To celebrate the release of OLD DOGS, released in Irish cinemas on March 19th, dad.ie is delighted to giveaway 10 sets of Family Passes to see an exclusive preview screening of the movie in Dundrum on Monday March 15th.

Just answer this simple question:

What age are the twins in Old Dogs?

E-Mail your answer, name, address and contact number to editor@dad.ie  

Closing Date: Midnight Thursday 11th of March

“Old Dogs”

www.olddogsmovie.ie

Two best friends—one unlucky-in-love divorcee (ROBIN WILLIAMS) and the other a fun-loving bachelor (JOHN TRAVOLTA)—have their lives turned upside down when they’re unexpectedly charged with the care of 7-year-old twins while on the verge of the biggest business deal of their lives.  The not-so-kid-savvy bachelors stumble in their efforts to take care of the twins (newcomers ELLA BLEU TRAVOLTA and CONNER RAYBURN), leading to one debacle after another, and perhaps to a new-found understanding of what’s really important in life.

It will take some imagination to read this post. For example, I’m going to start by saying the following: “It is Sunday morning, and I am having coffee while Sunshine plays with her cups” Now, I have no idea whether it is Sunday when you are reading it. I must confess it’s not a Sunday as I write. But, with a leap of faith you can make it so in your head. That’s the beauty of imagination. So, here we go.

It is Sunday morning and I am having coffee while Sunshine plays with her cups. “Cups” is the word we use for these magical containers. They are a series of coloured half cylinders, each one marked with a number. Each numbered cylinder fits into the cylinder with the next consecutive number. So, 1 fits into 2, which fits into 3. This works all the way up to ten. Pink, green, blue… all the way up to red. We call them ‘cups’ because we have no other name for these magical toys. Also, Sunshine used to get so excited by them, we would say “Oh look, she’s in her cups!” winking knowingly at each other.

These cups have lasted over a year now. First, they were simply building blocks, one fitting into the other, or reversed, so that one fit on top of another to fashion a tower. This tower was then destroyed with a gleeful swipe of the arm. After time, the cups became containers for anything that might be found. Hair clips and ties, pieces of broccoli or carrot (read: pizza or sausage), toys small enough or broken enough to fit. Recently, though, these cups have come into their own. They are “washed like mummy and daddy do”, which, to those of you who do not live in our house, means she can do a wash up with them, like one might wash the dishes. She prepares for this, by taking a chair from the table and lining it up to the sink. Then, a smock is taken from the drawer, which mummy or daddy puts on her in preparation.  The cups are retrieved from their place on the floor, or random drawer where they have been deposited. Then, it’s all taps are go!

Sometimes, a drop of washing up liquid is included to add bubble fun. But usually, the water runs from the tap, into one cup then the next. As the water overflows into the sink and down the drain, something extraordinary happens. New worlds are formed, constellations of glittering water and blurred colours as the cups pass under the tap and through the flow of water. Sunshine holds court, telling the cups about the whole washing experience. Asking Pink if bubbles are required, telling Blue “You go on the side now”, as the cup is placed – open end down – to drain.

You could sing a rainbow, but conceiving the flash of colour and movement is almost impossible to describe.  They glitter and sparkle, conjuring with them characters and events, stories and mythologies, kingdoms raised and careers destroyed: all narrated by the seeming babble of a two year old voice.

Sunshine is in her own world with these cups. Sometimes we are invited, although never for long. After a contrived attempt to help us understand what she’s trying to say, Sunshine will shoo us away, impatient at our obvious ineptitude with her language. She uses some of ‘our’ words every now and then, but is generally intolerant of these foreigners to her imagination. Trying to teach her our language is causing difficulty. With a hundred ways to say “Play”, how could she downgrade to  such an obviously inferior form of communication? All we are left with is the certain knowledge that the damage we have done to ourselves with TV and DVDs and the Internet will have to be undone. Sunshine, and her new sibling, Starlight, will be guiding us through this process. We know it will be fun. It’s going to take some imagination to raise these children.

Once again, I stagger in, thrust by the wind and my will to escape it, trailing doggy doos behind. Its ‘doggy doos’ while Sunshine is in her pram. It’s ‘doggy doos’ as we mop and brush and say “Yuck! It’s dirty!” hoping to put her off picking it up and trying some of what looks like chocolate. It’s ‘doggy doos’ right up until she goes to bed.

Once safely asleep and detached from grown up concerns, Sunshine basks in her dreams as we argue about the dog shit I dragged into the house, all over the hallway and kitchen. I am resolute: this is not my fault. It is dark out there, and people should clean up after their dogs. She is resolute: I am right, but naive. Allegedly, everyone cleans up after their dog, so there is nothing to be done about the ‘gifts’ for our heels and wheels left on the side of the road. Nothing, except make sure we don’t walk into them. I, being male, cannot accept this reasoning. Why not drop nappies all over the place, and let people walk around them?

Why is a dog’s mess ‘cleaner’ than a human mess? My wife tells me I’m being foolish, coming across all righteous and indignant. Much as I am in this post. Of course, my wife is right (there, I’ve said it). Dog mess is always caused by someone else’s animal. If you are standing there watching it happen, they will swear blind it’s ‘the first time it’s ever happened’. It’s strange, because everyone tells you how well-trained their dogs are.

If I had a deerstalker and a doctor friend, I would investigate: In estates all around the country, there are Baskerville hounds, dirtying pavements and gardens everywhere, while unsuspecting men, women and children swerve mercilessly about the place to avoid it, lest they cover their floors and carpets in it. In the dark, it is unavoidable. You can hurtle yourself along the path, feeling healthy and exercised, a God among men. Unlike God, there is that sudden deceleration, perhaps a squelch, but always certain knowledge: You have prammed through the unmentionable. To whit, “Shit” is what you say because that is exactly what has happened. It’s all fun and games, and I will admit, I cared little until I had children. Or, more specifically, until I had a child who randomly picks things up off the ground, anything.

During one of my healthy walks along the Curragh of County Kildare, Sunshine attempted to pick up and consume what she thought was a bounty of raisins. Your question may be “Well, why aren’t you complaining about sheep?” But the point is this: I chose to take my child to a repository of Sheep dung for a walk. I didn’t choose my house based on the amount of dog soilage evident in the area. And, while I whine on, trying to get my neighbours to do something about their dogs, my wife is (once again) the voice of reason. Nobody’s dog shits all over the road, path and green. Nobody’s going to take responsibility for it.

So in closing, it’s up to us to prevent our kids from stepping in it, picking it up, or consuming it, much as we will when they are older – and in so many respects – we have to guide our kids away from all this crap!

We had terrible trouble naming our children. We have two now, a small number compared to the index cards, name dictionaries and websites used to identify, analyse and collect names that could be suitably applied to a girl or a boy.  

As anyone reading this will know – that name is monumental, you really feel like this is going to influence, perhaps even chart, your child’s whole existence. Every name has a dictionary-like meaning, a sound that may, or may not suit your surname. Most importantly, I think, every name has a resonance and experiential meaning for you and your partner (you know what I mean “I once knew a Karl, but he was…”). 

Also, I hope I don’t offend anyone with any of the names mentioned, or who have named their child. Remember, as much as meanings, you go through the whole process of matching it to your surname to make sure it’ll scan right. Preaching over, let’s go on. Our, or, my wife’s – organisation was impeccable. Our discussions, impractical. We’d be watching The Sopranos and say something like “Anthony for a boy?” A mad rush to the list of lists to identify the list that the name “Anthony” was on, only to find it at last struck off beside the ominous comment “Anthony Soprano. Or worse, AJ!” This despite our derisive laughter whenever we hear the name “Britney Kylie Hoorihan” or “Shilo Suri McGinty” or somesuch.

Then, I adopted the Homer Simpson Approach. Every name was diligently reconfigured using each letter from the alphabet to avoid the evident rhyming slang. That got rid of Doc, Regina and Bob, among others that I couldn’t bring myself to spell here. (Famously, Homer went through “A-art, B-art, C-art, D-art, E-art… yeah, that should be fine. Bart”). 

My wife soon lost her patience with all this. I was primarily a negative influence on our discussions. She would suggest names, which I would complain about for some reason or another – they wouldn’t be named after family members, they wouldn’t be those preppy American names, they wouldn’t be difficult to pronounce Irish names (as I know no Irish myself), and they couldn’t also be other words. “If you had your way” she would say “they wouldn’t have any names at all! What would you call them? Numbers?” I thought about this, but couldn’t stand the thought of yet another PIN in my life. There are too many in the world already. So I put my shoulder to the wheel, took out the index cards and said “Frank”. 

To this, my wife laughed. She couldn’t see herself having a Frank. “Besides,” she said, “What about a ‘Frank’ discussion? Your rule about names that were words?” She had me there. Our debates continued, erratically, at odd times and in odd locations and moments. Often, we’d pitch three names and see how the other took them. “What time is it?” Would be answered with “Andrew, Jeffrey, Leo.” 

Some time into all this, my wife says: “What if we have a girl?” A mad rush, and the whole cycle repeats itself. “Emily, Charlotte, Anne?” as we look up at Wuthering Heights on the bookshelf. “Heathcliff for a boy?” comes the reply. We were stuck on this boy thing.

And then our first daughter was born. We had a name picked out, but I cannot remember it. Almost immediately, we knew who she was, we knew her name. Then we realised we each knew a different name for her. After some discussion we agreed on one of the names (in these blog posts, that name is “Sunshine”). Our second child was not so lucky. Again, we were only really prepared for a boy. Ben was the one name, male or otherwise we could agree on. In fairness, the second time round, we were better prepared for the possibility that a child could be born female. There was a list of girls’ names as long as the pregnancy.  But when ‘she’ was born, none fit her properly at all.  We had to try a few on before we found the right one. It was late, and the name itself snuck up on us, as if we glimpsed it in the corner of our eyes, but had to turn to see it properly. In these posts, that name will be “Starlight.”

My son Mate has been two for as long as I can remember, he doesn’t seem to have ever been any other age. Everything he does or has done, seem to be on the very limits of that learning year, for better or worse. This morning for example, I sat and watched him build a really complex tower of bricks. It seemed to have turrets, stairs, it even had windows. I’m sure it was all in my imagination, but even discounting my über-biased eye it was quite impressive. He then got up, spun around in a circle a couple of times, and walked smack bang into a wall. 

He does that kind of thing a lot. He will spontaneously count out pieces of a jigsaw up to 20, and then eat one of them. Or put together an intricate maze of train track with bridges, tunnels and sweeping turns, then sit on the tiny train and expect it to whisk him around his creation. He will often lovingly and patiently hand feed our rabbits, then throw his teddy around the room in a temper when it fails to ingest a pencil. 

Maybe it’s all those reasons that make him seem like a permanent two year old, or maybe it’s just that I now live and breathe in ‘Parent-Time’. This should not be confused with ‘Part-Time’ or ‘Party-Time’ because, as all new parents swiftly discover, both part and party have now been banished to the annals of ancient history. 

In Parent-Time there is not 24 hours in a day, there are not enough hours in a day. In Parent-Time your child’s school play lasts three hours, not the advertised 45 minutes. Then to make matters worse, her two minute appearance finishes in 15 seconds. In Parent-Time the ten minute popping into the Supermarket for a quick top up shop, takes an hour. In Parent-Time every child is the same age, ‘Pain-in-the-Butt’ is a number right? 

GMT and BST now stand for Growing Manic Toddler and Bored Sarcastic Teenager. For those on the other side of the pond, CST now becomes Childs Schizophrenic Temper, and for those in upside-down land, CDT will transport me back in time to my school days and Cruel Determined Torture lessons. 

Last week I spent a whole morning researching the concept of the ‘time space continuum’. This was prompted initially by my four year old daughter’s relentlessly asked question “Is it the future yet?” My standard reply was “well, tomorrow is the future, yesterday is the past, and today is today, but tomorrow, tomorrow will become today, today will become yesterday, and yesterday will become the day Dad forgot to pack your PE kit.” I began to feel she needed a better explanation, and the boy was having one of those ever-changing-nappy mornings. The decision to escape to the shed with the laptop and a beer was an easy and relatively guilt free one. 

Between Einstein, Minkowski and Euclid, the general consensus seems to be about defining ‘is’ in all its four dimensions, or pinpointing a particular place and time. In practical terms this could be equated to trying to get out on one of those rare nights without the kids. You would have to combine the kids playing up downstairs, the babysitter constantly moving back and forth between the fridge and sofa, and the Wife being left on her own to get her makeup right. All this would then have to hit the perfectly timed moment of cab arrival, the driver of which operates on Newton’s lesser know theory of Buggeration. In broad strokes this means that if you are early and ready, he will turn up late. If, as is the usual, you are running both late and around like a blue arsed fly, then he will be outside honking his horn ten minutes early. 

Despite my reading all this material from some of the world’s most brilliant minds, not one of them managed to answer the most important question. 

Why is it that whatever time your child gets up, it is always too early? 

Mate will be 3 in March 2014