Violence is golden... according to my sons

"I thought you didn't like violence. You said it was the last bastion of moral cowardice."
"Yeah, I know..."

That exchange between Little Britain favourites, Lou and Andy, reminds me a lot of conversations I've tried to have with Dylan of late. The only real difference, in fact, is that Dylan only says "Yeah". So anyway... he gave me a hearty whack between the eyes with a hard plastic bottle a few days ago. Normally I'd tell him off, but it was an accident and it actually served two purposes; it ensured that I was awake ahead of a day packed with meetings – well, it was a day ending in y – and also provided the inspiration for this post. Yay him! Yes, it's about the eye-watering injuries that apparently harmless small children are capable of inflicting on grown adults.

Yes, this is an old picture, but it proves what Dylan is capable of...

In the past, laddo has treated me to a corneal abrasion as well as several slaps round the face and I've lost count of the number of times he has inadvertently kicked me in the unmentionables and almost garotted me. Add to all of this his signature waist-high, two-footed tackle that he does while he's on his changing mat – seriously, it's so forceful that it would make Joey Barton look like a saint – and you will see that he is a formidable foe. I was starting to come to terms with the battering I get on a daily basis, but things have changed; now that Xander is here, Dylan has a sidekick.

I'd forgotten how vicious newborns' fingernails can be and Xander has been opening up a can of whoopass on me with his scratching and stabbing. My pain threshold has got stronger since Dylan was born and I've got used to the knocks and bumps, but our youngest's tiny fingertips seem to puncture this invisible barrier and also any bits of flesh stupid enough to be exposed at the time. It must be worse for Kate, of course; her sternum looks like Freddy Krueger has gone all jazz hands in front of her after a feed.

Cute? Yes, but does the effect of the dummy remind anyone else of Hannibal Lecter?

Then there is the headbutting. Xander, though very strong for his age, still can't help lolloping forward when we lift him to burp him and he's managed to nut me on the bridge of the nose a couple of times already. Far from leading by example in his status of big brother, however, Dylan has taken to copying this popular form of assault. Naturally, this occurs when we lean in to kiss him goodnight, so bedtime has become something of a lottery.

I didn't know how to finish this post, so I put it to one side while I escaped the violent clutches of my two little henchmen and went to play football... where I took two hefty whacks – one to the balls and another to the face. Here endeth this post! 

Sad: no dads in the MADs

Regular readers of Diary of the Dad may remember that I was lucky enough to win one of the categories at the MAD Blog Awards last year. I remain delighted and stunned in equal measure that people not only read my bewildered musings about parenthood, but also that they were kind enough to vote for me.

Winning the Best Baby Blog category has opened up all kinds of wonderful opportunities for me and, as a member of the minority gender in the fantastic and friendly entity that is the parent blogging community, it was a massive boost to my confidence and, I'm sure, to that of other dad bloggers out there.

Which is why I was so disappointed to learn this morning that there isn't as much as one dad in this year's final.

This isn't a 'woe is me, it should have been me' post; I've had my moment of glory and genuinely didn't expect to get anywhere near the final this time. I did expect there to be a few blokes in it, however. There are some absolutely brilliant blogs written by dads which I was fully expecting to see taking their deserved places at the awards ceremony but, sadly, this is not the case. I can also say, hand on heart, that there are a great many of them that are better than this one and I will remain eternally envious of their wit, honesty and turn of phrase. By that logic, if I won one, then these chaps are more than deserving of an award too.

This isn't an anti-mums post either. I'm absolutely delighted for everyone who has made it to the final. Attending the awards ceremony alone makes you feel a part of something special and every last one of them deserves to be there. It's just that I don't feel that the community is being represented as well as it could be.   

So I guess the point I am coming to is that, despite being made welcome in the parent blogging community and beyond, dads still seem to be overlooked. The 'D' in MAD stands for 'Dads' and I know that the organisers – who, by the way, do an amazing job and deserve nothing other than praise – have been reluctant to have a dads-only category. I wholeheartedly agree with them; if it existed then people wouldn't vote for those of a male persuasion in the others. I'm not pointing the finger at anyone; the awards are well structured and people vote for the blogs they enjoy and you can't argue with that. I'm just asking people to just consider voting for dads next time.

Society often relegates fathers to second-class parents status and this is something that continues to annoy me. In most families there is a caring, loving, hands-on dad. Those of us who write about our pride at being parents are in a prime position to fly the flag for other parents who happen to have a Y chromosome, so being overlooked by voters in something that is designed to celebrate the spirit of family-minded people is a kick in the teeth.  

At last year's ceremony, there was a board with a picture of each finalist on it. People could write and attach notes to one another on it. There was one note stuck to my picture; it simply said "More dads next year please." How sad that this won't be the case...    

Going shopping? Me and whose army?!

Soon after I started this blog, I wrote about how something as simple as going into town with a young child was more like a military operation; how easy that seems now we've got two of them! We took Dylan and Xander into Eastbourne for what was supposed to be a brief shopping trip over the weekend and, as I'm sure all more experienced parents can testify, it can sometimes be pointless to have a plan.

Kate and I had been really proactive; despite it being a Saturday and the fact we were tired due to Xander's natural immunity to sleeping at night, we had actually showered, dressed and had a cooked breakfast by 9am and were ready to go. The boys had other ideas. First of all, Xander decided that his regular feeds weren't enough and that he was going to start binge drinking well ahead of his teens. Feed on demand, the midwives told us though, so poor Kate had to oblige.

Meantime, Dylan chose this point to do the biggest poo I have ever seen. Seriously, this thing could have qualified for its own postcode. It was so gargantuan that I actually contemplated taking a photo before I conceded to myself that it would look slightly out of place in the family album. Not wanting the angry-looking beast lurking in a nappy bag for any amount of time, I decided to flush it. It took three attempts. I was disgusted and impressed in equal measure. Anyway, shall we move on? I think we should...

We eventually got into town – three hours later after Xander filling a couple of nappies during rare breaks from trying to smash the world record for breast milk consumption and Dylan insisting on having his lunch early – and had an enjoyable time. Apart from the bit when we had to go into a particular clothes shop that seems to attract unpleasant people.

I'm not being a snob here, but you know the type – they swear at their children when they're not ignoring them. I'm not one to knock other people's parenting skills, but people who direct abusive language at their kids is where I draw the line. We only go in there to get odds and sods for the boys as they grow out of them so quickly and it's cheap, but it reminds me of that classic video game, Wolfenstein 3D; you have to weave through maze-like floors packed with undesirables in search of the lift that gets you out, only to lead to another level of carnage.

The surrogate boss battle in this 'game' was provided by a drunk man and his imaginary friend who seemed to want to make friends with me. Thankfully my weirdo magnet isn't as strong as it once was and they soon found another victim. For those who don't know Wolfenstein, by the way, it's a first-person shooter set during the second world war. See? I said it was like a military operation...

The youth of today...

It's finally happened; I'm coming out with the kind of line widely associated with old people. Jokingly, of course, but that's the first step. You know the kind of remark, usually something relating to 'young people these days' and there being a general lack of respect for their elders. Now I know this is a bit harsh as the young people I'm talking about in this post are both under two years old, but I'm totally okay with that. 

See that diver, Dylan? That's you, that is...

First up is Dylan who has taken to doing something really quite irritating of late; diving on the floor in a way that certain footballers would be proud of. He'll be prancing around the house with the same gait as the puppets in Team America, when he will have a sly glance to one side – probably to see if the imaginary referee's assistant on the imaginary touchline is watching him – fling his arms in the air, throw himself forward and sprawl around before looking up hopefully at me. I assume I'm the matchday official in all this – I am a qualified ref after all.

It's often in the same place too, so maybe he thinks our dining room is the opposition penalty area. He does stop short of waving an imaginary yellow card in my direction though – small mercy there then. We can only assume that he's started doing it as a means of trying to get our attention when one of us is holding Xander – either that or because In the Night Garden's Igglepiggle takes a tumble every night and he's therefore decided that it's what the cool kids do these days.   

Xander, meanwhile, has already started putting me in my place. He's only a month old, but seems to instinctively know how to cut me down to size. He's been on a pretty major growth spurt of late and, as a result, I haven't had much of a chance to cuddle him when I'm at home because he's been busy being a remorseless milk devouring machine. The other day, I seized my chance to address this issue when he gave poor Kate five minutes' peace. "Why don't you give Mummy a rest and sit with Daddy for a bit longer this time, Xander?" I asked. He burped in my face and then started indicating that he wanted feeding again. See? No respect!

So one of my boys is learning how to con authority figures and the other is just obsessed by boobs. They'll go far...

Can't talk? Won't talk!

I've touched upon this subject in previous posts, but it's still bothering me so here we go again: Dylan is now 21 months old but still not talking. The thing that's really getting to me isn't his inability to speak, however – both Kate and I are pretty sure that he can – it's more his apparent refusal to do so.

"What do you want me to say?" Dylan is unavailable for comment

It's infuriating; he's a very bright little lad and understands an awful lot. We're always asking him to pick up or point to things to see if he recognises the relevant words and, most of the time, he's spot on. He knows the names of several colours, toys, animals, types of food, body parts, items of furniture, things in the garden and so on. If anything, he has an enviable vocabulary for a child of his age – he just needs to start saying the bloody words! He also nods and shakes his head when asked questions and even 'replies' with sounds of the correct intonation and number of sylables – much like the Clangers used to, which is kind of odd as, due to a hearing problem I had when I was a child, I sounded like Soup Dragon when I spoke. I digress.

He doesn't have any of the problems that parents are told to look out for when their children aren't speaking by a certain age, so there are no major worries on that front. There's nothing wrong with his hearing – he knows when there are biscuits in the room however quiet and stealthy we are with opening them – and he is good with eye contact too. I don't think there's anything wrong with his confidence either; he's very direct about what he wants and has no qualms about grabbing our hands and trying to guide us to whatever it may be. No, he's just being awkward. He gets a mischievous look in his eye when we ask him something, before delivering his 'uhh uhh' response. Sometimes he forgets himself and we get what we are pretty sure is a 'yeah' or a 'Peppa' – of the animated porcine variety – while he also seemed to say 'babba' when he first saw Xander, but these utterances are relatively few and far between.   

We hoped that the arrival of Xander and Dylan's inevitable perception of competition for our attention would spur him on and it does seem that he has stepped up his efforts somewhat, but he still needs to do more. That's not to say we're being pushy parents though – we're doing everything that is recommended and being patient with him. Good things come to those who wait, they say, and I know they will; I just hope that it's soon. People keep telling us that Xander will probably learn things at a faster rate thanks to the advantage of having an older sibling; I'm sure that'll be the case too, but hopefully Dylan's language skills gather pace in the meantime – otherwise we're going to have human versions of Morph and Chas on our hands...

Things I noticed during paternity leave

Kitchen towel: my new BFF

My fortnight of paternity leave came to an abrupt end with my return to work yesterday. I'm knackered; no big revelation there then, but I've been pleasantly surprised by how much I've noticed – or at least remembered from last time – over the last couple of weeks. Please bear with me if any of the following is massively incoherent...

The most obvious of these is how different things are to first time round. Both Kate and I have been a lot more chilled out and, as a result, Xander seems to be a pretty relaxed little lad. He doesn't cry much; it's only really when he's being changed that he demonstrates his lung power. That's fair enough though – I wouldn't enjoy being subjected to such treatment either.

Dylan, meanwhile, has mostly taken to his little brother. Mostly. He's been lovely with him for the majority of the time, but there have been a few mini meltdowns and small acts of attention seeking. It's to be expected, so there are no real concerns, but one of the things he has done needs to be shared: he's started to act like a proper little player!

While Kate and I took Xander to be registered at the town hall, my parents took Dylan to get some new shoes. I'm reliably informed that, when the shop assistant knelt down to measure his feet, instead of getting shy and looking away like he used to in such situations, he flung his arms around her and gave her a big hug! We met them all for Xander's first trip to a restaurant afterwards. Dylan smiled at the waitress and then grabbed her arse. Cheeky eh?


Cornflakes: awesome

Back to some more stuff I've become aware of though, here are my top ten:

1) Dylan seems absolutely massive now.

2) The Moro reflex, as demonstrated regularly by Xander, is hilarious.
  
3) With the notable exception of the excellent CBeebies, kids' TV isn't what it once was.

4) I had forgotten how good cornflakes taste and to think I used to mercilessly mock those adverts.

5) I now know The Gruffalo by heart, voices and all. My version of Owl sounds like Terry Jones.

6) Jam on toast is an underrated breakfast choice.

7) The post is delivered really late these days; poor show, Royal Mail.

8) There seems to be a direct correlation between lack of sleep and significantly faster beard growth.

9) If you have to change a newborn boy's nappy, a piece of kitchen towel is your best friend in the world.

10) If you neglect to use kitchen roll for the previous point, don't worry – you get Matrix-style bullet time reflexes that will help you evade the 'fountain', whether you've had any sleep or not.

I'm supporting Team GB with Next

Us Brits are very good at being self deprecating, sometimes too much so and it seems that we sometimes secretly want things to go awry so we can rip it out of those who are perceived to have failed – this applies particularly in sporting arenas. I know that I, for one, am often guilty of this so have decided that I'm going to be positive about the Olympics and cheer on Team GB, albeit from my sofa. With exquisite timing, the nice people at Next got in touch and asked if I'd like one of their official supporter scarves.

To promote the Olympic and Paralympic scarves, Next have sent them out to a bunch of bloggers like me as part of their 'I'm Supporting' campaign to see how we style and wear them. This is being carried out alongside the ‘Wear it, Wave it and Win’ prize draw on the Next website where people can upload photos of themselves wearing the scarves and win some great prizes, including tickets to the games themselves. Trying to instil a sense of optimism about British sport from an early age, I've delegated the task of modelling the scarf to Dylan and Xander.

First up, here's Xander who, when this photo was taken, was only five days old. Is this a record? As you can see, he's decided to rock the bandana look while quite literally chilling in his crib. It suits him, I'm sure you'll agree. 

Then we have his big brother. I used to dress up as Superman as a child and Dylan is clearly his father's son. Here he is displaying the scarf in all its glory by donning it as a cape for a frantic dash around the garden. It's a good look on the lad, methinks.

You can get hold of your Olympic or Paralympic scarf by popping in to your nearest Next. All the profits from the sales of them will be donated to the British Olympic Association. So there you go; you can show your support for Team GB, help a good cause and look as good as my lads all in one fell swoop. Bargain!