The lunatics are of our own making

In response to Karen Redman's heartwrenching post on her son's schooling.

Karen - I am unencumbered by a detailed understanding of secondary education; both my children are pre-school age. I’m guessing then that the ghastly situation you describe so eloquently is broadly a symptom of something even more tragic, namely the societal rot that grips us. Yes, I'm sure there are schools that need to improve the quality of education and care provided, but hasn't that always been the case?

I suspect it is the increasingly widespread dysfunctional behaviour of children, rather than a nationwide collapse in the quality of teachers, teaching and school funding, that prevents so many youngsters today from enjoying an enriching and rewarding learning experience at school.

At some point over the last couple of generations, we seem to have lost sight of how to nurture the basic values children need if they are to become responsible members of society as adults. Respect for elders and family; an understanding that needs are fulfilled through hard graft; tolerance, acceptance and thinking of others; a sense of purpose in life and an understanding that we exist as part of a community and not as individuals, to name but a few.

Our consumption driven, selfishly motivated way of living today seems entirely at odds with real happiness and fulfillment both for children and society as a whole.

Fortunately for your son, he has the most important provision on his journey through childhood; parents who care deeply and who will stop at nothing to help him on his way. Bravo!

Sharks, crocodiles, dinosaurs and wet floors

"... are all very dangerous," declared H, having woken us pre-dawn this morning with something important to say.

If a job is worth doing (and then bagging).......

On a number of occasions, whilst out for a walk over the last couple of weeks, I have noticed a phenomenon that is simply mind-boggling. I am referring to the odious practice of hanging dog shit in trees. The more I think about it, the more absurd the act becomes.

Picking up after your dog is, let's face it, a pretty unpleasant task. I don't condone it, but I can see why some dog owners turn a blind eye when Rover pinches a loaf. On the other hand, as a runner who has often got back from a training session, only to tread the unthinkable into the house, I am eternally grateful to those who do clean up after their pets.

This is where I just don't get it. Who gets halfway through the job and then thinks, my work is done? As a public footpath user, my debt to society is paid. I'll just adorn this bush, and let someone else enjoy the final act of bag into bin. It makes you wonder how these people decorate their trees at Christmas.

What do you call a baby donkey?

Sunday saw our first 2008 visit to the local children's farm park. H still regards most of the residents with suspicion, but on this occasion one new arrival met with a certain degree of approval. Esme the donkey had foaled just days before; the staff were eager to name him. I asked H what he would call the young colt.

"Donk!" he replied despairingly, as if I was the only person on the planet that didn't know.

Fighting over an apple

"It's myPod too!" she screamed before taking it from me. I told people at work we had bought ourselves an iPod. They said there would be trouble. They were right.

Giving and receiving compliments

A few days before Christmas, whilst B and I were driving down to her parents' house, we started talking about how we'd stopped paying each other compliments since our children had arrived in 2005. Spending much less time together, coupled with new responsibilities as parents had resulted in a gradual decline in our expression of mutual appreciation. This hadn't been a conscious decision from either of us. It was something that had just happened over time. Sitting in the car, the children asleep in the back seats, we decided to rekindle this part of our relationship. "You start then," I said, thinking of all the things that I love about my beautiful wife.

"Hmmmm..." she said quizzically after about ten minutes. "You're quite good at parking."

On yer bike!

I don't normally pedal this kind of thing. Puns in the comments section please.

But could he survive a weekend at our house?

Bear Grylls is talking about a potential series in which mere mortals get dropped into extreme survival situations alongside him. I can hear the call of the wild enticing me to apply. To hold out against some of the harshest conditions on the planet seems increasingly like an invaluable learning experience; I still haven't replaced B's kitchen.

Highly skilled workforce

Don Taylor's post on the our highly skilled workforce made me laugh. Which one are you?

Feed the fish

They follow your mouse. Lots more at abowman. I like the spider!

Love is...

"If we were to win the lottery," dreamed B the evening before last, "I'd still want you to be around."

Christmas play costumes are not good for my elf

"H has been given a leading role in the nursery Christmas play!" announced B, reading a letter she'd recently found at the bottom of his school bag. At last, someone to give Robert Powell some competition, I mused.

"He is to play the part of a Christmas tree," she beamed, overflowing with pride. Even Robert Powell had to start somewhere I reflected; uncredited in a 1967 film called Robbery apparently. "Oh, and we have to make his costume" continued B aloud, looking slightly less enamoured.

Not one to shy away from a challenge, over the next few days B got stuck into some serious research on the design and creation of said Christmas tree costume. Hours were spent trawling the Internet. Extended family, long lost friends and even complete strangers in Waitrose were consulted. In the end, she settled on a poncho design; a large circle of green felt with a hole in the middle for H's head. The outer edge was cut into V shapes, a similarly fashioned ruff was added to the collar and further boughs (made of green felt rings) were attached. The finishing touches would include tree decorations, some brown trousers and a conical green felt hat with a star on top.

"What do you think then?" asked B eagerly yesterday evening. "Does H like it?" I replied, temporarily delaying my feedback. "He won't go near it, but that will change when he sees the other children in their costumes," she said confidently.

"You don't think it makes him look like a leprechaun or a tree imp?" I enquired insensitively. "No!" she said unamused. B spent the next ten minutes helping me see the wood for the trees.

Come Alive

Grohl's glorious Foo Fighters are back. H loves Come Alive, the fifth track on the new album. Truth be told, he won't listen to anything else at the moment, least of all his parents. I suspected we'd lose him to rock music and loud guitars at some stage (he developed a marked penchant for No One Knows by Queens of the Stone Age whilst still in utero) but not at the age of 2.

A balanced view

Ask any hypochondriac to determine the cause of a series of dizzy spells, and your next step will be to start thinking about life cover, appropriate eulogy material and who is most deserving of your CD collection. Such was my predicament over the weekend, blessed with a tendency towards over zealous self diagnosis and having experienced regular bouts of vertigo over the previous ten days.

B tried to reassure me. "Don't worry, you probably have a cold," she suggested. "Or maybe you need your eyesight checked?" she added. Clearly a second opinion was required.

The optician yesterday confirmed that my sight is fine. Armed with this evidence, I went to see the doctor, preparing myself for the worst. Then, fate showed her true colours. My GP was unavailable. I saw a very earnest medical student instead who took me on a journey through all the neurological possibilities that I had identified, in darker moments, over the previous week. He then relayed the steps he'd followed in making his diagnosis to the partner GP who was covering his work who, after what seemed an eternity asked, "What do you think it is then?"

"He has a cold," said the medical student, proudly.

Now we are four

On Sunday 8th April 2007, B gave birth to L, our first daughter. As when H was born, I'm not sure how much my presence helped B get through the event. Despite my squeamish constitution I managed to be largely present throughout, at times playing an active role in proceedings, without resorting to pain relief: during H's delivery I developed a dependency for gas and air but unfortunately the attending midwife on this occasion was much less liberal minded.

At birth, L weighed 6lb 8oz and has since rapidly gained weight, an ability inherited from her father's side of the family. As a newborn, she is proving marginally less noisy than her brother and has taken to feeding more easily (and more often). "All babies are different," goes the standard midwifery disclaimer. I can't help thinking that L is more at ease because we are.

H has thus far reacted well to his baby sister. His affection is expressed in a number of ways: crushing, poking, licking, squashing, tickling and nose wiping (his, on her). We're not sure whether he has acknowledged her as a permanent family feature as yet, but she generally seems to meet with his approval. He has welcomed the gifts and attention, showered upon him as facilitation payments to ease his suffering, like a corrupt government official in some developing country. The Rubicon crossed, future behavioural compliance will no doubt require equivalent or bettered levels of compensation.

Sleepless nights, semi-permanent exhaustion, frayed nerves and social isolation are once again lodgers in our home. Having, over the last few months, wrestled a degree of control back into our lives, B and I are now passengers once more aboard the new parent bus: where we are headed and how long it will take to get there remain, for the time being, unanswered questions. What will make this trip more enjoyable however is the knowledge that it's OK to feel like a passenger. Moreover, when you're not the one driving, you can sit back and enjoy the ride.

The dynasty continues...

Captured forever, a moment earlier this afternoon when my father, my son and I were feeding the goats. I took the photo; on this occasion I'm not the hairy great ginger thing in the background.

Flab bends

...said my very gravid wife when I pointed out that despite my oversize stomach, I could still touch my toes without bending my knees. We'd previously been howling with laughter at her repeated and unsuccessful attempts to tie her shoelaces.

I had promised myself that I would lose weight, get fit and run a sub 4.00 marathon this year. With almost a quarter of 2007 already history, I today decided to take the first step towards achieving these personal goals. I joined WeightWatchers and went for a walk.

Having shed a few (read several) pounds and recovered fully from an achilles injury, I will start a structured training programme and chart my progress on fetcheveryone. The run will be in November or December; if anyone wants to join me please shout!

The empty CD case closed

Last year in walking the talk I eluded to the impact our newest family member would have on our finances come April this year. Well, he or she is now just a few weeks from bursting onto the scene, B has stopped work and we are in the grips of the spend challenge.

With this in mind, imagine how happy I was when I stumbled across Ash's Intergalactic Sonic 7"s in the bargain bin at our local supermarket last week. A CD rammed with anthems of summers gone by, that until the last year or so was among my most played. Strangely, about the same time as H started crawling, loads of my most treasured CDs disappeared from their cases, never to be seen again.

Here's the fantastic Burn Baby Burn. If I'd asked H to do this with my CDs, I wouldn't be writing this post.

Every organisation should have one - the Chief Happiness Officer

I can't remember exactly how I found Alexander Kjerulf's The Chief Happiness Officer blog, but I read it regularly and find his outlook on life refreshing. Modern living often feels like hard work, but you do only get one crack at it! Worth thinking about.

Harsh but fair

I was half watching MOTD this morning and half doing yesterday's crossword when I noticed my left hamstring feeling a little tight. "What did I lift yesterday that was heavy?" I pondered aloud, rubbing the back of my thigh.

"Yourself?" said my wife.