SSM: Just say no – 13 January 2018

After quite some agonizing our country recently decided to recognise one of the central tenets of a modern, civilized society, that being not to discriminate against people for no reason at all, and legalised same sex marriage (SSM). This marvelous leap forward was somehow achieved despite the concerted efforts of my eldest son.

Some weeks ago, while the voluntary, not-at-all legally binding, postal survey/ plebiscite/ pulse-check/ focus group, still appeared to hang in the balance, Milo and I took a stroll down Lonsdale Street in Canberra. Lonsdale Street must surely count among the most SSM supportive locales in Canberra, and therefore the nation. It has a roundabout at its midpoint which is painted in a dramatic rainbow swirl, rainbow streamers flutter from the light poles, frozen yoghurt is served with complimentary rainbow sprinkles, dogs are painted in rainbow colours and those dogs that happen to be boys merrily chase other boy dogs with no fear of judgement or retribution. I believe that day there may even have been a rainbow in the sky, following a little afternoon drizzle. In short, Lonsdale Street had been forsaken by the ‘no’ campaign.

As we strolled the wide, progressive, forward-leaning, tolerant footpath on our way to a cafe for a ‘treat’ (we were waiting for 4 new tyres to be fitted to our car, because Lonsdale Street is one of those rare and exciting streets along which one can purchase 17″ radials and vegan pancakes) we happened upon a large rainbow sandwich board with YES written upon it in bold, capitalised font. “What does that rainbow mean daddy?” came the question from my charming, inquisitive son.

Now, Milo already had some background on this matter, and likely already knew most of the answer; he had previously attended a same-sex-marriage rally, happily draping himself in rainbow streamers, chanting slogans of tolerance and equality, and generally being a cute, apparently reasonable young citizen.

I thought “what a sweet question, why don’t I take the opportunity to nourish my child, expand his awareness of social issues, treat him like the grown-up sentient young man that he is, build upon the already comfortable, excellent and ongoing dialogue in which we regularly engage on whatever topic his little mind meanders its way to”. I thought it would also be a wonderful opportunity to demonstrate what a thoughtful, articulate and clever young 3 year old I had raised to the numerous, bustling passers-by, on their way to further their enlightened social agendas.

We stopped, hand-in-hand, by the sandwich board, with the rainbow just peeking through the clearing clouds above, and I said “well Milo, this sign is encouraging people to vote yes to allow boys to marry boys and girls to marry girls if they want to. Isn’t that an excellent idea? What do you think?” Pleased with myself, I stepped back and awaited Milo’s adorable answer; I noted a slight smile on the face of a passing lady in her mid 30s wearing semi-formal attire, enjoying this simple moment between a father and his son.

“I want to vote no” said Milo.

“What?” I replied, with more desperation in my voice than you should allow when conversing with a 3 year old. “What do you mean?” I said with a slightly self-conscious giggle, immediately conscious of the numerous enthusiastic ‘yes’ voters who were most definitely within ear-shot.

“I want to vote no”

“I want to marry mummy, not daddy”

“Well…” I said, with parental maturity and control “that might be your opinion but the point of the vote is to allow everybody the opportunity to choose to marry whom they want, do you understand the difference?”

I was pleased with my response; surely the passers-by would see that ours was a house in which important issues were discussed and debated, where opinions were heard and respected. Not one in which rainbow flags are burned, and sky-writers paid to emblazon “NO” across the sky.

“I want to vote no, and I want to marry mummy not daddy”. Milo was now enjoying the sport, and this was not good for me; I was certainly losing control, and people were becoming interested in our conversation.

Things got a little more hostile.

“Well mate, frankly if you want to marry your mum it’s going to take more than a non-binding postal survey to change the constitution, and anyway you’re too young to vote, let’s keep moving.”

In order to flee the scene I firmly (but gently) pushed the back of his socially conservative head in the direction of the cafe. He was grinning.

In my haste to get off the street we stumbled into a vegan cafe. The child had been promised banana bread, so I leaned down to peer through the window box in a desperate search for a vegan substitute before he had a chance to say anything else mortifying.

While my back was turned Milo was perusing the room. Not unexpectedly it was liberally decked out in rainbows of all colours, sizes and sexual orientations.

“I want to vote no” he said, loudly. Really, very loudly. In quite a small cafe.

The percentage of patrons (which numbered in the teens) who did not hear Milo’s comment was surely zero. A hush descended on the group which had been, until our arrival, happily enjoying all manner of milk substitutes. All eyes shuffled swiftly, and judgmentally in my direction. Nobody was looking at the little knee-high neo-conservative looking up at me with his challenging eyes and maniacal grin. Why would they? How could a 3 year old possibly have adopted such last-century views without clear direction and guidance around the breakfast table.

I thought about engaging Milo in the same manner I had on the street, but with those wounds fresh, I thought better of it and instead decided to make our purchase, retreat to the rainbow roundabout and never return. I ordered a ‘vegan dessert kebab’ and a ‘cafe latte’ and then sought to distract my child by pointing out things in the window that looked like chocolate. As I bent down toward Milo the noticeably unimpressed barista asked me what type of milk I wanted. My brain, straining under supreme cognitive load, decided not to process this question and instead replied with its reptilian lobe;

“normal”, I said.

“Do you mean cow’s milk?” she asked, with a slight lowering of her eyelids, and a curling of her lip.

I stood up straight, my eyes quickly traversing every unimpressed face in the room as I swung them around toward the barista. “Um, yes please”. No response, only a return to activity at the coffee machine.

The kebab and coffee appeared mercifully quickly. I tucked the kebab under one arm, scooped up my recalcitrant child with the other and backed awkwardly and noisily out of the cafe. The last thing those patrons would have heard as we stumbled our way back onto the street was “daddy, do you know I want to marry mummy, not you?”; at an ever-diminishing volume as we dashed haphazardly toward the relative anonymity of the tyre yard…


At the SSM rally – a wolf in sheep’s clothing…

Colin – Monday 31 July 2017

Toddlers are unpredictable and shatteringly illogical, in an irritatingly logical way.

I am a great proponent of the ‘try to see it from their perspective whenever possible’ mantra. They have narrow frames of reference, incomplete life experience and minimal access to wikipedia. Many of the rules that govern their little lives are built on context, assumed knowledge and nuance. None of which they are particularly great at.

Take food for example. Without Harold the Healthy Giraffe (RIP), the Ribena Berries and Tony the Tiger, none of which are yet accessible to Milo, how would we know what is healthy and what is not? A cookie is undoubtedly tastier to eat than a tree of broccoli. When, as an adult, you choose to eat that tree taste is playing only a minor role in your overall deliberation. What care Milo for these deliberations? Milo knows very little about dietary fiber, pantothenic acid, vitamin B6, vitamin E and omega-3 fatty acids, and what he knows he doesn’t care for. So when we try to sell an argument that he needs to eat (insert arbitrary number) of broccoli trees before he can have a small fragment of cookie the whole thing must seem spurious, illogical, and frankly a little cruel. Two broccoli trees equals the upper portion of a kinder-surprise? Why? Over time our toddlers accept this devil’s compromise; but they never understand it, they never like it, and they never forgive us for wielding our power so capriciously.

There is no event that requires a more honest and consistent reflection on the ‘try to see it from their perspective’ mantra than introducing a new baby into a home already inhabited by a toddler.

Consider this.

About 4 months ago Kuepps (my wife) mentioned to me 2 or 3 times that later in the year she would be bringing home another man to live with us, another husband essentially with whom we would be sharing our lives from that point forward. I wasn’t really paying attention as I was building a wicked train track at the time, and besides the whole thing seemed esoteric, unlikely, and future-Jupes’ problem.

Kuepps mentioned this idea to me a few times at irregular intervals over the ensuing months. Each time I expressed my general displeasure with the idea but on reflection I must say I had the feeling my perspective wasn’t being given full consideration. The whole concept gave me a feeling of uneasiness but I continued to presume that something so outlandish and clearly damaging to our rather enjoyable and peaceful existence was very unlikely to happen.

About a week ago Kuepps dropped me at my mother-in-law’s house where I stayed for 2 nights. It was a bit weird, not a usual occurrence, and I was given no real explanation beyond “won’t it be fun to stay with your mother-in-law?” Not really, but they have quite good pastries and the whole thing was pleasant enough.

On the second morning I returned home looking forward to spending a little time with my wife, eating some smoked salmon, building a sweet tower out of Duplo and sharing some rather humorous anecdotes from my small trip away. When I arrived home I was quickly deflated however because there, sat on my couch with my wife, was a man. “Hi Jupes, how are you?” My wife said, in a voice so sweet it made me think something was up; “This is Colin, our new husband, isn’t he beautiful?”

What??!! No! He’s not beautiful at all, and hang on – what??!! I stayed where I was and had a good look at Colin. He was a bit younger than me, but looked eerily similar. He was ignoring me completely, didn’t even cast a look in my direction. I could tell immediately he was a bit of a dick. My world was spinning and Colin just sat there, dribbling on himself, looking lecherously up at my wife, occasionally clambering at her bosom in a gratuitous and entirely unseemly way. I was shattered.

“Oh look Jupes, Colin got you a terrific gift” I turned my head to the kitchen bench upon which sat a garishly wrapped gift of some kind. “Go on, open it!” Kuepps encouraged. Dumbfounded, I stumbled over to the kitchen and unwrapped it, a nice coffee machine. “Do you like it??” It was nice I must admit, but I could tell Colin had played no part in its procurement. He didn’t seem like a guy who would know anything about coffee machines. “Say thank you to Colin”.

“Thanks Colin”, I muttered, and slumped into my chair, head in my hands. Kuepps continued the charm offensive; “Isn’t it wonderful to have another man in the house? In time you and Colin are going to best friends!”

What!!?? That is absolutely not going to happen. Colin is clearly utterly self-involved, lascivious and arguably incontinent. I am not sharing anything with him, let alone my wife! As I was reaching for my mobile to call Colin a taxi my mum arrived, brushed past me and headed straight for Colin.

My mum then demanded to cuddle Colin and when she had pried him away from Kuepps she did this sickening little bobbing dance with him whilst continuously complimenting my wife on being so clever. What is this?? How could my own mother be so utterly unsympathetic to my situation. MY WIFE HAS JUST BROUGHT THIS STRANGE MAN COLIN INTO MY HOUSE, WHY IS EVERYBODY OK WITH THIS??

Eventually my mother stopped dancing with this strange man and then asked whether I would like to have Colin on my lap for a photo. Of course I don’t bloody well want Colin on my lap for a photo. I want Colin out of my house. At that point the rest of my family arrived, all in a buoyant mood despite the fact my world was collapsing around me. Somebody, I can’t even remember who, picked Colin up by his waist and dropped him down on my lap. “Smile Jupes” everybody was saying as they crowded around me for a photograph – nobody seemed to be insisting that Colin do anything; he just lay there, like a privileged, slightly orange, plump little interloper, waving his ill-proportioned little arms and legs around like he was having a seizure. The whole thing was a nightmare. I felt discombobulated, vulnerable and humiliated.

Over the following week things did not improve. I barely saw Kuepps; she and Colin would routinely disappear into the bedroom where they would giggle for hours. No Kuepps at bath time, no Kuepps at bed time, no Kuepps at all.

Colin. Has. Ruined. Everything.

…and that is why Milo has been afforded significant leeway for his transgressions over the past week. Considering the cataclysmic shift he has endured he is performing extremely well and both he and his brother Monty (not Colin) are learning slowly how to co-exist, and will in short order, I am positive, commence their allied overthrow of the house.


Baby Monty

What makes a human? – Saturday 22 July 2017

Milo welcomed a baby brother into the world this week (more on that soon) and it got me pondering; what is it that makes a human? Is it our ability to dream, empathise and love? Is it music? Our unique gift to compose and experience this most wondrous form of self-expression. Is it self-awareness; the very human instinct to conceive, understand and shape the world around us?

No, the answer of course is identification; and ideally 100 points of it.

Identification begets identification. If you want anything of value in today’s world you need to identify yourself; bank loan, passport, fishing licence, Petbarn loyalty card, ‘juice-to-u’ detox smoothie home delivery membership. Our system requires all humans to identify themselves in a variety of ways, all the time. This system works terrifically well; not only do our mini-golf frequent putters cards give others confidence we are who we say we are, but they also provide the ancillary benefit of affording us yet more identification.

But have you ever thought for a moment about how you got your first unit of identification? What is the foundation of this flimsy, bureaucratic house of cards upon which we climb ever higher? I can tell you.

In Australia when your new baby finally arrives the tending midwife, after a 76 hour shift, scribbles his or her signature on two mostly-blank printed forms, adds an altogether unconvincing rubber stamp bearing the name of the hospital on each and hands them to you in a not-very-official looking white A4 envelope on the front of which can be found a giraffe, a duck, an elephant and a fourth animal the nature of which I cannot currently remember because I was somewhat bleary-eyed and distracted at the time. That’s it. It is these two forms upon which everything else is based. It is these two forms that make you a human.

The first form you take to Centrelink/ Medicare to register your new human for social security and healthcare. When you arrive the Centrelink officer, whose dense carapace of disdain has been grown and thickened over many years of managing half-truths, cajoling and excuses, does not greet you with the benefit of the doubt. However, once this officer realises you are not there to use the free public phone, and in fact have just experienced a momentus life-event they are easy to win over. You pass them the scrap of paper, toward which they take a cursory glance, and you can then literally name your human whatever you like, even foreign swear words if your rapport is good enough. The officer types those names into the system and voila, the human’s official record begins.

The second form you take to Births, Deaths and Marriages. I presume there exists some mechanism to check the name you provide at your second stop roughly matches that which you provided at your first, but I didn’t test this. You pay $45 plus postage, unless you want a novelty birth certificate which costs extra, and they send you your new human’s certificate in the mail.

What happens if you lose these forms you ask? So did I. There does not appear to be a compelling answer. I asked it of a number of medical professionals at the hospital and their answers were all derivations of “don’t lose them”. So I presume that for those poor souls who lose the forms, of which I am sure there are many – one does not receive them at one’s most lucid – they become the parents of invisible humans, forever doomed to live outside the system; a home-delivery-juice-free, putt-putt golf-less existence. I imagine the early photographs of those poor infants slowly fade over time like Michael J Fox in Back to the Future, or perhaps they drop dead spontaneously like avatars unplugged from the Matrix when the 60 day registration period comes to an end.

Whatever the process I am sure there is a voiceless, subjugated underclass of people out there who cannot rent a DVD. And we should spare a thought for them.

FullSizeRender (73)

A new registered human

Puzzles, trains and the way of the human brain – Tuesday 28 February 2017

Time, and the inevitable weight of societal conformity dulls an adult human’s brain to the point that we are not truly capable of genuine creativity. Even the most ingenious and innovative among us only appear so on a relative scale. When compared to the rest of us plodding dullards, operating under a false presumption of endless possibility and whimsy while absent-mindedly turning the handles of our tea cups to face the same way in the cupboard, anybody capable of demonstrating the slightest deviation from the societal code of order and predictability are declared free spirits or creatives.

Those among us who can hold a new remote control in their hand whose protective plastic coating has slightly come away at one corner, and resist the desire to sweep the whole sheet off in one satisfying and triumphant movement, are rare indeed. And that is about as liberated and free-spirited as we get.

If you don’t believe me try spending 10 minutes doing a puzzle or building a train track with a 2 year old.

When constructing a puzzle Milo cares not for colour, pattern, shape or even the compatibility of those little nooks and pointy bits that are supposed to bring the puzzle together in one satisfying coherent canvas. Completely untethered from any societal expectation of what a puzzle is supposed to be Milo will simply grasp the piece closest to him and then jam it into the piece second closest to him. A smooth joining of nook and pointy bit, or coherence of pattern or colour is inconsequential. The puzzle will simply bend to his will as he pounds the pieces together with his little fist. Once the mashing is complete, the cardboard of each piece now bent and loosely melded together, Milo will set about assimilating the next closest piece into the chaotic Borg-like organism taking shape on the floor; which looks nothing like a barnyard setting on a spring day.

I sit aghast; suppressing my general discomfort with the whole scene, reminding myself the object of the puzzle session is not in fact to reveal the lamb springing in an exuberant fashion toward its mother, but to enrich my son, and feed his creative spirit. But I cannot. I interject… regularly, offering helpful suggestions like “ah, perhaps the white cloud shaped object may go with that other white cloud shape object”. At first I offer passive advice with a helpful tone, but when this good sense is inevitably ignored I tentatively reach out a hand to guide the pieces together, then more insistently I join the clouds myself, enjoying the satisfaction of nooks and pointy bits that were designed with the other in mind. “No daddy, Boy do it” he yells, as he separates the clouds vigorously and slaps my hand away while simultaneously mashing a cockerel’s head into the nether regions of a cow. Once all of the pieces have been forced together against their will, like speed dating in a prison, a mismatch of colour, shape and genre spread out in a grotesque collage upon the floor, Milo sits back triumphantly and exclaims “Yay, Boy did it! Boy wins!” He then toddles off to explore something new while I expertly place the 9 pieces together without a single error to reveal lambs, chickens, cows and a small boy in overalls, naive to the troubles of the world, enjoying his formative years on the farm. I then quickly pack the puzzle away before I am discovered.

But this is nothing compared to the train track.

Like most 2 years olds Milo loves trains and at any point in time our living room will be home to the bustling industry of partially completed railway projects. Milo loves nothing more than to embark upon these projects with me, although mind you I am only ever rewarded for my effort by being granted permission to play with Percy. No carriages, no cow car, no barrel car. Just Percy. Milo’s train is 12 cars long at least; powered by Thomas, James, Mutombo (from Chuggington), surely far more horsepower than he needs to pull Annie, Clarabel, Toby and the cargo car, but there it is; stretching past Toby’s Windmill, the Sodor Dynamite Factory and Cranky the Crane. And if poor old Percy, driving alone, aimlessly, ever finds himself between Milo’s juggernaut and the next intersection, let’s just say Percy is not granted the time-honoured courtesies of the railway, accepted around the world, that have made train travel such a genteel way to get around.

But I digress. The real issue is not the playing; it’s the building.

Milo’s tracks have no end. And no beginning. They are non-sensical. And infuriating. Whenever we embark on a rail project together Milo will quickly pile up all of the pieces currently at our disposal, so not including those currently in the pram, or the garden, or the bath. He spends literally zero time planning the layout or trajectory of the rail network and just starts building, usually with a bridge that will obviously go nowhere. I keep a pleasant smile on my face, and a soft tone in my voice; for this is treasured time together with my beloved and delightful son. But I am watching him, and stockpiling the corner pieces I know I will eventually need to close some loops and claw back some semblance of logic to his ludicrous network.

I build as quickly as he will let me; designing an elegant figure 8 in my head and executing immediately, trying to stay two steps ahead, anticipating his preposterous and entirely unpredictable building style. I loop around, anticipating his trajectory, with the requisite corners and junctions stashed under a cushion, but as our two ends near he confidently places an unanticipated right hand bend in his track, straight into the leg of the sofa. “Boy finished! Yay! Let’s play daddy… you play with Percy”.

I look at the track; under the retractable bridge lies a single left turn piece. It starts nowhere, and ends nowhere. No train will ever pass under that bridge. Toby’s Windmill lies immediately adjacent to the Dynamite Factory, which makes no sense. Just past the Dynamite Factory there is another bridge, over nothing. Another wasted opportunity. The track then stutters its way forward, like a noodle to nowhere, all corner pieces end to end. Not even his 12 trains behemoth could generate any speed on that straight. And at the end of the noodle? Nothing. The track ends abruptly, butted up against my work shoe.

The other end of the network is worse. We have only two junction pieces and he has linked them together; wasteful. One of the two junctions simply stops and the other embarks on an audacious semi-loop which leads under the sofa (a nice touch) then back round to where it began, it then takes an unexpected and frankly illogical dog-leg to the left past Cranky Crane and then simply ends near the cats’ scratching pole. It ends. No ramp, nothing. That’s it.

It is hard to watch Milo play on this poorly conceived track but if I am caught not actively participating with my second-rate green engine I am swiftly admonished. I ask whether I could possibly add some of the surplus carriages , which are admittedly parked unused on the side of the track, to my Percy. Denied.

I watch in horror as Milo hurtles his locomotive along the noodle to nowhere. He edges nearer and nearer to the abyss. My decades-old instinct for beginnings, for ends, for rules is consuming me as I watch on, helpless. What will he do when he reaches the end of the known locomotive universe? What misadventures will befall him?

He jumps his train off the track of course and onto the floorboards, and carries on with his journey.


Number puzzle


How is this OK?


Sweet satisfaction

Boy – Sunday 5 February 2017

I had several highly successful resolutions in 2016; sever ties between Great Britain and the meddlesome, terrorist producing, welfare dependent, culturally stunted, bureaucratic, dictatorial European Union, do what I could to move incrementally but steadily toward a time when all World Leaders can finally express all policy decisions and explain with nuance the complex modern interconnected world in 140 characters or less, ensure most of the best celebrities died while the entire cast of ‘Hey, Hey it’s Saturday’ remained intact, and make my own marmalade.

Given last year’s success it seems sensible to register at least one resolution for 2017; and that is to continue the internet documentation of my child (who is now 2 1/4), and our adventures together.

Many striking developments have occurred over the last 7 or 8 months. among these; Milo has learned to count to 10 although is for some reason completely disinterested in the concept of the number 7, with his ever-expanding vocabulary Milo has taken to concocting numerous pretexts to explain why he can’t go to sleep just yet, each less compelling than the last “daddy the cricket outside is too noisy, please go and get him”, “daddy the kitchen door is not closed, please close it”, “I can’t find tiny sheep/ blue teddy/ kangaroo/ blue monkey/ kiwi bird anywhere” (meanwhile all of the above have been carefully secreted under the covers), Milo has learned to sing the ABCD song, which he calls “Baby CD” and which he yells at high volume while stamping his feet, not sure why, Milo loves sweeping, and water dragons, and sweet potato and watering the driveway, and says “oh what’s that noise?” in precisely the same British accent and intonation as Peppa Pig.

But perhaps the most baffling and intriguing development is Milo’s utter rejection of his name. Milo has over the last 6 months, without exception, only answered to and referred to himself by his nom de guerre ‘Boy’; always in the third person, engaging in a form of toddler illeism like The Rock, or Elmo, or Elaine’s short-lived boyfriend Jimmy; for example, “Boy digging really, really big hole, clever Boy”, “Boy is a wriggle pot”, “Daddy is big, Boy is tiny”, “Boy wearing pink shoes today”, “Boy and daddy working really really hard in the garden”, “Boy is a scrappy little boy”, “Boy is a little bit funny”, “Please mummy tickle Boy’s back, a little bit more” etc etc. The origins of this are hazy. It is possibly due to the very beginnings of his language when he learned that he and those like him were boys, daddy and others like him were men, and everyone else was a girl. Whatever the reason, he found the name compelling, and that is what he has chosen.

He is certainly aware that other people seem to think his name is Milo, but people greeting him by this phony, legally-imposed handle are usually met with hostility. It often baffles friends and strangers alike when, meeting him for the first time, they crouch down innocently and kindly say “Hi Milo, how are you?”, or similar, and are greeted with a furrowed brow, a pout, often a stamped foot and the rather confusing and aggressively delivered sentence “Boy not Milo, Boy is Boy!”. It then usually falls to one or other of his parents to explain to the innocent that they have not said anything wrong, that Milo is actually a lovely well-adjusted little boy but that he is just tired of everybody getting his name wrong. Milo forgives immediately once his name is corrected and returns at once to being a ray of extremely high energy sunshine.

How long will it last? Perhaps for ever, which is fine with us. But in the meantime we will need to continue to live with the disdainful glances we receive at the supermarket when we say to our son “come on boy, it’s time to go home”, as he skips along behind us carrying the bread.


Boy looking out to sea

Sleep regression… the Brexit of the bedroom – Friday 24 June 2016

We had heard about this mythical, violent phase of toddler development; sleep oppression, sleep aggression, sleep obsession? Something like that. Anyway, it didn’t matter because it wouldn’t happen to us. Like letting your child roll off the bed, or fall down the stairs, or mysteriously chip one of his front teeth, these are parenting issues for other parents to deal with. Like the Brexit; a confusing  and mysterious concept spoken about on blogs and in supermarket carparks, it was not something to worry about and certainly not something to understand in any meaningful way.

So late last week when Milo’s sleep regression emerged in all its screaming glory we were shocked, saddened, shocked, alarmed and most importantly thoroughly ill-prepared. A small Brexit playing out in our home in which Milo perhaps represented the fine people of Northern Lincolnshire and Kuepps and I embodied Jeremy Corbyn; steadfast, confident and utterly helpless.

Sleep regression looks like this; one night Milo kisses each of us in turn, drinks his warm milk with an angelic smile and a dimple in each cheek, pulls his blanket up to his chin and says “mummy, daddy thank you for a wonderful day, please switch off the light on your way out and do enjoy your evening”, the following night he is bad Sigourney Weaver from Ghostbusters the original; glowing red eyes, crazy frazzled hair, with a cavalcade of non-sensical utterances pouring out of his mouth at maximum volume as he darts around his room like a poorly played game of pinball, looking for an escape.

When the regression decides to manifest it appears sudden, unreasonable, completely unforeseen. You shrug and wonder what must have happened overnight to cause it; new teeth, growth spurt, low pressure system, Lycanthropy? But as the regression unfolds and you find yourselves with far more waking hours over night to ponder, you realise the utter predictability of your fate. It is a steady process of cognitive development and bedroom appeasement, fusing into a heady mix of willful, asymmetric protest, a testing of the rubberiness of one’s reality and the very limits of stamina. It is a battle of ideas on an uneven playing field. Uneven, mucousy and very very noisy.

It started for us probably 6 weeks hence. Milo, who had slept perfectly for about 4 or 5 months spontaneously decided the cot was no longer for him. He put forward this position forcefully and so we dismantled his bed, made safe the room and set him up on a mattress on the floor. Milo was pleased at this outcome but simultaneously decided he was no longer comfortable nor capable of falling asleep alone. And so Kuepps and I have taken turns lying with him as he thrashes around before slumber demanding to be patted on his “bum”, “gaga” (tummy) or “knee”; only these three locations are suitable patting options. This worked for several weeks but the potency of said patting has been noticeably dropping off in recent times.

Coinciding with this troubling bedroom progression has been an explosion in Milo’s language; he can now string 3 or 4 words together (like “go away daddy, door” – pretty clear) and can mimic almost every word he hears including my favourite “bulldozer”. Milo now has dozens of words at his disposal and so can communicate most desires effectively. He is increasingly enjoying this interaction and the power it gives him. However, like Nigel Farage Milo is only capable of high level, broad communication, with very little nuance. And like Farage Milo’s messaging is purely designed to stimulate an action, a response. Not to facilitate reasoned conversation or debate.

So when the regression arrived last week we should have seen it coming. We had a son who was increasingly displeased about sleep (or more accurately increasingly pleased about the delights of being awake), increasingly interested in the limits of his power, who had developed just enough tools to express himself to a point but with no real way to reason or negotiate a better reality for himself. Disaster.

The first few nights we tried everything we could think of. Stay in the room with him, leave him alone in the room, more milk, less milk. The result remained the same; high impact screaming for literally hours on end. We were mesmerized by his stamina and commitment, but ultimately released him from his room on each occasion, to break the cycle and to refresh him. His response was fascinating and infuriating. Within seconds of release he would actually giggle, climb the stairs and inquire as to whether we would like to build a duplo tower with him. Unfortunately after this period of ‘refreshment’ and tower building the process would begin again. Nobody was sleeping.

So a few days ago we decided I would be our sacrificial anode, to attempt a new technique. Two would go in, and only one would come out, no matter what. And hopefully that one would be me.

Milo is well aware of the series of little steps that lead him to bed so begins protesting each element in turn, hoping that should even one of these steps be avoided, he may enjoy an overall victory; “no bath”, “no milk”, “no book”. These are all things that he loves, but things that must be cast aside to achieve a loftier goal; like forgoing Camembert, the Eurostar and Oktoberfest to break free of the debilitating European Union.

Once Milo is bathed and pyjama’d, Kuepps switches off the light and gently  closes the door, wondering if she will ever see one or both of her boys again. Milo unravels immediately, wailing and flailing around the room; banging on the door “daddy door”, banging on the bedside lamp “daddy on” and then banging on my head “daddy up”. We had decided in advance to model my technique on dealing with a bear attack. Our knowledge of this technique is based on one viewing of the film ‘The Revenent’ and seems to involve doing nothing at all to protect yourself while the bear gores you. So that is what I did. I lay on his mattress perfectly still while Milo took turns pushing and pulling my head, clambering over me, stepping on my face in his efforts to pull open the blinds. Pausing every so often to let me blow his nose, Milo screamed for 90 minutes, offering countless other scenarios for my consideration “daddy play park”, “daddy tower”, “daddy gia mumma” (our cat Suu Kyi), “daddy book”. Eventually Milo’s protestations descended into an increasingly laboured march between banging on the door and banging on my head, looking much like the bunny who did not have Duracell batteries in those early 80s commercials, for whom I always held a lot of sympathy.

Finally after one last sobbing stagger back from the door Milo collapsed over my legs and immediately fell into REM sleep, his little body twitching from head to toe as much-needed sleep washed over him. I slipped out from under him like a spatula from an omelette and returned upstairs, largely unscathed and with the knowledge that at least we had discovered the limit of Milo’s rather impressive stamina.

Like the people of the UK we have no idea what lies ahead but our eyes are now open to the likely root cause of our recent suffering. As Milo’s language grows in nuance so too will our ability to negotiate and discuss our shared future; one in which we agree upon mutually beneficial peaceful evenings, and the occasional sleep-in.

A new sleep paradigm

Hast du kaka? – Tuesday 7 June 2016

“Hast du kaka?”

Milo’s predictable answer to this question, which of course essentially translates to “do you have poo in your nappy?”, intrigues me. Without exception Milo’s immediate, unflinching and awfully convincing reply is “no”; or in recent weeks “nein”, delivered in a perfect Indiana Jones German villain accent, which is amazing.

Of course his position, although firmly put, is completely indefensible and he knows it. A casual sniff in his direction will immediately cast doubt on the veracity of his claim, and a visual inspection will diminish his credibility entirely. Not once have I taken his word for it, despite olfactory evidence to the contrary, and said “oh I withdraw son, my most humble apologies for the unseemly accusation” before continuing with my Horse and Hound magazine. No, I check every time; and I am always right. I must have caught him out in this blatant and inexplicable lie hundreds of times and yet not once have I observed even a hint of regret or awkwardness at his treachery laid bare. He is utterly undeterred.

Last night a series of unfortunate events highlighted this phenomenon to me and convinced me the concept needs to be explored further. While the evening bath was running I denuded Milo and allowed him to frolic in front of the heater. After 19 months I am still able to convince myself that this time my child will be sensible enough not to defecate on the floor. Incorrect.

I looked over at Milo who had quickly assumed a squatting position and a fixed stare. “Milo, are you pooing?” I asked him. “Nein” he replied calmly before leaping to his feet giggling maniacally and disappearing into the spare bedroom at a great pace squealing “kaka, kaka, kaka” in an increasingly inaudible manner as more distance was put between he and the scene of the mischief.

I actually said the words “you deserved that” before scooping up the elegant log and flushing it down the toilet. I then retrieved my sinewy whippet of a son who was running wildly in circles as if he were water descending into a plughole, tucked him under my arm and we headed downstairs.

Five minutes later we were in the bath together. Milo was attempting to entice one of the cats toward him with a Captain Planet figurine while I sat calmly playing with the wind-up duck when all of a sudden I caught an unmistakable shape emerging from the depths majestically, as if it were a feather defying gravity.

Like the flash of red on a deadly spider, or the shock of scarecrow blonde hair on Boris Johnson, there are some things hardwired into the human brain that do not require processing; the image of which bypasses the cerebrum and travels immediately into the reptilian brain, causing you to recoil instinctively to safety. A poo in a bath is one of those things.

It looked like half a chokito that had been placed on a dashboard in the sun to whiten, before being soaked in water overnight. It gracefully made its way up through the water column before settling gently at its surface.

“Milo, did you do a poo?” I asked. “Nein”

“Well, what’s that then?” I countered, pointing at the offending cylinder.

Milo did not entirely discontinue his figurine taunting of Huckleberry but did pass a casual glance in the direction of the lolloping log. “Poo” he said, with no emotion, no hint of irony and an unwavering gaze which said “there are two of us here in this bath dad so tell me what you know about this situation”.

Such bold yet mystifying logic is hard to counter and you lose too much momentum to ask the next obvious question; “how do you propose to reconcile those two statements?” It’s a bit Putin-esque:

Reporter: “Vladimir, does Russia have troops in Ukraine?”

Putin: “net”

Reporter: “Then Vladimir, who are those men dressed as Russian Special Forces?”

Putin: : “They are Russian Special Forces”

Provocative yet effective. I had no further question for my son who had already returned to his task of luring Huck toward danger, and enjoying some success.

Noting Milo’s deposit still appeared to maintain much of its structural integrity I simply scooped it out into the toilet and we carried on with an otherwise very pleasant bath.

It is only under these circumstances that Milo has thus far demonstrated this determined and unashamed dedication to mistruth; but we shall be watching keenly for future inevitable examples.

One other observation I have taken from the experience of recent days is the evolution in my response to unplanned kaka incidents. As I read my response to Milo’s first carpet poo which occurred last July (Day Twenty Six – 28 July 2015) I am simultaneously impressed at my developing maturity and poise, and horrified at my complete submission to the normality of unforeseen and unprovoked appearances of human faeces in the living and dining areas of our home.

19 months