It starts with-”Five minutes to bedtime Danny.”  Which is answered with-”Yeah OK Dad.”  Sometimes Danny even goes as far to say “that’s fine.”  Then, when the time comes, there are sometimes tears and tantrums.

Our attempts to calm him down whilst applying logic begin brightly and positively.  “You need sleep so you can have more energy to play tomorrow.  If you’re a good boy and go to bed now, I’ll take you to the playground in the morning.”

Our smiles eventually fade though when trying to reason with him gets us nowhere and the bottom line is that we realise he’s just trying it on.

The dialogue sometimes ends with this:  “We’re going to call the sleep police.”

We’ve road tested this questionable ploy several times-on each occasion it has been successful. 

Here’s what we do.  Got a fake call utility on your phone?  You can record a voice (your own, pretending to be the local ’sleep police’ checking to see if the kids are in bed.) and when you hit a certain key your phone begins to ring.  We let our son hear the ‘cop’ on the other end asking if all the kids in the house are in bed.  If we get the timing right, any bedtime defiance by Danny usually vanishes quickly and instead he pleads: “I want to go to bed now!” 

We don’t feel great about what is essentially lying to our child but, we file it under the ‘little fib’ category to make ourselves feel better.  

At the end of a long day us parents need rest too and whilst we may have to resort to jedi mind tricks to get Danny to go to bed we know he doesn’t harbour any ill effects when he wakes up the following morning, comes into our bed and bids us good morning with a hug and a kiss each. 

In five minutes time Danny’s going to be a teenager presenting us with a whole new bunch of challenges, I’ll take whatever assistance I can get now-God bless the fake call utility!

All the while, I am thinking Shit. This bad language has seeped into Sunshine’s lexicon. Shit. I was raised with good, clean language. It has served me well. Sometime in my teens, I started cursing. I thought I liked it. I kept doing it. Now, cursing has become part of the rhythm of my conversation. Should I need a few syllables here or there (for decoration; for fear of sounding terse); I add them with curse words. This is ludicrous, adolescent, behaviour, and I have tried to stop since I had children. As I have tried to stop smoking. 

Sunshine is asking what an ‘asshole’ is because of what happened when I was parking the car (to come into this shop).  As I was lumbering backward with my jerky “this way/that way” steering, another driver (of whom there was no sign when I began my famously poor reversing) belting up the small, windy road of the village, jams on his brakes, beeps his horn and waves his hands like he was signalling a need to get home quickly to interfere with himself (as you can see, I am still bitter). So, under my breath I wondered whether he needed to be such an asshole.

Children view the world around them just like that – it is around them, and they are the centre. So Sunshine naturally thinks I am asking her whether she needs to be such an asshole. The only thing saving this daddy-daughter relationship is the fact that she does not know what an asshole is. It also helps that I am bringing her to the shop to buy a cheap DVD and a magazine because she is sick. 

Eventually, we get our DVD and magazines (one for Sunshine, one for Starlight), and home we go. I make up a sick bed for Sunshine – you know, the couch with blankets and cushions. Table pushed right up and FULL remote control privileges (which doesn’t mean much for a 4 year old, it should be admitted, as I still need to actually change the channel). This in itself seems quite a cure for Sunshine. But not enough. She labours through the day like her father labouring backwards into a parking spot. 

When Starlight gets home, Sunshine is feeling somewhat better, but not enough for her little sister’s manic energy. One child lies on the couch – evidently better, but feeling lazy from a day of recovery – the other is bouncing around the sitting room, singing a tuneless song about a child (Sunshine, specifically) lying on the couch. The lyrics are as random as the tune. As is the accompanying choreography.  Sunshine is holding forth about the music, the dance, the lyrics. At the top of her (weakened) voice. “Stop! Be Qu-I-Et! Dadeeeeee!” The two year old is being the tormentor, the four year old, the tormented (although “tormented” here means I got attention all to myself all day, and now I have to put up with this?). 

So, we get them out of the sitting room, and try to get them doing something. They play with some material, boxes and bits and pieces on the kitchen floor.

“Look Daddy!” says Sunshine, “I made and aeroplane and Teddy’s going to fly in it to Africa!”

“Wow! Where will Teddy go in Africa?”

“To the shops!” she says.

Starlight says “Look Daddy, I made a… a… thing!”

“Wow!” I say. “And what is that thing?”

“It’s a… a…. THING” she says. In triumph, she holds it up, turns it over and around. She looks at it, then me. These actions make everything obvious. It is quite clearly a thing, and for that, she cannot be faulted. 

Clearly these kids need to get out more, so last weekend; we retrieved the trampoline from the shed. The trampoline had gone in there last October, a gift from grandparents. Clearly my parent’s feel the children don’t bounce enough, or perhaps are not quite manic enough. Or, having raised four kids, they decided to show us the effect by doubling the bounce of our 2. A kind of passive-aggressive retribution, which I relish inflicting on my kids one day.

Before the kids could jump on it, it had to be built. So my brother (Tom Cruisalike) was summoned, with his sons, Red and Destruktor. He came seeking beer, he was handed a screwdriver and a set of instructions. I looked at him. He looked at me, quizzically.

“Well?”

“Well – what?” he asks

“WHAT DO I DO?!”

“Oh,” he says, “well, if you’re building this, I would lay everything out. Don’t just take random pieces from the box and shove them together.” He looks at the instructions. Turns it. Turns it. “Here” he says “These legs – lay them on the ground in a circle, like this” he turns this page of instructions over, so everyone can see where he is channelling this information from.  This is the kind of genius insight I needed. This is why he was summoned. Soon, sister and brother-in-law came, along with Chuckles, the girls’ cousin. Now we had a bunch of kids running around, helping us by passing over nuts, bolts and poles; then seeking our help in return

“Daddy, what’s this for?”

“I don’t know Sunshine. I really don’t know. But can you put it back so we don’t lose any pieces?”

“Here Daddy, I got you this…”

“Thanks love, but I don’t need it right now…”

“Why not? Aren’t you building the trampoline right now?”

“Yes, but I’m not building that bit, just yet.”

“Aren’t you going to finish it today?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Well, here. You’ll need this.” Piece of something dropped, child toddling off. Due to a pretty serious leg injury, my brother is walking around like Herr Flick from Allo Allo, checking the instructions, and translating the (to me) indecipherable markings of some technical writer in a land so far removed from reality, a trampoline can be represented by a circle and some spare Ws that were probably left behind when the bus picked up WWW for the Internet.  Obviously, my brother is some kind of ambassador for this land, or at least translator. Finally, we get the trampoline built, and the kids get on and get jumping. “Thanks Uncle Tom Cruisalike!” say the girls, and the boys, as my brother looks benevolently upon them, waving. I would interrupt, but I am sitting down, drinking tea, breathing heavily, sweating. 

This weekend, Starlight’s bed arrived. She will sleep in a bed now. We cannot quite get over it. When it arrived, her cot was still up, so we had to quickly dismantle it. No problem. Although a problem did arise. Not with removing the cot, or with bringing in the new bed, but with the Morbidity Analysis. That thing you do as a parent. Your child is going into a new environment. So you must calculate the number, risk and severity of methods by which your child could kill themselves in this environment. Then you must take steps to reduce the number, risk or severity of those things. Curtains are removed. The dangly bits on blinds thrown over the curtain rail (a temporary measure until we agree on either removing the blinds altogether or getting those things (screws in the wall?) with which to tie up the blind’s dangly bits.

Starlight runs around the room proclaiming “It’s my new bed! It’s MY new bed!”

Sunshine wastes no time pushing her up onto it, and showing her how to jump on it. We talk about putting the barriers on. But I have a problem with barriers. We had them on Sunshine’s bed. Starlight once used them as bouncing assists (a fulcrum and weight bearer), to get higher and higher until eventually, she swung herself from the bed, onto the floor, landing on her head. A night in Tallaght hospital later, she was fine, but I was (and am) suspicious of the value of bumpers. Yes, they prevent the child from rolling off the bed. But on the other hand, they can be exploited by a child’s imagination for use as some form of extreme toddler acrobatics.

Between Sunshine, Starlight and their friend who lives next door, discover the bed is on castors. They set about moving the bed around the room. Sometimes as a ship (with one pushing and one or two on the bed)

Such are the vagaries of parenthood.

A brief consultation with my GP and I had hoped that the waiting list would be endless but damn the efficiency of the NHS – less than 3 weeks later and my appointment came through. The inevitable was no longer such.

The day of the op came and with much fear – I’m a modern man and very much embrace the ability to be an utter wuss – I headed down to my local hospital. Modern hospital day surgery is quite amazing for those that haven’t been in a while. Production style wards have patients booked in for a huge range of different surgical procedures; they ship them in and out within the half day. I was surrounded by other menfolk getting surgery, all quite happy to talk about their knee ops, removal of broken bone pins yet none spoke of vasectomies. Part of me hoped that there had been a terrible administrative mistake that I would get a last minute reprieve and had been booked in on the wrong day, but this was merely panic induced despair.

Now reclining in a very fetching surgical gown that made me feel exceptionally vulnerable as most of my back end was open to viewing, I was approached by the first round of the medical team to prod and poke at my testicles.

I was asked if I could get them out, no turning back at this stage so I duly presented them and was complimented that they looked fine. I know that, didn’t need a doctor to tell me my testicles were fine, they’d served me well for many years but somehow this put me at ease – the process had started there was no turning back now.

The next person came along and gave me an electric razor and asked me to go and “prepare” myself. Panic ran across my little mind – I’ve not done this before – how do you go about preparing yourself? I didn’t want to look a complete muppet, so armed with what seemed like a fairly innocuous shaving instrument, I headed off to restyle my pubic region.

Never in my life have I used a more lethal electric razor, in no time at all my testicles were bleeding profusely – never get fooled by NHS shaving equipment – I reckon you could amputate with these tools and I was bleeding before even getting to the op room.

Next up I was called into the operating room where, yes I was the lucky one to be asked if I would mind some training medical staff “observing”. No less than 7 people in the room to do what is meant to be a quick snip had the pleasure of watching a now stuttering wreck with bleeding genitalia.

First off the anaesthetist started making small talk – I was now in the “zone” concentrating on blocking out reality and the small gathering as he proceeded to batter my testicles with a large wad of iodine laced cotton wool with what I can best describe as barbecue tongs. That was painful enough, being smacked about your testicles by a prong is no bundle of laughs but then the proper pain started as he pulled out his syringe laden in local anaesthetic. Syringes in your testicles is not a pleasant experience – magnify the pain of the dentist trying to numb a bad tooth and transpose that to your gonads and you may be able to imagine a modicum of the discomfort.

The surgeon and anaesthetist are at this stage making small talk and asking me random questions – nah, don’t talk to me I’m in the “zone” – I’m blocking it all out, the anaesthetist is giving my testicles a further good battering and asking if I can feel anything. The surgeon reaches for a scalpel and I’m sweating, my heart is racing, there is a good chance I’m going to pass out but I catch the eyes of one of the gathering and try to focus on that. That doesn’t work and the sweat is pouring off me, there’s one of those Magic Eye posters on the ceiling – never worked for me when in a good mental state and the only image I am seeing is despair.

The first cut is made – or so I’m told as the operating screen thankfully blocks out the gruesome reality – and then it seems to be all hands on deck – well certainly on my deck. I can’t feel a thing but imagine fingers going into my testicles and then the finishing off, stitches going in and my testicles seemingly lifted as they appear to be tied like an old pair of boots. That’s it, it’s finished and the gathering thank me for allowing them to observe. I make a stupid joke that it was all my pleasure and get wheeled out of the surgery room back into the holding pen.

A couple of hours later and sensation is coming back to my nether regions. The first feeling is of intense smarting from my adventures with the razor, followed by what I can only describe as feeling like you’ve been kicked in the balls. I’m offered a cup of tea, the somehow miraculous hot beverage that got us through two world wars and has magical healing powers for someone who’s just had a vasectomy. In what seems like only a very short time I am being offered release to go home.

Before leaving a nurse asks me to pop off to the toilet and see if everything is okay and “have a go”. Sweat pours off me by the bucket, is she mad, does she really want me to go and “have a go”. Thankfully it was just to go and have a wee because I don’t ever think I’ll be able to touch those areas again – ever.

I’m discharged and armed with a post vasectomy leaflet and advice on looking after my testicles. If there was ever some vasectomy memorabilia that I would have liked to have kept – other than intact testicles – then this leaflet would be it. First tip, wear tight pants or speedos – wish they’d told me this before as my tackle seemed to lurch from side to side in my boxers like untethered watermelons. Next tip was worded on the lines of “you may experience slight discomfort similar to period pain”.

This was just sick, who, how and why was someone let loose with a computer to generate this great bit of advice. The words resonated in my head as I hobbled off to drive home, driving home like an octogenarian at 10 miles an hour, convinced that any sudden braking would result in my inside falling out through my groin.

Back home I was greeted by my 1 year old and 4 year old who launched themselves into the traditional game of bouncing on dad as the numbness wore off and the pain intensified.

Job done – vasectomy over you might think it all ended there. Being a typically squeamish bloke, I couldn’t even look south, I was in denial and refused to touch or let alone look at the battle zone. Everything was done gingerly; getting dressed took great coordination to gently lower myself into clothing for days to come. Still being an utter wuss, I had to get my wife to look at the affected area on day two and looking down there on day 4 I have never seen a sorrier site. An area I had only recently been complimented as looking “fine” now looked like rapidly withering and bruised plums that look way beyond their best before date.

Post op care was meant to be easy. The dissolvable stitches should have disappeared after a week but hung on in there resolutely. My wife tugged at them with no luck, resulting in a little trip to the nurse at my local surgery. It would appear that removing stitches from someone’s testicles is not an everyday procedure as the poor woman was completely flummoxed and had to call in reinforcements who in turn call in another doctor. Flashbacks to my recent gathering came flooding back – my testicles had once again become the subject of a small gathering.

The stitches were pulled out and life was back on track. Some weeks later, I now had to supply a specimen to check the op had gone well and then call to see if all had gone according to plan. I called and was told I had what I misheard to be “scampi specimen” – what the hell does scampi have to do with it? I’d clearly misheard this as a “scanty” specimen means that you still have little swimmers and that I would have to provide a further specimen.

Some weeks later and I had the all clear. The vasectomy had been successful and I am still a very happy father of three. There is a feeling of finality, that I will never be a father again but time passes and it becomes a better realisation, reinforced by the feeling of completeness.

Would I do it again? Hell no, but now some years later and with the help of time, the pain and discomfort is hard to remember. Sure it smarted a bit, but so does childbirth and I’m working on writing some post natal care notes given my vast experience in the field.

DB is editor over on ‘we love these…’

But those who call them great personalities – they know nothing. They know nothing of the tortures we face after the front door closes! When the lights go out, then back on, and then out again, then back on again – because one (or both) climbed up on the couch, found the light switch and is switching it.  

Starlight has entered the terrible twos, while Sunshine is starting to plan her escape to independence.  In them, we see our own characteristics (as all us parents like to do). But those characteristics are of such a concentration, it can be difficult, like a fairground mirror that exaggerates the minutiae of what it reflects. All skewed and strange looking, yet somehow recognisable.

Starlight can spend hours in silent destruction. You will not hear a crash or bash as a stash of something falls to the floor. When there is no sound, you can be sure wherever Starlight is, there is stuff, all over the floor. Many times, much of whatever it is, is broken.

She is also quite the explorer. Like Dora, but more interested in small, fragile things and paperback books and letters that can be torn and discarded somewhere strategic, where a large lumbering parent will not see, but will be sure to feel as they step on said object.

One night, Starlight – with the help of Sunshine – dislocated her shoulder by trying to get dragged up onto a bed, being pulled only by her arm. Aside from the odd wail here and there, she was just quiet. We took her to a doctor who expected more pain in a dislocated shoulder. So, the doctor suspected nothing major had happened and suggested waiting to see what happened and gave us a letter for the hospital in case things hadn’t improved in the morning.

In the morning, things hadn’t improved, so we took Starlight to the hospital where a nurse deftly twisted and replaced the errant shoulder in the amount of time it took me to park the car. They said we should wait 30 minutes to make sure the shoulder didn’t dislocate again, so Starlight set about destroying the toys in the children’s department, while Sunshine recited new and strange rules about playing with toys in the children’s department of a hospital.  Soon, the doctor came out and said “Yes, the arm is moving fine… I think you can go…”

Sunshine comes up with new rules all the time, and explains them to us: “Daddy, when it’s time for bed, but you’ve been very good, you can have a lollipop because that’s what you do when you’re good?” (It’s a sort of laying down the law but also asking what the law is). She feels the need to be in control. She has become the boss, a prison warder to Starlight’s rebel without a clue. I hear my own bellow as Sunshine – clearly at the end of a tether she associates with the authority of parenthood – tells Starlight to “tidy up” or “stop doing that” or even (once or twice) “Just Be-HAVE!”

Starlight usually ignores her. Sometimes she fights back, smacking or whacking or throwing some kind of soft, stuffed missile at her sister. If reported, she will look up with a face that says “Yes. Yes, I did do that. I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it.” There is no questioning here – it’s a sort of flaunting the law without even caring what the law might be.

Yet Starlight’s silent tornado of mischief tears through the house accompanied by a strange and serene kindness (which must come from her mother). When someone is upset, she will arrive with a cuddly toy for them. Even if it is Sunshine, who might be crying as a result of some theft or assault at the hands of her sister (who she is not allowed to hit back, because her sister is too small).

Mostly, they get on in a sort of yin/yang fashion (if yin and yang were less round and symmetrical and peaceful and more jagged, chaotic and fun).

They make up their own games. My favourite is the Flower Game, in which we stand on a tile in our kitchen (a specific tile, one of the decorative square yokes in the middle of a square formed by the meeting of four plain tiles), and then await instructions from Sunshine. Instructions are always “OK, go like this…” “Then this…” each statement accompanied by some gesture or exercise (jumping jacks, touching toes, etc.). I don’t want to imagine what the wiggling of a midsection on a dad with too much midsection is like.  Starlight will be jumping and skipping and trying to follow the rules, but never quite managing to. Sunshine gets angry and tells her she has to do it right. I hear my own words coming from her mouth as she does.  Hearing yourself in high-pitch is one thing, but when a four-year old recreates your tone and body language you know you’ve become both predictable and obvious. I tell them they have to calm down, but often my pleas are met with gurgling drain of children’s laughter at the absurd notions of their parents.

Another is mummies and babies, where Sunshine is mummy, and Starlight is baby and they do things like go shopping and shout at each other and cry. Any intervention is met with the laughter as mentioned above. “Silly daddy! This is a GAME!” In my humiliation, the only “win” I can get is to start learning the sounds of their fake cries. This will come in handy, I am sure.

So different, yet so similar.  As a parent, one sees that you have to deal with them according to their different personalities and outlooks on life. 

And yet, both of their windows will probably be nailed shut in later life.

I am away with work again. I am in Prague this time. The capital of the Czech Republic. Far away.  It is very cold here. 

I hope you are being good for your mum and being friends with each other.  I know you cannot read this letter. I also know that if mum gave it to you, Sunshine, you would see the words on the page, but read whatever words came into your mind. Perhaps about princesses and some kind of monster who is mean.  Starlight, I know you would have Teddy read this to you, like Teddy was your secretary.  It is probably a good thing that you cannot read it. If you could, you would probably replace it with a story about something more interesting anyway. Maybe calling what was written here “stupid”.  

I don’t want to hear any more about you calling other people (or each other) stupid. It’s such an ugly word to call some person (although things are often – maybe even usually – stupid, but it is almost always unfair to say this of a person). Sunshine – this is especially important for you. You shouldn’t encourage Starlight to call people stupid – and you shouldn’t call her stupid either.  You are older than her – so people will expect more of you sooner.

Work is going well. People are happy with the work I have done, which is a good thing. It pleases me that something I have created has been so well received. Sorry  – I must go back – you probably don’t understand. Despite what you think, I don’t actually make money. I am given money in return for the efforts I give to other people. It’s the same for your mum. Your mum and I use this money to pay for the house and our food and boring stuff like that. We also use it to pay for the fun things like toys and swimming and trips to see grannies and granddads and to go to the beach (it seems silly – maybe even stupid – to cost money to go somewhere; but that’s how it works!).  

I am lucky in that I can make enough money to pay for these things by doing something that I like to do. Not everyone is so lucky; some people have to do things they hate to pay for the things they want to do. I am lucky, but I also work hard. It is important to concentrate on things (you probably don’t need to worry about this until later). When you concentrate on something and work hard at it, you have a better chance to do something that you really like. Most days, I’d like to go to the beach or take you for a walk or for swimming. But if I didn’t spend time on my work, I wouldn’t be as good at it. And if I wasn’t good at it, I would have to do something else to make money. Maybe even something that I hated. And if I was doing something I hated, I would have to work twice as hard just to be good enough at it for someone to pay me to do it.  Also, I would be even crankier in the evenings and when I was tired. Can you imagine that?! 

I think if I give you the discipline (which means the concentration and the willingness to work hard) it will be the best gift you could have. Being happy and productive will be a better present than anything – even Baby Alive or Teddy or jigsaws or even books. 

As much as work is important – it is not the only thing in life. Many things are much more important. And it’s important to remember what is important. What is important to me is you and your mum. That means no matter what I do – whether I like it or not – I have to take care of you all. Right now, I think the best way I can do that is by doing my job. This brings in the money that pays for the boring stuff and the fun stuff. So, you need to keep the important things in mind too. But I guess your mum (who has to remind me of this every so often) will be able to teach you that better than I. 

I wrote to you today because I miss you. While work is going well, and that is pleasing me – only you folks can bring me joy. It is good to do a good job and be pleased with it. But without those you love around, you cannot really take great joy from it. Even the money you are paid for the good job is less important than feeling family around you to celebrate with you when things are going well. After all, family come round when things are not going well. This is even more important, but why it’s more important is probably for another day. 

Even now, I don’t even think I would shout at you if you came in here and knocked over my ironed shirts or messed up my pressed suits. It sounds crazy, but I probably wouldn’t mind if you tried to use my computer and put your fingers all over the screen (can you imagine that? Being allowed to do that?) 

I will probably never say much of this to you, and I don’t think it would matter if I did say it. Come to think of it, this letter doesn’t really mean much. What you will learn from your mum and me is what you see us do. That’s why I have to give up smoking and being angry a lot. Because I don’t want you to learn from me that this is a good way to live. But I am writing this letter to you to explain why it is I have to go away, and why I have to work hard. It pays for things – boring things, fun things – but really it is about making sure you folks are happy, and you grow up happy. 

And I wanted to let you know that I do it because I love you. Unconditionally. Starlight, I know you think you love mummy and Sunshine loves me, but I think deep down (not so deep as your nappy, but maybe somewhere in your belly), you know that we all love each other the same. The same, but different. Because we are different people. It’s not that we love different parts of each person – but just because people are different, they feel love differently. 

Well, I must go now, because this letter has become intolerably boring, and you are probably both doing jigsaws and asking for ice cream now anyway. 

Love

Dad.