There comes a moment in every parent's life when you realise that you are turning into your own Mum and Dad. It comes when you catch yourself saying a stock phrase used by your parents; one that you swore you would never utter. It could be something like, 'don't come running to me if you break you leg' or, the one my mother aimed at me regularly in desperation, 'Do you look for every puddle to jump in on your way home'. What fun days; when finding a puddle of mud meant adventure and not avoidance!
My wife and I overheard a young mother saying to her four-year old son 'Do you try to find every possible way to annoy me when we are out shopping'. As if rational discussion is possible with the naughtiness of a child.
I am sure that other saying will immediately spring to your mind, most of which will seem to revolve around some common truth. Firstly, they are usually born out of frustration and therefore rarely produce a change in the child’s behaviour. Secondly, they are often an exaggeration and as such impossible to defend. Thirdly, they are often more of a commentary on the parent's lack of joy than the child's free spirit.
Either way, once you have offspring of your own, the urge to say them is irresistible and is indeed one sign that you are becoming like your own parents.
There was another instance when I realised that I was turning into my father. I was sat on the sofa, in that Saturday afternoon post lunch, half dream state that seems to be so much a part of my life these days, when I spotted my dad's hand in my peripheral vision. I recognised it straight away and then immediately knew it could not be his. Firstly, he was 48 miles away across the Pennines and I felt sure that his Post Office training didn’t include warp speed travel. Secondly, the hand was connected to my arm at the wrist and I could operate it by simply thinking. Before this moment it had never occurred to me that I was looking more and more like dear old dad; but then in a split second I was faced with this obvious truth.
So what other changes await me as I surge onwards on life's conveyor belt. Will I start to miss whole portions of a film because I am distracted trying to remember what I have seen the actors in before? Will I start to read the obituary column just see if any old school chums have passed away?
Will I spend the best part of the day looking for my glasses case just because I want to use the pen stored in it?
I am not sure what brings about this change and at what age you count as being old. I was on a bus not too long ago when two teenagers stood and offered me a seat. I wanted to be so very proud of them in what was a great example of how young people are good at heart. I calmly asked them to sit down and never offer me a seat again as, at half a dog year under 50, I was not ready to be accorded such a dubious honour. They understood the humour in my comments and I thanked them for the sentiment.
I know that some things are true about the aging process. Firstly, there is an invisibility with age. The bus example not withstanding, it is general true that I can walk through any public place unnoticed because I just look like anyone of the other middle aged, well-rounded, slightly balding men.
Secondly, youth has such energy, passion and attractiveness it seems that even when teenagers wear all black they appear to living in full colour, therefore I want to say that youth is NOT wasted on the young; they seem to do their best to enjoy it. Perhaps it is just that old age is wasted on the old.
Anyway I am off to watch a Black and White film on TV, after all they are so much better than those in colour. They don’t make them like they used to.
Turning into my Dad
My Pink World
Let me just state for the record; I might be the dad of four daughters but I don't dress dolls, I don't like pink, and I don't carry handbags. I feel better for getting that off my chest. It's not that I am sexist you understand; I am quite happy to cry at a sad movie and do my fair share of household chores. I just feel the need to draw a line in the hormonal sand. The number of times I have been presented with a Cindy or Barbie, hair matted with hair band and arms twisted in a tribute to Twin Peaks, and asked 'Daddy can you put these trousers on my dolly?'
This is where I first learnt to shout 'I don't dress dolls!', whilst trying to force plastic legs into miniature denim. The fact that I have got five thumbs on each hand doesn't help matters but, after making my plea for mercy, I would usually give in and commit plastic grievous bodily harm.
My rejection of all things pink is probably just a bad reaction to the blancmange we were force fed at school; a dubious treat that came in a variety of unsociable colours. I sometimes wonder why I would have chosen to eat it, but then I remember that the other desserts on offer were sago, tapioca, and prunes. Enough said!
Pink, and when I say pink I mean all manner of bright colours, has been a recurring theme in my relationship with the girls. I recall needing a pen to complete a form whilst checking into a hotel. A daughter kindly rummaged through her tardis-like handbag and produced one that lit up when used, complete with a feather sticking out of the end. In my haste I hadn't noticed the glow and began to write at first unaware of the odd looks from other waiting guests. I have had similar experiences with umbrellas and key rings.
It is probably the hand bag carrying that causes me the most concern. I have always been happy to carry shopping home in plastic bags even though it has increased my carbon footprint. The problem comes when we are shopping as a family in one of those large centres where the shops look the same and there is a decided lack of chairs available for a tired dad.
On these occasions I usually assume the job of pack-horse and am steadily loaded up with merchandise during the day. The only time I am offered any relief from my lifting duties is when they need me to pay for another purchase.
Plastic bags not withstanding, I choose to draw the line at carrying their handbags (and when I say carry I mean hold because walking with one would be too much to ask). I will occasionally agree if my bride stays close by so that other shoppers will understand that the article is not mine. As soon my wife or the girls move more than two foot away I put the bag on the floor; standing over it as though I am guarding an important object.
So here I am; a male living in a female world. I take comfort in the fact that, because we have all daughters, it was always my wife who had to take them to the toilet when we were out for the day. Men’s toilets are no place for anyone of a sensitive nature. I don’t want to go into to much detail but boys, whether grown up or not, have no sense of direction.
This apart, there has still always been a tendency to draw me into their girlie world. Therefore, as an act of personal therapy, I would like to add a few other items to my original list of things that I refuse to do. I don’t untangle knotted jewellery, I don’t empty blonde hair out of the shower filter, and I don’t answer the question, ‘Does this dress suite me?’
Actually I do all of the above apart from the last one. I have learnt that it is a question far too dangerous to answer even if you are carrying a handbag.
In Tents
We have been thinking about holidays again and the air is filled with talk of flights and villas, lotions and costumes. There has definitely been a progression in our household when it comes to such things. Only a few years ago, when the girls were easily fooled by the idea that being under canvas was fun, we would prepare for the summer months with thoughts a little less grand. We always tried our best to get a holiday no matter how limited our funds; some times it was fulfilled by visiting family across the Pennines and taking trips out to towns with more sand than sea. Or discovering the debatable beauty of refurbished canal walks hidden behind newly converted waterside dwellings.
Most of our holidays involved camping and as such were a strain on our tempers and our backs. I don’t know what it is about inflatable mattresses but they seem to be timed to deflate at about the same time as you manage to drop off to sleep. Cooking is not much more fun as you try to make a Sunday lunch using one pan and a Swiss army knife. The girls were mostly oblivious to such difficulties and enjoyed the different sights and sounds of outdoor life.
One of our most memorable excursions was to an event on the Lincolnshire showground along with thousands of other families. Having arrived at the site, stressed from a journey with far too many toilets stops and burger wrappers, we attempted to set up the tent. Let me warn you that tents are like Christmas tree lights; they never come out of the bag in the same neat order that you put them in the previous year. To add to this trial I had forgotten to bring the large box of tent pegs collected over our years of camping. Being Friday night on a bank holiday weekend there was little chance of replacements being available, so I was left to wander round the campsite searching for all the bent ones left by previous campers. After losing several yards of skin on my knuckles during the straightening process, we were able to use our temporary abode at the same time as the light faded in the sky.
On the second night of our stay, at about two in the morning, I heard whispered voices on the other side of the canvas. As quick as a dad can, I scrambled out of the tent to see half a dozen teenagers about to run away. I managed to catch one by the arm and began my investigation feeling sure that they must be up to some mischief. The boy shook with a little fear as I quizzed him, 'What on earth are you up to at this time in the morning?' I asked.
'We were playing a game', he spluttered.
'A game! What kind of game?' I said, not satisfied with his response.
'I am not sure if I should tell you', he replied.
'Just tell me what the game was', I said letting go of his shirt sleeve.
'It's called Hunt the Loudest Snorer'.
I should have ended the conversation there but lack of sleep or stupidity had now kicked in.
'And...............who was the loudest snorer?' I asked uncertain of whether I wanted to hear his response.
'I am not sure if I should tell you' he repeated.
'Just say it' I said somewhat prepared for his reply.
'You were!'
I let him go and chuckled as I returned to my deflated airbed.
In the morning I told my wife about what had happened (she didn’t seem too interested at the time). 'At last!' she said with a sense of victory, as if now others knew of her life of suffering.
Her reply didn’t concern me and I did a victory lap around the tent; being a competitive male I take any ‘win’ as an achievement no matter how dubious. As my reward for being ‘The Camps Loudest Snorer’, I re-inflated the airbed and returned for en extra few moments practice of my new found talent.
