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.

Guising

... or Happy Hallowe'en as you might say in the beautiful South.

When I was a kid in Scotland, Hallowe'en was a big deal for kids, but it was slightly harder work than Trick or Treaters have today. The idea was that you had to sort of sing for your supper, or tell a joke, do an impression, or a dance. Basically you had to do a turn before  being gifted a handful of monkey nuts or an apple. I can't remember much in the way of sweeties. Nuts were definitely the makeweight in my day in exchange for the ritual humiliation of our performances.

I'm struggling to think what my star turn was, and am blushing slightly that it may well have been a Frank Spencer, by way of Mike Yarwood impression - doggy doing a whoopsy on the carpet and all.

The balance has definitely shifted in favour of the Guisers (it comes from 'disguise') these days, but to be fair to them, the amount of effort and expense that they go to is a lot more than in my day when a bin bag over your snorkel parka was often as inventive as it got. Today's costumes, wigs, masks and make-up are in a different league.

This year is the first time we've done anything for Hallowe'en. The kids were a bit younger when we lived in Hackney, and if truth be told, the prospect of opening your door at a godforsaken hour 'round our old manor did not appeal that much. Luckily our doorbell worked only intermittently and the kids were not patient enough for us to descend from the first floor flat to the front door having decided that, yes, there was somebody at the door.

Round here there is more of a system. If you have a lantern on show then you are open to a knock on the door.

We had our rudimentary pumpkin lantern flickering on the window sill for a a couple of hours after the lights went down. It was put to shame by the altogether more artistic efforts of the guy a few doors down - point noted for next year. The Essex massive definitely take Hallowe'en seriously.

We had a bowl of sweeties for the kids who came to the door, who were very polite and well behaved with no surly behaviour or demands for cash, that you hear about. Our two initially came to the door to see the assorted ghouls and ghosties, but were soon freaked out by some of the more realistic costumes.

They were definitely up for Hallowe'en this year though, with the eldest demanding 'spooky toast' for breakfast. Cue quickly carved piece of bread in the shape of a pumpkin - I couldn't do a vampire.

After that they had a Hallowe'en themed stay and play session at another child's house and then back here for some apple bobbing and donut munching. I'm not sure how traditional that is, but it went down very well.

Hallowe'en is now done. Bring on bonfire night.

Dipdap at Firstsite

I know there was a massive fuss about the new Colchester arts centre, Firstsite. It cost too much, it took too long to build, it shouldn't be in Colchester... er it cost too much. Well, I love it.

Addressing the cost issue first, I think that £26m for such an iconic building, which will put Colchester on the map, is a snip. That wouldn't have got you the wet changing area at the Olympics site, and most of the facilities there will be mothballed for a couple of years pending works required for their post-Games function. I actually think the Olympics is a great thing for London, and indeed Britain anyway, but in comparison Firstsite is great value.

I've been there a few times since it opened. Amid all the things I like about it: the design, the cafe, the way it has opened up the bottom end of the town, and the way the people of Colchester seem to be warming to it, I particularly like its child-centricity.

Today I attended a half-term event in the theatre where the animator and producer of a children's TV programme called Dipdap were showing the kids some films, demonstrating how Dipdap is drawn (basically he's a stick man, so that didn't take long) and then letting the kids loose with a load of felt tip pens on a massive sheet of white paper taped to the floor.

Floored genius: let the kid art commence

This was the best bit for the kids, obviously, and for the parents, who could sit back and let their offspring get on with it. I particularly liked how unprescriptive it was. I was at the opening of Firstsite and had a bit of a giggle at the expense of one of the artists who must have been brought in to create an immersive artistic experience for children. There were a few too many rules and the kids had basically just grabbed it and created their own game with it. The poor, harassed man was being comforted by a colleague who was assuring him that it would all be a bit better on subsequent days when the kids were less excitable.

As if that ever happens.

Anyway, back to Dipdap. It was a great show -  a few cartoons, a quick bit of 'what would you like Steve to draw?' and then unleash the mayhem.

Well done Firstsite. Keep it coming.

Hackney in the Fall

London Fields: looking golden

Yesterday I had cause to pass through Hackney, for possibly the first time since I left and certainly the first time since the disturbances.

I had to come into 'Town' (as we country mice call it) for work. Usually I let the train take the strain, but there were one hour delays reported, so I was forced to jump in the car and hammer down the A12.

My mental map of the capital is so hard-wired around Hackney that I almost had to come through there to get to where I was heading - Hammersmith. I know how to get to Hammersmith from Hackney having driven the route many times. I just couldn't picture another route - I am a satnav-less driver by choice and like to think that I can get anywhere by innate road sense and judicious use of a map.

Anyway, my chosen route took my right past the end of our old road. What would you do? I couldn't resist driving past our former flat, feeling guilty in case anybody spotted me in the car.

Despite reports that it is now London's, or possibly the world's coolest street, Wilton Way was reassuringly scruffy, and had parking issues that I don't remember from when I lived there. So it's not just our street in Colchester where you move your vehicle at peril of ever regaining a parking slot.

The street, and Hackney did look lovely in the autumn sunlight. And I was particularly pleased that the buyers of our flat hadn't done much to the exterior. It's not that it was a monument to our exemplary taste or renovation skills, more the fact that after living there for more than 10 years, I was slightly embarrassed that I'd never got round to fixing the dodgy doorstep or replacing the battered front door.

And neither have they.

Given that they seemed to be young, trendy things, with a design background, I was also delighted to see that they had rather ugly Venetian blinds hanging in the front windows. I know it's sad that I noticed these things. At least I got round to hanging curtains, and put up the curtain rails that would have allowed them to do the same. Maybe curtains, like carpet, are a sign of getting old man!

On the way back I also popped along to London Field to use the facilities - it's a long drive back to Essex. Navigating by public loos is quite a skill too - call it satlav if you like.

The park, as always, looked lovely, and was full of the usual mix of dog walkers, late lunchers, parents with kids, and fixed wheel cyclists. I don't know what I expected really. It was the same old Hackney. Maybe I was anticipating some scars following the riots, but there were no obvious dents in the borough. It's so careworn generally, that it is hard to notice any. Plate glass has been replaced, bus stops rebuilt, paving slabs replaced and life goes on.

Scooter power

Hackney Holiday doesn't do sponsored advertorial, but if it did, it would go something like this...

Although I'm a journalist, I've never been a great blagger. There are people who see absolutely no shame in it. I remember a colleague telling me once how she'd been bought a leather coat on one lavish press trip after expressing an interest in it.

"Oh, I couldn't accept it."

"Go on. We'll put it on the client's bill anyway."

"Alright then. Hmmm, nice fit."

I'm really not in that league, and frankly find the whole thing a bit embarrassing, not to say rather compromising. It's particularly cloying in the blog arena where there is a whole school of uncritical authors of PR puff, happy to receive stuff for free and witter on about how great the products are.

So, cards on the table. My son has a Micro scooter, which we bought, and have subsequently bought spares and accessories for. Recently it started to get a bit shuddery and I noticed that the back wheel was actually square through excessive braking over the two years he's had it.

The square wheel: once they were all like this

As I'd recently written about the company for a small piece, I'd been in contact with the PR, so I did something I don't usually do. I dropped her a line and asked if the company would send me a spare wheel. I admitted that I knew this was a bit cheeky and that she could tell me to sling my hook, but hey, there was no harm in asking.

She said it was no problem and that she'd get them to pop one in the post, which duely arrived this morning and is now on the scooter.

Here comes the puff part.

I wouldn't have done this if I didn't think that the scooter was a great product. I'm actually amazed that a company that sells a product some would see as 'disposable' actually sells spare parts anyway. It costs around £50, which isn't cheap, but compared to the price of some kids toys that don't stand being tested to destruction, the Micro is good value I think. You can basically replace every part and reconstruct them in different colour combinations, plus add lots of funky accessories. I ony wish they did an adult version - oh, they do!

HackneyBoy's scooter has been a real boon since he got it. Not only is it great fun for him to zip about, but it saves us from having to lug him around. They are supposed to be for three year olds and upwards, but he's been on his since he was two after another Hackney parent let him have a go on his daughter's. He is really quite adept on his scooter and I think it has given him a bit of an insight into dealing with traffic as well as a bit of independence.

I also love the fact that Micro are so near here, in Mersea. We've popped into the office/warehouse for spares in the past, so there is a local connection.

On one such visit I noticed they had a letter from No 10 on display. The PM and his wife were thanking the company for the scooters - the kids loved them.

Hmmm! I'm betting Dave didn't pay for them. I hope they were declared. Suddenly I'm not feeling so bad for being a blagger.

I wish I was a better dad

God, it's exhausting sometimes.

I love my two boys, but there are times when my patience and my ability to reason are exhausted. I'm talking here about our eldest, who is almost four. He's our first child, so I probably love him more than the younger one at the moment, because we have more history.

Not that this cuts any ice when it comes to one of the day's most stressful points - bath time.

Every night it becomes a battle of wills. He doesn't want a bath, he doesn't want one with his brother, he only wants to wash his hands, face and teeth, he doesn't want his hair washed... every night. We're all tired and fractious by this point, so it's not a great advert for happy families.

Tonight he was being particularly irksome. Kids get more manic the more tired they are and at this stage J gets hitty, bitey and a bit verbally abusive. It sounds awful typing this, because he's still only three, but it's still not very pleasant to be called stupid daddy constantly and told that you're hated and that there is a special lotion he will rub on you that will kill you (where did that come from?)

Anyway tonight I snapped. Not in a 'feel the back of my hand' way, but I was a bit rough, dragging him to the bathroom and dumping him in the bath where he received a thorough wash including a hair wash, which he wasn't due for tonight. Strangely he was a subdued after this - maybe he was in shock. He came out of the bath chatty. I combed his hair into a blonde quiff, which he thought was funny. It was like he was a different boy.

This now makes me feel awful for reacting in such an over the top way. He's already forgotten what went on and tomorrow is another day. (Except that at some point he will lay a little morality line on me about how we shouldn't be rough with each other, which is what I tell him and is what I should practise.)

And he's right. I knew this while I was grabbing him and being rough with him. I knew it was wrong and that it was self defeating because it's just showing him that might is right - not a message I want to convey when he has a younger brother.

It's hard to be consistent with children. There are times when you feel a complete failure no matter what you do. And there are times when you just want them to obey you... just once, without it turning into a junior version of the debating society. "Why? Because I say so."

I dread to think what he'll be like when he's older because at times he seems beyond my limited powers of rationalisation already. Again, I realise how ludicrous this sounds when levelled at a three year old, but he's a smart child and I'm already wondering how he's going to make me feel when he's a cocky, sneering teenager.

Maybe I should just disinherit him now.