“Silly Daddy” – That is Nearly-Fours latest catchphrase. Currently it is used a few dozen times every day. It’s not particularly insulting. Nor is it something that I would get bothered by. But it is the sheer array of things I am apparently being blamed for by a toddler that is amazing.

Let me explain that this sudden surge in the number of times I was referred to as Silly Daddy started a few weeks ago. It has always been there on occasions when I have tried to be silly in order to make her smile. However recently it is almost as if my name has been officially changed.

A few weeks ago, Silly Daddy was dressing Nearly-Four for school and managed to put her shoes on the wrong feet. This error was spotted almost immediately and the shoe to foot relationship was immediately rectified. And I graciously accepted the Silly Daddy references about that. 

A few days later I made a far more serious fashion faux-pas. I put her summer dress on the wrong way round. Now in my defence there isn’t a lot of difference from one side of it to another. There’s no tag and no labels on the front. But I made a mistake. However this time I didn’t spot it. Nor did Nearly-Four or D’Better Half. In fact it was only when she was in Montessori that one of the teachers noticed and fixed her up. For this I was labelled a Very Silly Daddy.

Since then everything has been caused by Silly Daddy. If not caused by me then the term is used to explain some basic piece of information to me that everyone should know. Explained to me by a toddler!

If it rains then its Silly Daddy because we get wet, or the car gets wet or the ground gets wet. Nearly-Four has a fall in school and when she comes home its Silly Daddy that made her fall. If she has a pain in her tummy it Silly Daddy that is asked to make it better.

If Daddy explains how to do something, Nearly-Four will look imploringly at D’Better Half and seek assurances from her that Silly Daddy, that auld codger, actually knows what he is talking about.

And to make sure I know my place beanie is in her walker laughing at me every time that Nearly-Four says the words Silly Daddy. No I’m not paranoid. They are laughing AT me! 

So Silly Daddy is becoming a fixture in our household. Which is one thing but when the local shop assistant, or the person at the cinema ticket office is told I am Nearly-Fours “Silly Daddy”, I do begin to wonder just how far the term will extend. Will I be introduced to her teachers as “Silly Daddy”? Will Silly Daddy be bringing her to her Scouting or Guides in years to come? Will Silly Daddy be told to behave himself and not frighten away future love interests? Will I be known as Silly Granddad? Is my headstone going to read Silly Daddy!!! 

Even so, being a Silly Daddy is far from the worse thing I can be. I can still make my princess’s smile and laugh and turn a frown or a sulk into a smile. The sulk disappears when I tell her I can see the smile starting to appear at the side of her mouth and get her to try and look for it.

I can still make her tummy better. If I can just discover why a tummy rub eases all ills I could patent it and make my fortune with Silly Daddies miracle tummy Rub!
Apparently I can heal cuts and bruises to. Silly Daddy Kisses can make a bruise on the elbow or a graze on the knee all better. The stubbed stinky toes require not only a Silly Daddy Kiss but also a feigned grimace and collapse because of the stinky toes!

And best of all I believe Silly Daddy is still good to cuddle up to and fall asleep on.

If those are the payments for being called Silly Daddy then that is fine with me.

Sometimes you’re good and sometimes you aren’t. I come in, tired. It was a long day; but the girls are waiting. Cuteness wrapped over insatiable energy. Already, there’s pressure behind the eyes; but you push back. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” The joys are intermittent, like now: Sunshine jumps up for a hug, while Starlight goes like a kanga hammer, bouncing on the floor. Their smiles are beaming something energising into me. I pick them both up and ask how their day was. 

“I pulled Starlight’s hair and then she pulled mine….” Oh dear. Calmly, I try to explain that this isn’t very nice. That energy gets depleted as Sunshine wanders off and picks up some colours with which to decorate the furniture. I stop her, just in time; much to her own chagrin. My wife tells me they’ve been a handful all day. Sunshine running wild in the house, playground and even out for a walk. Starlight, for her part has recited a warbling moan all day (this still going, thumping that pressure at the back of my eyes). Well, it’s late enough, so we get them ready for bed. 

Sunshine doesn’t much feel like going to bed. “Five minutes!” she cries, over and over. We agree to give her five minutes while wrestling Starlight to get her pyjamas on. She’s still doing her Bessie Smith. 

Stories are promised, and here comes that joy again. Something to push you on a bit. Well, we go with the Three Little Pigs. Always a magical number, what with it’s moral caution for property developers and porky know-it-alls alike. For some reason our edition has managed to miss the whole “Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin/ Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff…” It’s not the children’s fault, but I’m downright annoyed that the best bit has been excised from this book, which instead contends the wolf said “Let me in”, the pig said “No”, so the wolf just went ahead and blew the various houses down. But Sunshine doesn’t know why my finger leaves the page. I normally point at the words as I read them, like an anchor – but when one is making a straw man, there’s little that you can anchor to. The first pig had this problem also. 

She keeps grabbing my finger to place it. I keep drawing it back, “They’re not the words” I tell her, forgetting completely the point of story time. We get to the end, but my dramatic retelling of the badly refashioned story has Sunshine keyed up for another story. I tell her it’s time for sleep and goodnight; also I have to go and check on Starlight. Sunshine says “You check on Starlight, then you can read me another STORY!” I say we’ll see. 

Starlight, all this time, has given up her Bessie Smith bit; a seven month Hank Williams is drawing a teddy bear across the bars of her cot, warbling something like “Why don’t you love me like you used to do?” Oh dear. Again. I lie her back down, this cowboy baby chancing her luck with the usually softer parent. I put a dummy in her mouth and try to coo her to sleep.

Soon it’s clear this won’t work. Every so often, this won’t work. Once she sees you, she’s up for playtime. The only way to get her to sleep is to let her cry it out. A torture for all concerned; wondering whether your nerve will hold, or whether you might as well move on to another tactic. The second pig had this problem also.

As I coo her a little longer, Sunshine comes crashing in, book in one hand, Baby Susie (the doll that goes with her everywhere) in the other. “Daddyyyy… I want a STORY!” That breaks the spell on Hank Williams, who now launches into a full scale scream. Oh Christ, why me? 

Then I lose it. 

I snap, shouting at Sunshine to go back to her bed; and Starlight jumps with the sudden sound. Frankly, I’m happy to share the laughs, but these frustrations are my own. So that’s as much as I’m willing to say. Suffice it to say, it had not the desired effect (when does it ever?) but instead, had the girls further upset. 

In my head, at that point in time, what is important here is the discipline: they have to learn to obey me as their parent, but they also need to get their sleep – for their own sakes. It’s a long road to travel, but the results are always better. The third pig had this problem also. 

I feel immediately guilty and slink back into Sunshine’s room, where she will have none of me – demanding her mother. As I start to trudge down the stairs, my wife is already coming up. “There’s no need to shout like that” she says. “For one thing, it’ll only wake them when their meant to be going to sleep”. She is right, but I don’t reply; I am caught in the sudden realisation that as pig headed as I may get, tonight I was no third pig. I was a big bad wolf.

I hate the phrase ‘it’s just like learning to ride a bike’ it’s a load of old tosh. Nothing is like learning to ride a bike, nothing comes close at all. Between that and swimming, I don’t think there is a harder thing for a kid to learn. I learnt both at the same time, and I don’t mean at the same age. I mean within 10 seconds of each other.

My Dad took me over the local park to teach me, a typical father/son outing. As with most kids, it looked like I was never going to get it, and then all of a sudden everything clicked into place. I was riding on my own, this was easy, and I was so pleased with myself. I remember feeling the wind rushing through my hair and I remember turning round to wave at Dad. I remember the bike veering suddenly and I remember heading down the hill towards the pond. What I forgot, was where the brakes were or how to use them.

But do you know what’s harder than learning to ride a bike? Trying to buy one, that’s what. I spent last Saturday trying to buy my 5 year old her first bike without stabilisers. A fairly simple task you would think, after all, we live right near a branch of a major national bike and car accessory shop. At first I thought the problem would be that they have too many models of bike to choose from, but she picked out the one she wanted and the price suited me, so no issues there.

Unfortunately they didn’t have any in stock, but after the kind man checked his computer, he informed me that the branch 30 minutes down the road did. I wish he had used the same computer that they use in Little Britain, the one that always said no. At least I would have saved myself the journey, because lo and behold they had none in stock there either. Nor did the next one that was another 20 minutes down the road, their computer actually said they had three in stock. Do I really need to tell you how many they actually had in stock? Have a gold star, you guessed right, none.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and I guess I’m just dumb enough to be asking for it. The conversation I had with the spotty teenager in the 4th branch of Halfwits went something like this.
“Hi, I’m hoping you can help me. I have been told you have a Sparkle 16” bike in stock and I really need to buy it off you, will that be possible?”

“Erm let me check my computer. Yes we do have one in stock but it’s the display model.”

“Excellent, as long as it has two wheels and a handlebar then I’ll take it, is there any discount as it’s shop soiled?”

“I’m afraid not, any item we can still order from Head Office cannot be discounted.”

“You’re kidding right? You know what, I’m not bothered, I’ll pay full price.”

“Sorry, I don’t really want to sell it to you, it’s too much hassle when they get returned.”

“Believe me, after all the aggro I’ve been through, I won’t be returning it.”

“I still don’t want to sell it to you.”

“Listen mate, if you don’t sell me that bike, one of two things will happen. The first is that I walk out of here in a simmering rage back to my car. In that car are my Wife and two fighting screaming kids, all of whom have been sitting in a car that is doing a decent impression of an oven right now. An oven we have been driving around in for 2 hours, just trying to find this particular bike. I will open the door to the car and before I can utter a single word, my wife, who is quite intuitive, will notice I don’t have a bike under my arm. She will then start telling me, in a voice that is one notch too loud, that she cannot understand why I can’t even manage to buy a bike without it becoming a song and dance. She will have a point, but that doesn’t make hearing it any easier, so I will probably snap back some kind of nasty retort. We will probably trade insults and throw in some still-festering arguments for good measure. One of the kids will start to kick the back of my seat, whilst the other one shouts and screams and demands food. After about 149 seconds of this, something inside of me will snap. I will exit the car, my wife still reminding me what a failure I am and I will go to the boot. When there I will look for something sharp, but failing that, settle for my golf umbrella. I will then wedge the handle of my umbrella against the kerb, place the tip of it against by heart and with a calm look of acceptance on my face, throw myself upon it. This will be done with such force that the umbrella will pass through me down to the handle, the wind will pick up, and the umbrella will pop open. Upon hearing all the screams, you will rush outside and see my still grinning carcass being blown around the car park, my wife chasing it shouting “you couldn’t even kill yourself properly.” With a speed of mind that belies the dumb arse look on your face, you capture my final moments on your phone. You will post the video clip on YouTube and it will go viral within a week. You also upload the stills to your Twitter account and gain yourself 113 new followers. A year will pass, and you forget all about me. Five years later you will actually find somebody to marry you, but between you and me, she’s only agreed because she’s five months pregnant. Oh and the real father is your best man Derek, but you won’t find that out until the kid turns eight. But when little Del is five, you will take him out one hot Saturday morning to buy his first bike. As you stand there listening to the spotty little oik behind the counter tell you that there are no bikes in stock because of the rising cost of aluminium in China, you will remember me, and you will start to cry and you will never be able to stop.”

“What’s the second thing that could happen?”

“You can explain to my wife why we can’t have the bike.”

“The bike is yours sir, and here’s a complimentary safety helmet.”

Summer holidays are now complete and while D’Better Half and myself may realise this, Nearly Four is determined to drag them out until sometime near Christmas!

As a perpetual hater of travel on planes with toddlers, I refuse to consider holidays where flights are concerned. We have agreed to take holidays by ferry until the girls are big enough to drag their own small bags behind them as we run through airport arrivals halls. That’s our logic anyway but it does tie in with getting to see our family members in the UK quite well. So this year, once again it was a “trip on the big boat to see your cousins and uncles and aunties” that Nearly Four was presented with as her holiday.

In the weeks leading up to the trip the excitement built. At one point it seemed as if I would have to hire a bus in order to accommodate all the family and friends that Nearly Four decided to invite along. In the end the four of us squeezed into the car and headed for Rosslare in late May. I don’t drive a particularly small car (Scenic) but after spending a number of hours the previous night packing, unpacking and repacking the car and then figuring out what could be squeezed into the car as well as the boot, I came to the realisation that no matter how big the car, I will always have the same car packing problems.

The requirements of what to bring seem to expand to fit the boot space available plus 20% (give or take, it’s not an exact science). Then, once your relatives hear you are visiting them you are suddenly asked if you wouldn’t mind picking up a box of one thing or a packet of another. No problem you think, until you realise after you have everything in the car with nice cubbyholes provided for all family members travelling, that there are still four bags of things to be brought over. No point asking why you didn’t include them in the “luggage” as you are the one that put the luggage together. So the car stuffing, that’s right it’s not packing any more, gets one more revision.

The boat itself is something that Nearly Four loves. The BFD isn’t quite so enamoured by walking around the boat in circles as she shows you the passing sea from every window she can find. The gentle sway takes me about half an hour to get used to but Nearly Four seems to have automatic Sea Legs. This time we went outside as the weather was lovely and sound found ourselves on the very top of the boat having a good look around. Getting back to D’Better Half and Beanie and they were hit by a barrage of words spluttered from nearly four, each word racing ahead of the next one, as she tried to cram in everything she had seen in the past twenty minutes into a twenty second conversation.

Beanie wasn’t amused. I could tell because she was looking at me as if to ask why we were disturbing them. If she had been able to speak I imagine the conversation would have gone something like this:

“What are you doing? Weren’t you told to take her away and keep her busy? Look, I love my big sister and I understand that this is quite an exciting experience for her. Look I am excited too. Yayyyy! Happy. Now, we are on a boat. Great. I can tell because it rocks nicely from side to side and occasionally up and down. 

“Sorry, am I boring you, only you look a bit green suddenly? Oh it’s the rocking and swaying, is it. Don’t notice it myself. Back to business. My simple point is, on land I require three things. Feed me, Change me and let me sleep. On a boat I require three things. Can you guess what they are? Very good, the same three things! 

“Now be a good Daddy and bring Big Sis there for another trip around the boat while I try and catch forty winks”.  So Nearly Four and myself went on another walk and found the shops and those crazy machines where you pump in money and try to grab a soft toy with a claw that is obviously too big. But it keeps her happy so you do it.

The holiday was great and the families were all thrilled to see Beanie who smiled and gurgled for everyone. We even managed to get a decent photo of the two girls together. And now we are home and we are all back in the swing of things. Well almost all of us. Nearly Four tells everyone she is still on her holidays and is counting down to her next boat trip. By that stage beanie will be toddling around as well. That probably means twice as many laps of the boat.�
It’s a good job the relatives are only a short boat trip away in the UK!

In the spirit of Desperate Housewives, imagine Brenda Strong’s voice… “Bren and Sunshine went to Innocent for a coffee morning, where Bren realised his daughter was already embarrassed by him, 11 years earlier than he thought… then, as they navigated London to get to the aquarium, he realised why…” And, against the spirit of Desperate Housewives, this will be the last post on our epic journey to London. Now, put the gun down and read on!

Well, we finally made it to the Aquarium. It was about 3.45, and Sunshine was covered in Smoothie bits, face paints and a discarded ice cream. I had reservations for the Rainforest Café at 6.30. And I had no idea how to get there. But I had a little money in my pocket and a fistful of tissues, which I dutifully, granny-like spat on and wiped her face with.

“Daddyyyy! That’s Dis GUSTING!” she said, in her best Peppa Pig voice. 

We push in through the door. A kindly lady telling us we didn’t need to join any particular queue – which seemed obvious, even to me, given that there were two queues, four cashiers and plenty of space/room for everyone. It is an aspect of London tourism that I notice every time. People have a job to do (of course). In their job, they seem to have guidelines (or perhaps, strict, unbreakable, ‘your-fired-if-you-don’t-abide-by-them’ rules) that tell them how their job should be done. And they do them that way, whether it makes sense or not. 

Sunshine (2 and a half) was in for free (bonus!). For somehere near, but not quite £20, I got a ticket for myself and a stern warning: “You are welcome to use a camera, but there can be no flash photography”.

We were sent down a hallway, at the corner of which was a backdrop to one of those “I was at this attraction” photo services. It was a 3D thing, with a rock display at the  front for that believable (?) “I’m in the middle of all these fish!” effect. 

Here it begins, I thought. Sunshine loves getting her photo taken (something I abhor), and to have it so that she’s with the fishies? There’s no way I can say no to that. Twenty years hence, it would haunt me…”Daddy,” she would say, inexplicably speaking and looking the same, despite being 22 “my therapist says I crashed the car and trashed the house because you denied me an opportunity to self-express photographically at a key attraction twenty years ago…” All these decisions. Not for the first time, I wished my wife were here. Abandon hope, all ye dads who entertain two year olds without the supervision of a registered mother.

“Daddy! Daddy!” shouted Sunshine, running up to the display, looking in behind the rocks. Her face dropped. “Daddy?” she said, turning her head to my bustling form, dragging the pram which was half folded around me. “All the fishies are GONE!” 

“No, they’re not” I assured her. I turned her round the corner where a “Woooooooo” worth every penny (and more) of that £20 was uttered. A sharp turn right, and we walked up to a large, round open-topped tank, where many, many fish swam. Some even jumped from the water. I nearly had a woo moment of my own. I do wish I could tell you the names of all these fish, as well as their genus, phylum and what have yous, but I was summarily dragged from one part of the tank to another to say hello to all the fishies that mattered. There was signage, interesting information, and even a sort of quiz game thing for youngsters installed around the tank. But none of this was of interest to a two and a half year old. That said – if you had older kids as well, they could be well entertained and informed (god forbid “educated”) as well. We looked at the little fishies, then the big fishies. Then one of the rays jumped over the surface of the water, Sunshine screamed and we both ran down the next corridor.

Where the next “Wooooo” was heard. I’ll spare you all the “Wooooos”;  take it for granted they came with every turn we made. Whether it was to illuminated jellyfish, or wall tanks of crazy fish, darting here and there, or more subdued tanks of smaller, quieter and altogether more philosophic creatures. This Woooo was for the walls, which were tanks. Not quite – but to all intents and purposes (and especially to anyone under 5ft tall), pretty much the same thing. Whole scenes of underwater life, living as it does. It was remarkable. 

And then you turn around, and see what I can only imagine is a tank of maybe 2 storeys, maybe more, in height. This was my woooo. A giant turtle glided its way through the middle water; other fish sniffed at the floor and sharks circled in a menacing timidity (they were, after all, in a big tank!). We went over and looked over, up, down – both Sunshine and I enchanted by these creatures of the deep. Right here, just a few meters away from all the noise and traffic of London. “Look Daddy!” said Sunshine, pointing to a hammer head shark gliding in circles up and down around the tank. “Looooook!” 

It turned downward, swerved toward us and ascended in one swift motion. I was in the middle of Woooo, as Sunshine shrieked, running to the other side of the room, back to the more timid fish-in-the-wall. Some of the other folks laughed, some turned with a sort of have-a-go hero look on their faces (”Who can I beat up to fix this?”) and someone from the aquarium came rushing in. Sunshine was red faced, her head in my shoulder as I, red faced explained the Shark Incident to the staff member, who chuckled it off.

We went on, around the winding corridors and met my only complaint of the whole experience. Half way through the aquarium path is a jelly shop. You know, all the 1p sweets (or at least that’s how I know them), available for something like £1.50, as much as you can fit in a smoothie like plastic cup with lid. I had another 20-years-hence moment and remembered how much I happened to like sweets when I was young. I fished around my pockets for change (sorry, couldn’t resist), and we went to the wall of plastic containers to find the jellies that princesses or Peppa Pig or the like might eat. I don’t mind the jellies – and even said this to the woman who sold us the sweets – it was the size of the container! If Sunshine ate all the sweets that fit into it, she’d surely end in a bad sugar-driven lunacy, with the standard associated vomiting (this, my non-medical degree diagnosis). The lady shrugged, and I shrugged and Sunshine chewed on a jelly and said “Come on Daddy”

We eventually left the aquarium some 90 minutes after we entered – which is pretty good going with a two and a half year old, tantrum free. Next, I had to find the Rainforest Café.

Reciting an old song I learned as a child in my head (Ask a policeman!), we found our way from Westminster up to Piccadilly (a decent walk, which worked well with Sunshine, who had spent so much time with her head under a roofs and roadways all day).

But by the time we got there, Sunshine was fading. We went through a shop full of merchandise (the only caution I’d give – Sunshine went straight for the teddies, as children will!) to a booth where they took your booking. I gave the lady there my name and told her we had a booking. They only keep tables for 15 minutes. She walkie-talkied down to someone who said “What time did they book for?” 

“6:30″

“Well, what time is it now?”

“6:43″

“Oh. Right. Well. You better let them down then” That London tourism-by-rules thing again (although to be fair, they were packed). The lady sent us down the stairs, where we entered a prosthetic Jungle, right there in the middle of the city. There were vines and trees, animal and jungle noises all around. A starry night was picked out on the ceiling with spotlights. A bar area had some people waiting for tables. Some turning themselves into monkeys as they did, but not too many (this seemed strange to me, as I really was only there for the sake of a two year old – going to a theme restaurant like this wouldn’t be my idea of a hot date, no matter how tropical the rainforest). We were led in through various tables perhaps built by Tarzan, while a large monkey groaned in our direction and an Elephant trumpeted our entrance (or, that’s how I would have it). Whatever about Sunshine, I didn’t know if I’d make it through dinner at this point. We had a great meal all the same, although Sunshine didn’t quite last the pace. She got a good deal for herself: they did a ‘pack’ thing, which included the standard colours and book, a face mask, some cards and other bits and pieces. 

I think I paid aroung £15 for that, which came with a dinner, desert and drink. Pricey, but it was the middle of London, and (had she not been tired), I’m pretty confident it would have kept her entertained for the length of time it would take to eat a dinner. As it happened, I myself had time only to eat a burger before Sunshine herself asked to go home. She was tired, and ready for bed.  I’d love more space to give The Rainforest Café a decent review: the food was good, the price was good enough, given that it was centre of London. It was a spectacular way to round off a hectic, misguided and altogether unforgettable day in London.