“Wow.” My son says as he tears into his first present. He’s dizzy with excitement. Everything has been leading to this point. We watch his face. We’re nearly crying.

We all do our best. We throw absolutely everything at creating a magical Christmas for our kids. We make enough Christmas food to build a second house, complete with gravy swimming pool. We endure countless renditions of the same old Christmas songs. They have the odd dual effect of at once making us want to hug each other, and chop our own ears off. We wear preposterous Christmas jumpers. We make our houses look like magical Santa’s grottos, dripping with tinsel and bunting and lights, twinkling and flashing and throbbing like an LED super-nova. All we need for magical memories to be made, is for the children to cooperate.

“It’s beautiful.” My son says about his second present. Literally those words. I swear we have not trained him to do this. His cheeks are rosy. His eyes are wide. He could be in a painting called “Family Happiness”. We don’t realise it, but the Christmas magic has peaked.

He doesn’t say anything about his next present. He quickly pushes it aside and goes to the next. The Christmas magic drops down a couple of notches.

We have an anxiety that our children may not have a complete set of magical childhood memories. We spend money, perhaps more money than we should, trying to bombard them with happy memories. All they have to do, is cooperate.

“Open another present, son.” We encourage.

“No.” He says. The whole Christmas magic experience over the last few days seems to have made him think that he’s the prince of the world. He gazes at us imperiously. We now have to plead with him to carry on opening his parents. Present after present. He is, literally, bored of opening presents. Bored to the point of anger.

“You think we’re made of money, son? Open the flippin’ presents and create the flippin’ magical memories!” You want say, but that might not be a very magical memory for him.

We have to threaten him with the naughty step several times to get him to finish opening his presents.

Hopefully, he wont remember.

‘Twas the week before Christmas, When all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, Not even a mouse.

Suddenly you become aware that your children aren’t making any noise. One’s having a nap, but where’s the other one? A shiver of fear goes up your spine.

When they’re crying, or whinging, or clobbering each other, or racing around smashing up the place, at least you know what they’re doing. The time to be really scared is when they’re quiet.

“Son?” You call. No response. Maybe he didn’t hear you. You call again, louder. Nothing. Now you’re sure. He’s up to something. After a search you find him sitting in the middle of your bed, cross legged, poised over Mummy’s advent calendar. Doors have been opened. Foil has been peeled back. Chocolate is smeared around his mouth.

He sees you. You both freeze. You watch each other breathlessly.

You both know the stakes are high. Mummy, generally speaking, is an easy going, forgiving person. But there is a line you must never cross.

Last Christmas, your son found your advent calendar and, in revenge for your year long, hypocritical, anti-sugar food fascism, he stole your chocolate Santa and bit his head off. Your wife cackled with laughter. You had to shrug it off.

But this is different. It’s Mummy’s chocolate. Both your lives are on the line.

“Give it to me, son.” You whisper, like it’s a loaded gun. “That’s Mummy’s chocolate.”

Slowly he picks up the advent calendar and clutches it to his chest.

“Son.” You say, trying to control your panic. “Give me Mummy’s chocolate. Please.”

“But…but…but…” He stammers. You both know that to get away with this, what he says next is going to have to be the best excuse in human history. It’s going to have to completely disarm his mother, show that his crime is in fact a moral triumph, and basically embody the spirit of Christmas in one handy phrase. Impossible, of course.

Then, my son says this: “But… Daddy, It’s good to share.”

 

 

Despite an enormous amount of evidence to the contrary, I’ve strongly suspected, ever since I was a little boy, that I’m some sort of super hero. I can’t fly. I’m not super strong. I can’t burn through metal with my laser beam eyes. I find villainy frightening and heights give me the willies. And yet, deep down, I know I’m super somehow. So naturally it follows that my children would be super too.

I never realised what my super hero stance looked like until me son started copying me. He stands, chest out, fists on his hips, legs heroically apart, one eyebrow raised, and declares, “I’m Superman!”

This makes me incredibly happy. You can imagine how happy I was when he then went on to call me “Super-daddy.”

“I’m Super-daddy?” I ask, nearly in tears.

“Yes.” He says, gazing into the distance. “I’m Superman. You are Super-daddy.” We stand together, legs apart, fists on hips, single eyebrows raised, gazing off into the distance heroically.

“Who’s your sister?” I ask.

“She’s Batman.” He tells me. A somewhat darker, more ambivalent hero. That fits. They’re definitely on course for some sort of show-down.

The next day, as we stand together in our super hero poses, my son drops a bomb shell. “You’re Super-daddy.” He says. I nod, eyebrow raised. “And I’m Iron man.”

“Iron man?” I ask. How the heck does he know about Iron man?

“Yes. I am Iron man.” He then proceeds to zoosh me with his Iron man palm-zooshers. “Zoooooosh!” He yells.

“Why are you zooshing me?”

“Because I am Iron man.” He says by way of explanation. “Zoooosh!”

“Will you stop zooshing me, please?” I ask later. He zooshes me again. After several more hours of zooshing I beg him to stop. He stands in his zooshing pose, his zooshing palms turned towards me menacingly.

“Iron man needs to watch TV.” He whispers darkly.

In a chilling, ironic twist, my super-son reveals himself to be… a super-villain.

 

Imagine your Grandad was a werewolf. Your Dad is half werewolf. Several of your siblings are werewolves. You’re not a proper werewolf yourself, all though you have been known to bark at the moon and gnaw on the furniture occasionally. Your wife is no Lycan either, but it’s definitely in her family too.

You want to have children. You discuss it. You both have experience of dealing with werewolves so you decide that even if it happens, you’ll cope. You can put bars on the windows. Get a lunar cycle calendar App. Put down lots of newspaper.

To your amazement, your first child has no werewolf in him at all. Werewolves are amazing, beautiful creatures. You can’t help being a little disappointed.

Surely for your next child, the cross hairs of genetic fate can’t miss. Werewolfism skipped your son, will it be twice as strong in your next child? Are you creating some sort of super werewolf?

Your daughter pops out of her mother already snarling and barking. She bites through her own cord and leaps out of the Midwife’s arms. She charges around the hospital on all fours, sniffing people’s shoes and weeing in the pot plants.

This all happened to us. It’s all true. Except for one detail. Swap “Werewolf” for “Ginger”.

Werewolf and ginger aren’t all that different. Both conditions go far deeper than the skin. And my daughter is no ordinary ginger. She’s the queen of ginger. A high priest of the church of gingology. Her gingerness makes your eyes sting. It’s incredibly beautiful, and more than a little frightening, because her personality is equally ginger. To put it as succinctly as I can, my daughter does not negotiate.

And then, the other day, she gave us her first word. Her very first clear communication with the world. It wasn’t a snarl or a howl at the moon. It was much more frightening than that.

My fiery haired, fiery natured daughter gazed fearlessly into our eyes, slowly shook her head, and said “No.”

eek.

My son is amazing.

Obviously he’s amazing to me. Just his existence blows my mind. I can’t make a paper aeroplane. I can’t make the TV remote work. The idea that I could somehow make a creature that can ride a trike and laugh at his own farts at the same time is preposterous. And yet there he is, grinning at me from his trike and farting. Amazing.

Turns out, though, my son might also be amazing to others too. His Mum thinks so, anyway.

Returning from a play date my wife is glowing with pride. Not the effect I normally expect my children to have on anyone. I’m more accustomed to them creating feelings of confusion, exhaustion and helplessness.

“Everyone was impressed.” My wife tells me excitedly. “He was playing with the Doctor set. He actually took people’s temperature!”

I’m impressed too.

“It gets weirder.” She says, eyes wide. “He was taking people’s blood pressure.”

“He’s two.” I say sceptically.

She nods a fast, excited nod. “I know! It’s amazing isn’t it.”

I’ve watched more episodes of ER and House than is probably healthy, and I couldn’t take someone’s blood pressure. The closest thing to a medical emergency my son has witnessed is when Bing Bunny stepped in a dog poo. Still, I don’t question my wife’s interpretation of events. Her eyes are too scary.

“Maybe he’s a genius.” She says. Maybe he is. I start to imagine him winning a Nobel prize for medicine. Maybe he’ll make lots of money and buy me a sports car for my retirement.

We watch him eat. He pushes aside his scrambled eggs and starts shovelling ketchup into his mouth with his fingers. He looks at his fingers, they’re covered in ketchup. He wipes his fingers on the edge of the table. He looks at the ketchup on the edge of the table. He looks at us. He starts licking the ketchup off the edge of the table like a dog.

We probably shouldn’t let him treat anyone just yet.

No one’s ever described me as “edgy”, or menacing. Most of the time I bumble around being the court jester. I dance about singing silly songs, do prat-falls, hit myself with things, impersonate animals, generally be foolish, like a very poor man’s Mr. Tumble.

This is fine when the children are in a kind mood. But they can turn, and when they do they are utterly merciless. When this happens, you need something in reserve. You need a secret weapon.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I need the telly on.” He doesn’t say ‘I would like’ or even ‘I want’. His technique is far more disconcerting than that. “I need the telly on, Daddy” he repeats before I’ve even decided what my response should be. Fatefully, I decide that we should have some telly free time.

He doesn’t agree with me. “I need the telly on”. He uses these words like artillery shells, “I need the telly on”, pounding my position relentlessly. It doesn’t take long before I give up trying to “I need the telly on”, reason with him and simply bat away his “I need the telly on” attacks with the word “No.”. Good old, reliable “No.”

He doesn’t give up. The “I need the telly on” repetition chisels away at you. You can’t “I need the telly on” think. You can’t do anything. Soon you’re “I need the telly on” ready to crack. You have only one option left. “I need the telly on”. You have to drop the authority bomb. It’s a devastating weapon. I pause, charging up my authority capacitors for one devastating blast.

“I said… NO!” My voice fills the room with a rumbling boom of holy thunder. Nothing can withstand the authority bomb. Small birds outside stop singing and drop from their perches, frozen in terror.

My son looks at me, open mouthed. My heart quivers. I start to worry I’ve traumatised him.

“Daddy?” He begins slowly.

“Yes son?”

“I said… I need the telly on.”

“Right. We’re late, kids. Lets go.”

I can’t find my son’s coat. My son tells me he hasn’t done a poo. Says his sister hasn’t either. He has a remarkable nose. I change her nappy anyway. He was right. No poo.

We are now five minutes late.

Can’t find my son’s coat. He’s only got socks on his feet. “Where’s your shoes, son?” He runs away. I trudge around every room before finding them. Find son. “Where are your socks?” He looks at his naked feet and shrugs.

We are now eight minutes late.

I find more socks upstairs. Downstairs daughter starts screeching. “What did you do, son?”

“I pushed her over.” He says happily.

“That’s very naughty. Say sorry to your sister.” He says sorry, patting her angry head. Son’s socks and shoes on. Grab my daughter and start hunting for car seat. Put her coat on as we look. Where’s my son’s coat? Put nappies in nappy bag. Find car seat. Strap daughter in. She starts to cry again.

“Right.” I rub my hands together. I feel better now one of them is restrained. “Sandwiches.” I hurl together a packed lunch. I take my daughter to the car. No keys in my pocket. We go back inside. Start searching for keys. Where’s my son’s coat? He runs past, barefoot. My teeth start to grind.

Find keys. Daughter in car. Son’s shoes and socks back on. Consider taping them on his feet. Seventeen minutes late.

“Drinks.” I open the cupboard and plastic containers avalanche onto me. Put drinks in bag. Finally find son’s coat. Son wont wear coat. Son has melt down. Find different coat. Son wants toy. Can’t find toy. Second melt down. Twenty two minutes late. Daughter wailing from car.

I’ve forgotten something. I tap my pockets, remember what I’ve forgotten. I go up stairs, son following, shouting at me. I forget what I came up for. I go back down stairs. “Phone!” I yelp, startling my son. I go back up stairs. Can’t find phone. Back down stairs. Ring phone from house phone. Find phone in my coat pocket. Still forgotten something. Can’t think what it is. Have to leave anyway. Twenty nine minutes late.

I start reversing the car. “Daddy!” My son screeches. I slam on the brakes.

“What?” I gasp. He points at his sister and informs me happily that she’s done a poo.

I slump over the steering wheel.

Turns out, mince pies are deadly.

Last year, my first time as Santa, my grotto had been a dingy corridor. This year I had a rather plush antechamber off the town hall. I even had the Mayor’s throne to sit on. Brilliant.

Of course there were still terrified children, but plenty of happy ones too. I even managed to make one or two initially terrified children smile. Even laugh.

I was on a roll. Someone brought me a cup of mulled wine and a mince pie. I threw back the alcohol.

“Are you there Santa?” My elf called. I panicked, stuffed the whole pie into my mouth and tried to swallow. No matter how hard I swallowed, it wouldn’t go down. I realised, with growing terror, that my beard had become tangled around the pie. I was trying to swallow my beard.

A happy, brave little boy rushed right up to my thrown, told me his name and asked for a pair of shoes with wheels on them for Christmas.

“Guuuurkkkkurk.” I replied. He frowned at me.

Eyes watering, face turning red, I could think of only three ways out of this situation. 1. I could just choke to death, this seemed like the easiest and noblest option. 2. I could cough up a huge ball of hair, pastry and mince meat, or 3. I could slowly eat my entire Santa’s beard. None of these options seemed likely to give this little boy the happy festive memory for which his parents had donated a pound to charity. I wondered if the Mayor had ever regurgitated onto a child from his chair.

“Guuruukkkkk.” I continued, rasping like a strangled frog. “Have you… uuuuurkk… been a good…. huuuuulllgg… boy… ggiggig?”

He nodded, his eyes widening fearfully.

After a disconcerting session he waved, backing away, as if he feared he was witnessing Santa’s last moments.

“Ho Ho Huuuuurk.” Santa waved, tears streaming down his face, eyes bulging.

I don’t think Santa will be eating mince pies next year. Or possibly ever again.

I wasn’t much of a rebel.

I was a passive child. As long as I was fed, I was happy. I smiled a lot. It wasn’t until my teens that I wanted to grow my hair funny and reject authority, so I never imagined that my son could start to rebel at two. Indeed, even my one year old daughter is showing signs, throwing food and toys around, wriggling out of my grasp and clonking her brother on the head. I blame my wife. She has distinctly defiant DNA.

My son, being a classic dissident agitator, basically doesn’t want to do anything I want him to do. If I want to change his nappy, he runs away. Bed time, he runs away. Dinner time, not fish fingers, he runs away. If the TV’s off, he wants it on. If I put it on, he wants a different programme. And on and on. His resistance is constant. Childhood rebellion is a powerful force. If only there was a way we could cleverly harness that force.

It’s taken amazing commitment and dedication, but I have done just that. And the most amazing thing about it is that I wasn’t even entirely aware of what I was doing. Cleverly, I have not been hoovering very regularly. I have ignored dust and cobwebs. I have been leaving the house untidy at every opportunity. As a result of my tireless not-working my son has gradually begun to rebel against all the mess.

Finally, my triumph came the other day. “Oh God, Daddy.” He said, stopping in his tracks. As you can imagine, this got my attention. He stooped down and picked up some floor food of indeterminate vintage. I think it was a piece of red pepper, but it was hard to know. He held it up, disgusted. “We need to get the hoover out, Daddy.” He said.

Once I had absorbed his request and regained my composure, I did as I was told and got the hoover out. Astonishingly, he began hoovering. Not very well, but it’s early days.

I am, it turns out, without realising it, a genius.

Pointing the finger is a dangerous game.

In Stalin’s Russia, it didn’t matter if someone was guilty or not. If they were accused, they’d had it. It was tempting to use this power to your advantage. You, the accuser, could gain from their fate. Danger was, of course, that sooner or later someone would point the finger at you.

I accuse my son quite regularly, but in fairness, he is usually guilty. In fact he’s so used to being caught in the act of naughtiness that he often rushes to apologise to his little sister before he’s even been accused, stroking her head like she’s a kitten.

When his sister turns the tables, flailing a book around with negligent abandon and clonking him on the head, he’s incensed, not by the pain, but by the fact that I don’t reproach her for it. “She’s just a little baby.” I say.

“But she’s naughty!” He points. She blows a raspberry at him.

“Yes.” I appease him. “I suppose that was quite naughty.”

He’s ecstatic. “Yes!” He laughs. “She was very naughty.” He stomps around grinning for half an hour. “She was very, very naughty, Daddy.” He reminds me now and again. I nod. He giggles with delight.

Later, when I turn off the TV, he explodes with operatic rage and self pity. I have an inspired idea. “Look.” I say. “Your sister’s dropped her sippy-cup on the floor. That’s a bit naughty.”

He stops in his tracks. “Yes.” He nods. “She’s a bit naughty.” He smiles. He forgets his anger entirely.

When you find a way to easily control your child’s mood, you get addicted. My baby daughter has been on a crime spree. Whenever my son gets into a grump she is guilty of more appalling naughtiness. I know it’s wrong. I know I’ll regret it. I’m teaching my son to point the finger at the innocent. Soon that finger will point at me. Soon I in my turn will be denounced and sent to the Gulag.

Very soon in fact. “Naughty Daddy!” My son shouts, jabbing a finger at me. “You’re very naughty!” I suppose I’m not technically innocent. He caught me eating his toast. I’m sent off to the Gulag to make more toast.

Stupid naughty Daddy.