'me'. It was a bittersweet moment - a little more clarity in communication, but a cute idiosyncrasy lost.

The whole language thing is fairly amazing when you think of it. Even children brought up in the most intellectually and emotionally deprived circumstances will develop speech beyond the abilities of any other animal. Kids just play with the building blocks of language until they find something that makes sense or amuses them.

At the moment KidA is starting to string together two and three words. It's still simple stuff, but it's the start of big changes.

Why don't more bands play Essex?

One of the things I miss since moving from London is the opportunity to see bands. Not that this was an opportunity I've been able to avail myself of very often since the kids came along, but at least the option was always there. Most weeks in London it was possible to find a few decent gigs that I would kid myself  I could get along to.

Since moving to Colchester I've found it rather odd that a town that is so obviously musical, is so off the map for touring bands. I'm not thinking here of Odeon-filling acts - the town doesn't have that sort of venue, and with a 'mere' 100,000 inhabitants, it's probably a little small. But what about the sort of up and coming bands that you can see night in, night out in London, and plenty of other towns around the UK? The sort of acts who are on their way up, but who are still 'paying their dues' (crikey, does that show my age?)

It's not just Colchester. The nearest large towns, Ipswich and Norwich (okay, not that near, but I'm struggling here!) are not especially well-served either. Why is East Anglia on so few touring schedules?

I noticed this today when Graham Coxon's tour dates were released. As a lad who grew up in Colchester, you could just about hope that he might play the town. Okay, no surprises that he's not, but what about the rest of the East of England? Nope, the nearest place to see him is Cambridge - or London of course.

And it's not just bands. Stewart Lee is one of my favourite comedians, and he is taking his latest show around just about every fleapit in the UK, but as far as I can see, there are no gigs anywhere in Essex, Suffolk or Norfolk. What gives? Our money not good enough for you?

As a relative newcomer here, I'm amazed by how much local music there is in Colchester. There's barely a night where there isn't a handful of live acts to choose from around town, and at weekends there are a huge amount of acts playing and no shortage of venues. There are also about four or five musical instrument shops and umpteen free listings mags.

So it wouldn't seem that there is a lack of appetite for music. Colchester is also a university town. Student Unions were awash with bands when I were a lad, but there doesn't seem to be much occurring on Wivenhoe Campus. Are students too engrossed in their books to want to see bands these days? I find that hard to believe.

It wasn't always thus as this clip of a young AC/DC playing at Essex University shows from 1978. Would this happen today?

There are honourable exceptions to my generalisations of course. Colchester Arts Centre has a varied schedule, but I'm sure there's room for a few more acts heading east and saving us from the trek up the A12 to London. Come on Essex promoters, let's get a few bigger names out here.

Christmas tree time

I dug the Christmas decorations out of the loft and we spent last night putting the tree up. I'm not sure whether this is a bit early - there are surprisingly few homes in our neck of Colchester with decorations yet. In Hackney they used to appear from mid-November.

Still, I'm thoroughly Christmas seasoned already. I've had three encounters with Father Christmas, been to two kids parties, and been on the Thomas Santa special at the nearby East Anglian Railway Museum. It's all kicking off.

Putting up the tree is one of those things that we're trying to turn into a bit of a tradition. I can't remember ever really helping put up the tree when I was a kid. Maybe I just wasn't interested. Mind you, we had a fairly uninspiring small, silvery fake tree that was wheeled out once a year.

Ever since I've had a place of my own, we've always opted for a real tree. Most years I find myself wondering why I bother. Transporting them in pre-car London was always a pain. You either had to carry it on your shoulder for a couple of miles, or risk the wrath of bus-users as you scratched past them. At least with a walk there was always the option of stopping for a livener at the local - I wonder how many trees are orphaned in pubs by over-festive owners.

Getting them home is only the start of things though as the annual fight to get it in the house, remove the netting and get the damn thing to fit into the holder and stand upright. Cue saw, lots of sweating and bad language at unaccustomed labour as you trim the trunk to fit.

Anyway, that done, said tree - £35 of Homebase Norwegian spruce, thanks for asking - wobbled atop a coffee table in our bay window.

The kids love dressing the tree, although their exuberance does tend to leave it looking a bit like the box of decorations has been thrown at it. Elder brother is also notoriously bossy, so within minutes the veto that no one would be decorating the tree if behaviour didn't improve, was brandished. This seemed to have the desired effect, and our tree was garishly clad. The promise of a tree party picnic of many 'bad' treats, also helped speed us along.

The final result - after mummy has redistributed some of the tinsel, baubles and bells - is surprisingly tasteful. Our accumulated decorations are anything but coordinated, but somehow it works. My wife tells me that she now understands how her mum was driven to distraction by not being allowed to throw away any of the old decorations by her and her siblings. But I think that's better than a designer, colour coordinated offering which lacks the personal touch.

Family life is all about small, and not so small compromises. Every year I want to sling out our old decorations and start afresh, but I know I never will. Some day I will pass on the baubles bearing the teeth marks made by younger son, along with the threadbare tinsel and distressed fairy. And then they can throw them out!

Parental bonding second time round

We've been in Colchester for almost exactly a year now. In many ways we've settled in really well. We all like the town. Our neighbours have been really welcoming. And we've met lots of new people. More than I anticipated we would actually.

Coming from London where everyone is a lot more insular, it has been a breath of fresh air how open Colchester folk seem to be.

However in recent weeks I've felt myself a bit of an outsider again. I've been looking after our second born for a day a week now that Mrs Holiday is working a couple of days a week. As such, I've been back on the parenting circuit. Having looked after Number One Son for a good part of his early days, it's not an unusual experience, but it is definitely different this time around.

With our eldest I really threw myself into the whole 'stay at home dad' role. (This is actually a bit of a misnomer as most of the stay at home dads I knew were anything but. There was a well beaten track around Children Centres, stay and plays, singing clubs and child friendly cafes, so we were mostly everywhere but at home). As most of the people I met were first time parents like me, there was a puppyish level of enthusiasm and a sense of all being in it together.

What I'm finding with my second time as a caring dad is that it's a bit harder to break into the established groups and cliques. As soon as people have more than one child, they are a bit more set in their ways, and I plead guilty to this myself.

At any rate in recent weeks, I've noticed a bit more that everybody seems to know everybody else, and I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself as Billy No Mates. Well, not quite no mates, but very few, so that when they disappear to chat to one of their other acquaintances, there is that an awkward sense of being alone in a crowd.

Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough. Maybe I'm not around enough - one day a week isn't really enough to get yourself known. Maybe I'm going to the wrong places in the first place. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing.

Whatever it is, I think I need a plan B to try and get over this feeling that I'm missing out. As J gets nearer to school age, there is a mild, yet creeping panic concerning the power of the school gate Mafia. We're already damned by geography to be banished from the sharp-elbowed parent's local school of choice. And with that I fear a whole round of birthday parties, play dates, and Masonic preferential treatment from the Colchestratti. (Not to mention dad's nights out - yeah, what about me!)

I'd hate to think that I've blighted the lives of our two young innocents by not getting my A into G. One thing is for sure, it's only going to get tougher from here onwards.