Existentialism for Beginners.

Sometimes, to provide relief from the occasional (wonderful! rewarding! heartwarming!) monotony of hanging out with the kids all the time, I talk nonsense. Occasionally, this strays into cod-existential blatherings. 

For example, if my daughter tells me she’s scared, I now think I am being very funny by telling her ‘We’re all scared. It’s the human condition. Better get used to it, kid.’

Because I am funny, you see.

And that would all be very drôle and clever if if weren't for the fact that my daughter has decided to play me at my own game. 

It all started yesterday. We were walking to school as usual, talking as we went. My daughter was busy telling me that there were crocodiles in the gutter. And dinosaurs. And lions. Then, in a blinding flash of revelation, she had her epiphany. ‘Everyone is monsters,’ she said. 

'Everyone?’ I said, kind of worried. 

‘Yes! Everyone is monsters.’

I had no idea. I mean, sure, in my darker moments, the thought had occurred to me. But to have it confirmed like that, well, I’ll be honest, the air took on a sudden chill, the sun shone a little less brightly.

And the worst part? The worst part was that she found my anguish so damn funny. 

Needless to say, I've hidden all the Kierkegaard.

Money Problems.

It is midday and the kids are off school and getting settled for their afternoon nap. I have gone into the next room, leaving them playing with their rucksacks, as they’re in a rucksack mood. I go back once to help my son with something and notice that my daughter's asleep. As I leave, my son is busy filling up his rucksack with all the junk that normally lives in the drawers of his bedside table. Fine. Whatever gets him through the nap. But then, after another five minutes or so, I hear the unmistakeable sound of money rattling around as a piggy bank gets banged repeatedly, rhythmically against the bedroom floor. I don’t bother to go in this time, just shout from the next room, telling him to get back to bed. The noise continues unabated so I go in, a little angrier now. I find my son squatting on the floor with the rucksack, now full, on his shoulders. ‘Get into bed,’ I say, really not messing around by this point. ‘I can’t,’ he wails mournfully. And then I realise what the sound is: every time he tries to get up, he bumps back down again, dragged inexorably earthwards by the weight of his rucksack, which is really far too big for him and which now contains – at the bottom, beneath a multitude of books, toy cars and action figures  – his piggy bank. I help him into bed and soon after he falls asleep. 

Best Brazilian T-Shirts, Continued.

I've just posted a follow-up to my original blog on the Best Brazilian T-Shirt slogans, which I first posted back in January 2014. In order that you don't miss them (because posting a follow-up doesn't update the blog to the top of the list for some reason), I'm re-posting the new ones here with a selection of my favourites from the old ones.

Click to read more ...

The Rubicons of Parenthood.

No one tells you this, but you don't become a parent overnight. It happens in stages. Terrible incremental stages, rubicons you cross and across which you can never return. These stages are marked by the things you say – things that once said cannot be unsaid, the selfsame things you used to hate your parents for saying.

These phrases include:

You can't have any dessert until you finish your vegetables.

Well, where did you last see [insert name of lost object]?

Pick it up yourself. We’re not your servants. (This will subsequently evolve into ‘This house is not a hotel.')

I’m sure there are a lot more, but I haven’t said them yet. Make no mistake, however: I will. It’s inevitable.

Perhaps the worst part of all this is that it’s only when you become a parent that you realise, with a sinking awareness of what an awful brat you were, that there is a mutuality to saying this stuff; you only talk this way because you’re trying to find the most effective way of communicating with something which is basically an idiot. Don’t take this the wrong way, I love my kids, but seriously, right now: idiots. I don’t know, perhaps the real problem is that parents keep using these dumbed-down phrases long after their usefulness has expired. Along with forgetting how to dance and telling crap jokes, this is how you become the quintessence of future embarrassment that will your force your children to pretend they don’t know you in public and, ultimately, leave home and forget your birthday. And quite right, too.

Full Circle.

It's taken almost forty years for my philosophy on life to boil down to something broadly similar to my mum's rule about the living room: you have to leave it in a slightly better state than you found it.