All property is theft.

So believed Karl Marx. Gandhi had similar ideas. He gave up ownership of his trousers. Jesus wasn’t keen either. He threw a bit of a wobbly around his local supermarket, tipping things onto the floor. The consensus amongst these important people seems to have been that an obsession with ownership was quite bad and to be avoided.

Back when I was just starting out as a parent, I naively thought I could guide my son away from excessive consumerism. As a family we wouldn’t worry about owning stuff. Instead we’d spend our days together making daisy chains and reciting poetry. To say things haven’t gone to plan would be an understatement. It has, even by my standards, been a spectacular failure.

“Mine!” My son screeches, snatching his sister’s toy out of her hand. “Mine!” He shouts about almost anything that’s being played with by another child. “Mine.” He points at my shoes, or my glasses, or the TV, or a passing tractor or fire engine. “Mine.” He pleads as I release a butterfly, saving it from a horrible fate.

“Have you finished your food?” I ask as he pushes his plate away.

He nods. “Finished.”

“Can I have it?”

“No! Mine!” He grabs his plate back again.

It must be something we’ve inherited from our monkey ancestors, the desire to protect what’s ours from our rivals. My son seems pretty extreme, though, even for a chimp.

He drags me into the living room where, surprisingly, he’s been watching a re-run of The Sky at Night. Being a bit of a space nerd, I find this extremely pleasing. He points at the screen as it shows an animation of the solar system. “My Space!” He yelps excitedly. Now, apparently, he owns the entire universe.

He seems possessed by possession, but he can still surprise us.

“Mine.” He points at us each in turn. “My Mummy. My Daddy. My Sister.”

We look at each other, gurning with parental emotion.

Not all possession is bad.

Parasites.

Come to think of it, children and head lice are extremely similar. They both cling to you, drain you and cause you constant irritation. The main difference is that we don’t love head lice. So they’re the one’s that have to go.

Children, or “life lice” as I now call them, kindly bring the head lice into your home. On examining my son’s head my wife disturbed a louse approximately the size of a guinea pig. “Hello.” It said, waving. She yelped. She’d never seen one before. She’s definitely the posh one in our family.

Turns out my son is the proud host of a complete head louse civilisation. Being an intelligent, observant parent I hadn’t noticed his incessant head scratching. Now we’re all infested.

Of course you immediately feel shame. Yes, they say head lice like clean hair best, but you know deep down that they’re instinctively drawn to the children of bad parents. My wife barks orders at me. I have to go out and get chemicals. Now.

Turns out they can kill head lice nowadays is by drowning them in smelly oil. This is an improvement on the neuro-toxin shampoo my mother had to use on my hair, since outlawed by the Geneva convention. I blame the neuro-toxin shampoo for my inability to spell, or remember birthdays.

We cover all our heads in the smelly oil. We look great. Turns out this is the easy bit. After waiting for the stuff to work I then have to bath the children. It’s at this point that life unleashes hell upon me.

The smelly oil suppresses all soaps. Nothing will foam. My son sits in the bath water sullenly as I wrestle my baby daughter out of her clothes. She is so covered in smelly oil now that I have to hug her to me like a fat, squashy bar of soap as I take off her nappy and find an enormous poo. She flops about, wailing, covering me with poo and smelly oil. My son joins in the wailing.

There is a moral here. I think it’s: don’t have kids.

Teaching, it turns out, is very difficult. Especially if you’re trying to teach something completely impossible, like talking.

Second languages are hard. When I try to speak French, French people stare at me as if my nose has just turned into a fruit bat. Plenty of people can speak other languages though. It’s do-able.

Imagine, though, if you couldn’t speak any language. If you didn’t even know what language was. Starting to understand random noises as a meaningful language, from nothing, then suddenly start speaking it yourself, would obviously be impossible. No one’s really worked out how kids do it. I’d suggest that they learnt it from TV, except there was a time when TV hadn’t been invented. It boggles the mind how parents coped in those dark days.

The best kid’s TV these days is so well made, so entertaining and so gently informative, that it’s very tempting to just let it do the teaching work for us. But we’re not supposed to. Even if telly would do a better job than we can.

I was quite pleased with myself, then, when I came up with the idea of making my son use actual proper language when he wants the TV on, rather than just running up and shouting “Telly on!” at me.

“Can”, “I”, “Watch”, “Telly”, “Please”, “Daddy?”, he repeats after me. If he doesn’t, no telly. It’s great. Now, just putting the telly on feels like I’ve achieved something educational. And I’m teaching him politeness too. I imagine an Ofsted inspector nodding, impressed.

Next I try to get him to say the words without prompting. I start him off with “Can”, then I nod to encourage him to say the rest. He says “Can” then copies my nodding. We nod at each other. My imaginary Ofsted inspector frowns.

I change tack. I try mouthing each word at him. He mouths the words silently back at me, grinning. We mouth words at each other.

Eventually I give up and just put the telly on.

Good old telly. You take it from here.

Cuddles are lovely.

I’m sure Vladimir Putin, for example, would be a bit less angry if he got more of them. I’m available for the next security council summit if you’re reading Vlad. My cuddles, according to my son at least, are pretty good.

Cuddles can also be, it turns out, used as a weapon.

We’re at a delightful summer garden party. Everyone’s happy and relaxed. My son bounces towards me joyfully carrying a large, unauthorised bowl of cake and ice cream. It’s by no means his first cake of the day.

As you may know if you read this column regularly, I am a smug, annoying and largely unsuccessful food fascist. Without thinking I pluck the bowl from his pudgy hand.

As I try to carry him away from the bowl he begins to turn green. His party clothes start splitting at the seams. I trot back and forth like a startled dressage horse as the terrifying screech of an incoming missile emerges from his throat. I realise, with terrible, cold clarity, that I am about to go down in flames. Spectacularly. In public.

“Look, er, look at the pretty clouds.” I point, panicking. “Look, there’s some grass. Pretty grass. Look, it’s an inflatable lion. Roar.”

My son’s eyes roll up into his head and he writhes in my arms like a possessed goose, honking the same word over and over again. “Caaaaaaaake!!”

Every one is watching now. Judging me. At least that’s what my brain is telling me. I put him down gently and try to back away. If only I could hide from him…

His rage turns into a scream of tragic calamity. He reaches out to me and cries “Duuuuddle!”. His performance is so heart rending that it feels like not picking him up again would be tantamount to child abuse.

A minute later I’m broken. He shovels his now melted desert solemnly into his face.

Traumatized by my parental failure, I look around desperately for a can of beer.

What I’m really looking for, I know deep down, is a reassuring cuddle.

I’m a child again.

I’m looking at a youtube video of a new Star Wars game. I’ve entirely forgotten I have children. It’s lovely.

“Telly.” My son demands. My least favourite addition to his vocabulary.

“The telly’s already on.” I say. Something has come on Cbeebies that he’s not that keen on. “Go and play.” I suggest.

The video reaches a climax. My son snatches my phone out of my hand. “Telly.” He points, holding my phone hostage. We negotiate for several minutes, then he hears the Sarah and Duck theme and runs back to the TV.

“Son! Phone!” If I let him take it out of my sight I might, in several months, if I’m lucky, find it inserted in something, broken. Amazingly he brings it back to me, then runs off again.

My daughter, who I’ve forgotten to strap in, hurls herself head first of out of her rocker. I manage to catch her with a foot, pick her up and bounce her on my knee. I resume the video, but she stabs at the screen, smearing it with peanut butter and launching some function I’ve never seen before, and can’t close. I put her back in her rocker and tie her firmly down.

Sarah and Duck isn’t long enough. My son runs back in pointing. “Telly.”

I ignore him so he tries to sit in his sister’s rocker. With her in it. He has the evil grin he employs for these operations. “No, son.” I say, removing him. He falls over half on purpose then clambers to his feet and reaches out to me melodramatically.

“Duddle!” He wails. He wants a cuddle.

“Kids, please.” I beg. I’ve achieved the double. They’re both shouting at me at the top of their voices. My daughter starts climbing up my right leg, dragging the rocker behind her, my son starts heaving himself up my left, wiping his nose on me as he goes.

“It’s father’s day.” I whimper. “Can’t I even go to the loo in peace?”

Like most people getting on a bit, I’m a big believer in politeness.

I suspect most of the world’s problems could be solved if we all said “Please” and “Thank you” and took more of a pride in our table manners.

“Thank you?” I ask my son pointedly as he strolls away with the drink I’ve just given him. I’m not thanking him. I’m suggesting strongly that he should thank me. Astonishingly, he usually does.

His table manners are a whole other tin of worms, though. In fact, what he leaves smeared across the table is often less enticing than a tin of worms.

He doesn’t like baked beans. That fact alone makes me doubt our genetic connection. What kind of child doesn’t like baked beans? I refuse not to put them on his plate, so I suppose it’s only my fault when he uses them as an artistic medium.

“Why don’t you try one?” I ask the busy little baked bean Kandinsky. “Just one bean?”

“No.” He says with a slow shake of the head and a condescending frown, as if I were the child.

“They’re nice. Just try one bean.”

“No.” He insists firmly.

Mummy gets annoyed by my perseverance. She knows how futile it is. But I can’t help it. Finally I pressure him into accepting a bean. Entirely unexpectedly he pops it into his mouth. I gasp. Mummy gasps. We wait, watching his mouth work as if we’re expecting a butterfly to emerge when he opens it again. I ready myself to crow at my wife about how right I was and how wrong she was.

“Yummy, beans.” I nod at my son as he chews exaggeratedly. He sticks his tongue out and on the end of it is a now pale and de-juiced but completely intact bean. He offers it to me on a finger-tip.

Utterly defeated I accept the sucked bean, my wife laughing.

“Thank you?” my son suggests.

“Thank you, son.” I say. Politeness is important.

Parenthood can subject you to powerful, see-sawing emotions, pretty much on a daily basis.

At the park my son tumbled off the end of a slide and face planted at the bottom. His mum brought him home and when I saw him my emotions went way over the top. I wanted to sweep him up in my arms and take him away from danger, protect him, defend him, with my life if necessary. I lost my reason for a moment. His injuries consisted of a slightly swollen lip and a scab under his nose.

As the scab dried his hair got tangled in it. I snipped at it, not very competently, and he looked like he had whiskers. It was hard not to laugh.

Then, the scab started looking quite a lot like a Hitler moustache, which was quite disconcerting. My emotions didn’t know whether they were coming or going.

He lay on the sofa, suffering stoically, sipping squash past his swollen lip and getting special TV privileges, completely unaware of his disconcerting resemblance to one of the most evil men in history. After dinner I took him up for a bedtime story.

“Nose.” He said in the near darkness, halting me. He had said little since returning from the park. He pointed at his nose.

“Yes,” I nodded, my voice catching. “You hurt your nose didn’t you.” My parental emotions started rising again, thinking about how brave he had been, how frightened, how it could have been worse.

“You’re a brave boy.” I said, filling up. “I love you son.”

“Nose.” He repeated softly.

“Yes.” I gave him a hug.

He reached up and, confusingly, pressed his fingers into my mouth. “Eat.” He giggled.

My son, this little person who I loved more than life itself, had recovered enough from his day to pick his nose and try to feed me his bogeys, something he had never done before.

My emotions lurched about like a drunk on a bus, but then settled on… pride.

“Does your child ever use violence?” The assessment form asks.

“No.” You tick confidently.

If we put our son on the naughty step, he’d climb to the top of the stairs, fall down the stairs, climb back up the stairs again, fall down again, this time pulling all the junk on the landing down with him. We’d find him under an avalanche of boxes, either laughing hysterically, or unconscious. Either way, no lessons would have been learnt.

What we do have is a naughty bag. To be specific, a rather nice naughty bean bag with space rocket design.

I doubt baby-sister-tipping will ever become part of the Olympics. She sits unaware, fat and happy, tasting the world one object at a time. He makes it look like he’s going in for a hug, but before you can get there she’s down, her head making a soft “pock” sound on the rug, and he’s scrabbling to get full points by sitting on her.

You’re on the phone with Grandma so she rides along for the arrest. You take him to the bean bag. You explain to him why he’s there and what happens next, but he rolls his eyes. He knows his rights.

You tell your mum that at his age the maximum is three minutes on the naughty bag. She tells you some funny parenting stories. Then you have a general tidy round and change your clothes. You watch your daughter playing nicely on her own. You go cold.

The last two and a bit years flash before your eyes. Turns out that’s all you can remember of your life. Your son has been on the naughty bag for nearly an hour.

“Hello son.”

“Hello Daddy.” He replies happily, still sitting. He’s playing space rockets.

“Would you like to say sorry to your sister for pushing her over and sitting on her?”

“OK!” He jumps up and happily runs to perform the ritual apology.

“I think we need a more boring naughty bag.” You tell Mummy later.

She nods.

We all want to be noticed.

People used to run naked across cricket pitches, their jiggly bits jiggling mesmerisingly, just to get on telly. Now streakers are probably too busy making youtube videos, but our need to be the centre of attention is still as strong as ever.

I suspect it’s a bit stronger if you’re a younger sibling, though.

Our baby daughter, desperate to be noticed over her attention hog older brother, has developed her own, strange alien language consisting entirely of raspberry noises.

Trying to get Dad’s attention at the dinner table, she starts with a series of surprisingly gentle noises from the inside of her cheek. First a relaxing whir like an old fashioned projector, building to the soothing thrum of a well oiled sewing machine.

When that doesn’t work she moves up a gear. Dribble dances on her lips as she makes a sound like a fat man walking on bubble wrap. Then she burbles like an outboard motor, finishing with a load, messy, squelchy bluuurp, spraying humus.

Dad’s still not paying attention. She starts getting annoyed, revving up like an angry motorbike, speckling the world with food. She purses her lips and trumpets at him like a tiny elephant with it’s trunk stuck in a trumpet. He’s still not listening. He’s bidding on more second hand trousers that wont fit, or stuffing his face, or staring zombie like into the distance, half asleep, or all three. She lets rip with a full, tongue out, parping raspberry, tailing off into a thin squeak of frustration. The idiot still doesn’t notice.

In the battle for attention, our daughter has a nuclear option. It’s not a raspberry.

Without warning she lets out an incredible, ear splitting shriek. The decibels are unbelievable. It’s like someone suddenly landing a harrier jump jet on your head. Dad tosses his phone in the air, stabs himself in the eye with his fork and lets out a series of very naughty words.

“What!?” He asks her, deeply shaken.

“Nothing.” Her grin says. “Just… look at me.”

How do you put two small children to bed on your own?

I’d say it’s impossible, except, obviously, single parents do it all the time. I don’t know how. My preference is to have someone around to help me. Like my wife. This is a rubbish plan because sooner or later she is going to want to go out. Laws against imprisonment and slavery make preventing it difficult.

The unwritten laws against admitting any fear or doubt mean you can’t ask your wife for guidance as she leaves. “I’ll be fine.” You say in your bluff admiral’s voice.

She looks worried. But not worried enough to stay. “Bye bye, mummy.” you all wave. You hope she can’t see the terror in your eyes.

The moment she’s gone your toddler, sensing your weakness, becomes a psychopath. Like an evil wrestler he brutally body slams his baby sister to the floor and pins her there, stroking her head and laughing hysterically.

It’s time for bed.

The last time you were in this predicament you tried putting your son to bed first, but your daughter made such an ear splitting protest that you, long story short, lost your mind. This time you decide to try it the other way round. You go upstairs to sooth your daughter to sleep with a warm bottle. Satan’s happiest demon shadows you, singing loudly.

“Ssssssssh” you say in a whisper, pressing your finger to your lips theatrically then pointing at your daughter. Your son, to your surprise, copies you.

He SSSHs loudly at her each time he stomps into the room, carrying another random household object to put on top of her. Finally he tops all his previous interruptions by clomping in in his mothers black high heels and wearing her bra like shoulder pads. He looms over his sister terrifyingly and makes his loudest SSSSSH! yet. This is more than your daughter can tolerate.

“How was it?” Your wife asks later, sweeping in happily, swathed in the air of the grown up world.

“Fine.” You say, your voice cracking with emotion.