Every parent dreams of their children doing better than them, taking the lessons they’ve taught them and building on them.

“I’ll never forget when my father first explained how a combustion engine works.” I dream my son will say in his award acceptance speech for achievement in engineering or science or something. It’s unlikely, though. More likely it will be, “I’ll never forget when my father first laughed at one of my farts.”

I admit it. Like most men, I am quite immature. And through my immaturity, it appears I have infected my children with a profound vulgarity.

I can explain fairly well how a combustion engine works. Where rain comes from. Give very vague, muddled descriptions of how a TV works or a kettle makes water hot, but I have to face it. A love of knowledge is not what my son is learning from me. What he’s learning from me far more accurately represents who I am. And he is not content to simply repeat my past achievements. He is taking it to new heights that I could not have imagined.

“Daddy! Daddy! Look!”

My son stands before me, completely naked but for his underpants, which he is wearing on his head. Like a magician, he waggles his hands to indicate that they are empty, and that he is about to magically produce something. I’m impressed by his showmanship. He has my full attention.

Slowly, dramatically, he reaches behind himself. He leans forward slightly, gives a little slow wiggle, and pulls from between his naked buttocks a small, plastic chameleon. As if to validate the trick, he sniffs it and gags.

I am deeply conflicted. I’m repulsed, but I also want to cheer. I have to physically restrain myself from clapping. “Oh, son, that’s disgusting.” I say because I feel I have to. “Please don’t carry things between your-”

He holds up a hand to stop me speaking. His grin tells me that the trick isn’t finished. My mouth falls open as he reaches around behind him with his other hand, rummages for a moment, then with a wiggle and a flourish, he produces a second plastic chameleon from his bottom. He offers it to me to sniff, laughing triumphantly.

After a moment of speechless admiration, I give in and clap.

Were you on the M1 last week? As you drove past Leicester Forest East services, did your headlights momentarily engulf something strange at the edge of the carpark, at the top of the verge, just feet from the carriageway? Did you see a man there, standing behind an open hatchback?

Was there something not quite right about him? A little taller than average. Glasses. Slightly ginger. Sticky up hair. A little chubby. But it wasn’t that. Was it the lost, hollow look on his face as he turned towards you? Was it, perhaps, that he was naked from the waist up? Was it the two feet dangling out of the car, writhing and kicking? You may even, over the roar of the motorway, have heard a piercing wail, a human air raid siren falling in tone as you speed past.

“No, I’ll do it.” I volunteer. I’d like to pretend I was heroically hurling of myself in front of a poo bullet, but nearer the truth is that it was a bid for brownie points. Literally. “You go for a wee.” I smile at my wife, feeling like superman.

I decide to back the car up to the edge of the car park, so no one will have to watch me clean the… unpleasantness… off my daughter’s bum. She is deep into potty training, with a dodgy tum. No nappy. It will be bad. But I’m a veteran. I’ve seen things no one should ever have to see. This should be a walk in the park.

It’s dark. I think it’s probably a blessing that I can’t see much. Lessens the trauma. I lay her down in the back of the car and start the clean up. The traffic is thundering. My daughter is wailing. The headlights capture moments of our struggle like lightning tableau.

Finally I finish, haul her back into the car. I wonder to myself whether this is the worst one ever. No. Not even close.

It’s when I try and put on her seat belt in the dim light of the car interior that I notice it. My blood freezes. The seat belt buckle is covered in poo. The horror film violinists begin to drag their fingers up the strings. Her legs are covered. Her feet. Her hands. Her clothes.

My heart is pounding, my face contorting in terror and disgust. My hands are shaking. My hands. They are covered too. Oh God. No. The horror violins squeal and stab. My arms. My top. It’s smeared thickly down my t-shirt in broad streaks. I desperately look around for my wife, but she is a universe away, pleasantly browsing M and S food.

Back to the back of the car. I have to strip my daughter down, nearly strip myself down. At the height of the nightmare someone passing bips their horn, turning me like a chubby, half naked rabbit. Thanks for that.

“Have you changed your top?” My wife asks some time later.

There aren’t enough brownie points in the world.

It’s not easy being the brother of someone who truly believes they are the empress of the universe.

If you’re my son, your response is tireless resistance. This little freedom fighter (or terrorist, depending on your point of view) uses various tactics to undermine her rule. He pokes her. Steals her toys. Works out what annoys her then whisper it to her incessantly until she explodes into violence. Leading the resistance is dangerous, but it’s a lot of fun.

Given these constant attempts to bring down her tyrannical regime, you might reasonably assume that my son feels nothing but resentment towards her.

Our nearly three year old Empress spends her morning promenading haughtily up and down in various dressing up masks. My son, oddly, doesn’t carry out any kind of organised disruption of this state occasion. Instead, he disappears into the other room with pens and coloured paper.

“What’s that, son?” I have to ask, following him. He tells me he’s making his sister a mask. I ask him what all the hearts are for. He tells me that they show how much he loves her. I experience one of those parenting moments when your heart nearly stops with amazement.

He labours for a long time, through several iterations of the mask, until it’s perfect, including on it a short poem he composes, and asks me to write, about how much he loves his little sister. This process leaves me emotionally wrung out.

We take the mask to his sister, who is now lying on the sofa, worn out by all the adulation of her subjects. “I made this for you.” My son tells her.

She glances at the mask for a moment, then looks back at the TV.

“He’s made you a lovely mask.” I tell her.

“I’m bored of masks.” She says, boredly. I expect a theatrical yawn.

My son trudges away forlornly. So, back to the resistance then.

It feels odd that I feel it necessary to say this given my long history of not wearing women’s clothing, but I don’t actually want to wear women’s clothing. It’s just that, I am a little bit jealous of how much fun women can have with clothes.

This jealousy is odd. Not just because I am a chubby, gangly, bespectacled, broad shouldered, hairy ginger giant who would look truly terrifying in an evening gown. I also have a bit of a prejudice against the pink and flouncy. If my daughter wants to be a rugby player or an astronaut or an army commando or anything flippin’ else she might want to be, then by God she can be, and I will not allow the avalanche of pink, flowery, horizon limiting girlie-girlie nonsense to slow her down one step! (Sorry, got a little Dad-angry for a moment there.)

There is, though, a reality that I cannot ignore. My daughter loves dresses. Every day of her life is a magical fancy dress adventure. She thinks nothing of wearing a long, flowing, silky, sparkly party dress to the supermarket, or a ballerina tutu leotard to the doctors, flouncing and twirling around the waiting room like Audrey Hepburn in a dream sequence. I can’t believe that that kind of fearlessness is limiting. And part of me wishes I could be like that.

But as a massive, hairy man, I can’t. Well, I could, but the experience would not satisfy anyone. The most liberating thing I do is go lane swimming. I chug up and down in my sensible, black swimming trunks. Some weeks it’s the only time I get to myself. It’s precious, and very vaguely liberating. But it’s not a party dress in the supermarket.

I went swimming yesterday. I got into the changing cubicle and unrolled my towel. Out fell my wife’s shiny, slightly sexy black pants. Seems I had grabbed the wrong thing from the drying stand.

I held them up and looked at them for somewhat longer than was strictly necessary. For some reason I measured them against myself to see if they would fit.

Ultimatums. They are one of the most dangerous weapons in the parenting arsenal, so you better know how to use them. I don’t know how to use them. I throw ultimatums around like confetti, so much so that they now have absolutely no value.

Lovely weather. Happy children. Day trip in the car. Lovely.

The only shadow hanging over our journey is our three month old baby boy. One of the widely known facts about babies is, no matter how annoyed they are, a ride in the car will put them to sleep. It works with all babies, bar none. Except ours. The gentle, soothing purr of an engine and the soft, soporific, tranquillising thrum of the road enrages him. We can’t go anywhere.

Except you can’t not go anywhere. So here we are, baby son in the back, bellowing at us like mouse traps have just snapped closed on all his appendages. This journey will take all our inner strength.

Then a miracle happens. Our son falls asleep. We see the world afresh. Everything is so beautiful. What a joy to be alive.

My eldest son isn’t taking in the countryside. His Joie de Vivre comes from trying to annoy his sister, poking and nudging and nagging and antagonising, and boy is she easy to annoy. She responds with explosive violence.

“Stop it you two or we’re turning round and going home.” I foolishly Ultimate. Of course, we’re not going to do that, we’ve come too far, so I shouldn’t say it, but I’m going insane, and I’m not very good at parenting. Obviously they completely ignore my threats.

“Right!” I bellow. This is it! No more false ultimatums. I take the next motorway exit and pull over in the layby. I ignore my wife’s scepticism. Time for some Dad parenting. “Out.”

I split the children, put our baby son in the middle. They can no longer reach each other. Back on the motorway there is wondrous silence. I am triumphant. Dad of action. That’s how it’s done.

The silence lasts nearly a minute. I have, of course, woken up our baby son. Soon he realises he is still in the car. He is, to say the very least, not happy about it.

Right. That’s it. No more day trips.

I don’t over react. It’s just not my style. I’m cool, calm and collected in a crisis. Sort of like how James Bond would be as a parent. When my children get scrapes, I don’t freak out. I never freak out. I’m not bragging, it’s just the way I am.

At another village hall children’s party, my daughter face plants into the parquet floor. I’m calm. I pick her up and carefully check her face for injury. She seems unscathed. Just in case, I check behind her hair. There, on her forehead, is a huge lump. I’m taken aback. It seems enormous.

But it’s ok. Children get bumps on their heads all the time. I’m calm. I’m unflappable. As I watch, the lump is getting bigger. It’s literally inflating before my eyes.

My calm, rational brain says “Er… now, that is a bit freaky. I didn’t know head lumps could inflate before your eyes like that. Maybe in cartoons, but not in real life. Do they? I… I’m sure it’s OK. I’m remaining calm. The worst thing I could do now is panic. Which is what I never do.”

While I’m having these calm thoughts, another set of thoughts suddenly drowns them out. They are primordial thoughts. They sound like this: “Aaaaaaaah! My daughter’s brain is leaking out!! Aaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

“That’s highly unlikely.” My calm, rational brain tries to say. “I think you’ll find that-”

“Aaaaah! Panic! Aaaaaaaaaah!”

I rush to show the lump to her Mum. She sees the look of blind panic on my face. And the way I appear to be shaking. “I’ll take her.” I say.

“OK.” She nods.

“Aaaaaaah! Don’t panic. Remember how to drive. Don’t panic. Heart racing. Vision blurring. Daughter’s brain leaking out! Aaaaaaaaah! Out of my way, idiot! My daughter’s brain is leaking out. Why do you have to drive so slowly just because you’re old?! I will kill you!”

The minor injuries nurse is very calm. And very nice as she goes through the suspicion checklist, which I seem to pass. Then the head injury checklist. She had remained conscious. She hadn’t vomited. She hadn’t even cried that much. I start to feel foolish.

“I saw it inflating before my eyes.” I tell the nurse. She nods and smiles sympathetically.

“I saw it inflating before my eyes.” I explain to the Mums back at the party, my voice a little high. “I’ve never seen that before. I thought her brain was leaking out.” They nod and smile sympathetically.

My daughter is now charging around the party again. She has an altercation with an older boy and makes him cry.

“She seems fine now.” They say.

I love my wife. So much. Really a hell of a lot. It is in no way a reflection on her that I was really quite looking forward to her going out. Without me.

Not being able to go out, nearly ever, is one of the downsides of having small children. And my wife was in pretty desperate need of some adult company. I am technically an adult, but I don’t really count. She needed the company of other human adults for a change. And luckily for me she had to take our new baby son with her. She is, unfortunately for her, his only food source. It would be nice if my moobs had an actual useful function, rather than just wobbling embarrassingly when I run, but they cannot lactate. Thank God.

She left for her nattering session, she’d be nattering until quite late, possibly airing one or two minor grievances about me, but that’s fine. I want her to enjoy herself. She’s earned it, putting up with me, and of course surviving our tiny, noisy, breast obsessed little dictator.

And I long to watch a nerd film in my pants, something my wife finds both boring and distasteful. I’ve had a stomach bug for a week, I’m stressed, shattered, I’ve started letting out bitter laughter at inappropriate moments. I think I’m close to breaking point. This is laughable nonsense of course. I don’t even know what suffering is. Everytime I think I know my children teach me new levels. They keep teaching me, but I’m a slow learner.

I rush the kids off to bed and jump into an armchair, sans trousers. The film starts. Immediately things are blowing up. I sip a beverage. My jaw begins to unclench.

Five minutes later my son appears and informs me that his little sister has been sick in her bed. This is one of the truly great understatements of all time. She has somehow entirely covered her bed, and her own head, in sick. For the rest of the evening we play out our own live horror film.

Throughout, one thought goes through my tiny brain over and over.

I wish my wife was here.

I sometimes think it might have been more fun to be a parent before digital photography was invented.

Back in the old days there were no action shots. There was one photo per holiday where you all had to stand together outside the tent/chalet, rain or shine, and say cheese. It didn’t matter what kind of weird photo-face you were making, that was the full extent of the record. The rest of the holiday disappeared pleasantly into the summer haze, free of the burden of having to be remembered.

Back then I imagine you could watch your children doing something funny or cute without having to scrabble for a camera phone. You could relax. Live in the moment.

Still, we are where we are. I have a phone. I can’t live in the moment. I have to capture

moments.

I find the children clustered around their baby brother in the bouncer, being unbelievably cute and gentle. I fumble for my phone. I thumb it. It goes blank. It works very slowly lately. It’s full up with seven thousand photos, half of them blurry shots of my childrens backs as they run out of frame. It takes an age to finally catch it’s breath.

I look up. One of them is running away. “Come back!” I shout.

“Why!?” he asks.

“I was taking a lovely photo of you and your baby brother!”

“Oh.” My son says. He runs back happily and sits back down beside the bouncer. “Like this?” He says, reaching out for his brother and smiling at the camera. I get a lovely photo. “Shall I kiss him?” He asks.

“Er… OK.” I say uncertainly. He tells his sister to look at the camera and smile while he kisses him. I get a lovely photo. It doesn’t look staged at all. It looks like my life is full of perfect moments like this. I look at my children, faultlessly reenacting their previous interaction with their baby brother, cute-ing things up for the camera. When we’re finally done they run away, happy.

I’m left with the vague, queasy feeling that something has gone wrong with the world. But the photos are great.

“Daddy?”

“Yes son?”

“Can you teach me how to say lama? Like when we pretend the floor is made of burning hot lama?”

“Oh, you mean, Lava?”

“Yes. Could you teach me how to say Lama properly, Daddy?” he smiles at me sweetly.

This is a surprising request. It also makes me very, very happy. He’s asked me to teach him something. How lovely. How… civilised. Much more like I imagined parenthood would be. Of course, I knew there would be times of conflict. Times when I would have to put on my serious hat and have a serious chat about behaviour or attitude. The chat would end in hugs and I love you’s and then we would go back to our normal day to day activity, joyfully learning through play. I didn’t expect that my children would spend most of their time trying to either make me look ridiculous, or just drive me mad.

“No. Lava.” I say. “Lama?” he frowns. “Laaava.” I demonstrate. “Lama?” He says, eyebrows raised, sweetly seeking approval.

“It’s OK.” I smile. “You’ll get it. Watch my mouth. Watch the shapes it makes as I say it. Laaaaa-Vaaaa.” This is lovely. My son asked me to teach him something, and here I am teaching it. I wish I could record this. I could watch it when things get tough. I might cry.

“Lama?” he says. “No, Laaaaa-Vaa.” I correct calmly.  “Laaaaam-aa?”. “Laaaaa-vaaaa”. “Laaaa-maaa?”.

“Listen to the sounds. Laaaaaaaaa-Vaaaaaaa.” I work my mouth exaggeratedly.

“Laaaaam….ka?” He says, his eyes twinkling, his grin widening. He lets out a tiny giggle. This really is odd. He’s usually pretty good with words. It’s almost as if he’s pretending to not be able to say it to draw me in and make me look ridic-

My blood runs cold. He sees my eyes widening with realisation and laughs hysterically. He runs off shouting “Lamka! Lamka!”, cackling like the Joker, leaving me caught in his meticulously constructed trap.

I sit for a time, remembering wistfully how lovely parenting was before I had children.

So we’re driving along. I’m eating an apple. My daughter is eating an apple. Why not? Apples are lovely. Who doesn’t like apples? My son, that’s who.

I’ve tried for so long to convince him how lovely apples are. I change tak. I tell him if he eats an apple he’ll get a special present. Now he’s interested. I know. It’s poor parenting. Or so you would have thought. “Chocolate biscuit?” he asks.

Even for a parent as flawed and corrupt as me, giving my son a chocolate biscuit as a reward for eating an apple seems a bit… wrong. Then something amazing happens in my brain. I don’t know what exactly. I say this: “How about, if you eat this apple, I give you… an apple?”

He looks at me. “No…” He says uncertainly. “I… don’t like apples.”

This is where the real moment of insane genius occurs. Any normal, sane person would quit this nonsense at this point. Not me. “How about two apples?” I suggest.

My son is quiet. There are two forces in his brain now. His pretend dislike of apples, that he has maintained for four years simply to aggravate me, and his overwhelming desire to beat me at everything and make me look foolish. “No.” He says finally, but I sense wiggle room in that no. I suddenly see a chance for an incredible, astonishing, baffling victory, not just over this apple, but over his entire anti-apple effort, and his successful, four year long campaign against me.

“How about… four apples?” I say dramatically.

For a time he can’t answer. He’s trapped. Then, finally, unable to resist the chance to call my bluff and win a huge four apple victory, he says, “Yes.”

He eats most of an apple, grinning.

I know. I’m scared too.