I’ll come clean. I’m not a very tidy person. This is fine when you’re single, but becomes problematic when you have living with you tiny, tireless mess machines whose entire purpose is to make your house look like it’s been squatted, then burgled. Some days I fear visitors coming round in case they see the living room and phone social services.

Still, I can’t get past the futility of it all. As soon as you tidy mess up, your children start making it again, often while you’re tidying it up. It’s an endless, morale sapping task. At least Sisyphus kept himself fit.

My wife isn’t very keen on house work either. She doesn’t grasp the most important tidying technique of the parent of small children, the art of polishing poo. She starts, then see’s how dirty everything is, gets sidetracked and spends hours scrubbing the kitchen cabinet doors. It all annoys her so much it reminds her about things that annoy her about me. I’ve learnt to keep my head down when she’s cleaning.

I know my own personal untidiness is now irreversible, but I’m determined not to let the curse of untidiness be passed on to my children. At least once a day, I try to get them to tidy something up.

It’s a good job my son’s not a librarian. In his library the shelves would be empty and all the books would be in the middle of the floor in a huge pile. Back in the day there were some other people who liked to put books in a big pile, and that didn’t end well.

“Tidy up the books, please son.” I say in my calm, serene, but irresistibly steely authority voice.

“No.” My son says, distractedly, “You do it, Daddy.”

The only way to understand how aggravating and demoralising this response is is to actually have children and waste the first four exhausting years of their life trying to teach them to be polite, thoughtful, conscientious human beings.

We have words about his attitude. I ask him again.

“But Daddy? I have a Tummy ache because I’m so hungry and thirsty.” he tells me. We discuss this. Turns out it could be fake news. “But, but, but… I’ve hurt my leg.”. “I’m tired.”. “I’m busy thinking about how much I love you.”. “But Daddy!”. “Please Daddy!”.

The battle of wits goes on and on. Finally, after a mixture of threats and promises, my son caves and starts tidying up the books. For ten long, fraught minutes he toils, sighing and huffing, winging and complaining, agonising and feigning illness.

“Are you proud of me, Daddy?” he asks finally, beaming with pride about his achievement. Books have been placed neatly back on the shelves. Four whole books.

“Yes, very proud. Now can you tidy up the rest?”

He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to strangle an enitre family of guinea pigs. Together we work, I pick up books and say things like “Let’s put this one on the shelf too, shall we?” as if that sort of means that he is doing it and not me. The next half hour is agony, his tireless ability to whine and resist and flag and be distracted is amazing, almost admirable.

In the end, I’ve done most of the work, and it’s taken ten times as long as if I had just done it myself, and he immediately wonders off as if to emphasise that he has learned nothing, that all I have achieved is to waste his time as well as mine.

This is where the parent has to really dig deep, swallow down the despair, ignore the futility and senselessly plough on. “Now.” I say, surveying the remaining explosion of mess still covering the floor. “What about these toys?”

It’s a children’s party on a half term weekend at a softplay warehouse about the size of Wembley. Just thinking about it brings on a minor panic attack. But it’s going to be OK. You’re an adult. You can do this. You have no choice.

As you walk in the wall of noise alone is petrifying. You survey your doom. The whole, enormous edifice is seething with crazed, shrieking children. Immediately your son disappears into the bedlam. If you had stopped at one child this would be fine. You could sit down now and drink coffee. But no. You had to have another one. And there she goes, fearless. OK. Just go in after her. You can do this. You’re an adult.

Once inside you feel like a fat, foolish caterpillar who’s wondered into an ant-hill on “kill the caterpillar” day. Your daughter, or her insane stunt double, hurls herself down a bouncy staircase, bounces, gets some serious air, somersaults, then lands at the bottom with a crash-mat thump. She starts crying. Thank God, you think, she’s alive, and you can have a rest.

“Let’s see Mummy.” You say, scooping her up and staggering out, overwhelmed with relief.

“No!” She wriggles free and runs back in. “Are you insane!?” You want to shout. But you can’t. You’re an adult. You follow her back in.

You’re lost, tired, sweating, surrounded by a terrifying cacophony of cackling, screaming and/or weeping children. Here and there are other bewildered parents being tortured by their leering, hyper-energetic little hobgoblins. You feel like you’re trapped in one of those Hieronymous Bosch depictions of hell, a helpless sinner being trampled by Satan’s little helpers. You have to survive this, somehow. At least things can’t get any worse.

Things suddenly take a sharp turn for the worse. You’re hot, then cold, then sweaty, then shivering. Then dizzy. Then nauseous. You’ve been the parent of small children long enough to know the signs. It’s yet another stomach bug. All you can think of is survival, now, and the intense desire not be the parent who passes out at the centre of the soft play, covered in his own sick. You lose sight of your daughter. Far away you can see your wife, sitting, chatting. Her head goes back as she laughs. You claw weakly at the netting. “Help.” You murmur, your voice lost in the storm.

This is utterly awful. Who could possibly enjoy this? They’d have to be a whole lot tougher than you. “Hello daddy!” Your son yells as he charges past, his grin almost too big for his face.

Imagine the situation. You come across two small children in the pedestrian precinct. They’re inching forward aimlessly. Their mouths are smeared with cake. They seem lost. They don’t seem anxious, just direction-less. Should you act? What do you do?

“Is anyone with these children?” You call out worriedly. You see a man. He looks tired, dishevelled, frustrated, defeated, clueless, weary. He waves at you and smiles weakly. He can’t possibly be the parent of these poor, lost waifs. He clearly has no authority over them whatsoever. They should be skipping along beside him like a couple of happily regimented Von Traps. Instead they barely seem aware of his existence. You give this useless “parent” a long glare to teach him a lesson, then walk on, tutting and wondering what the world has come to.

Imagine the situation. You have to get your children to the far side of the pedestrian precinct. You’re late. They sense your weakness. You’ve already given them each a mini-cake to keep them moving, but they wilfully dawdle, somehow managing to move so slowly that they’re virtually immobile.

“OK, come on.” You say sternly. “Lets go.”

You continue to speak increasingly sternly to them for some more minutes. This fails. When you take their hands they drop to the floor like they’ve been tazered. You literally have to drag them through the dirt and cigarette butts. This is impractical. And feels a bit wrong.

Next you try pleading with them. They gaze at you blinking like you’re speaking in a foreign language. They are utterly deaf to your pain.

Next you try to activate their fear of abandonment. “Right. That’s it. I’m going. Bye bye. Bye. Bye, then. That’s it. I’m going. Bye bye… So you’re staying here then? You’re staying here? All right. Bye bye. Bye bye, then.”

They have no fear of abandonment.

You breath, fight back the tears, try to find your calm place and start again. “OK. Come on then, kids. Lets go. Come on.”

After ten or so cycles of this, you try the pretend leaving thing. Again. This has got to work or we’ll never get out of here. Suddenly an older lady calls out “Is anyone with these children?”

Kind thought, but she’s a bit confused about who’s lost.

We live in dark times.

A great struggle is taking place. It’s a struggle between world views, between genders, between extremist attitudes, a struggle which has brought the level of debate to a new low. Never before has an intellectual struggle become so divisive, so bitter, so unpleasant. And I have to live with it every day.

“No!” my daughter shouts. “Yes.” My son retorts. “No!” My daughter insists. “Yes.” “No!” “Yes.” “No!” My daughter flails out to try and strike her opponent. Luckily she’s strapped into her car seat.

My son starts giggling. “No, I not funny!” My daughter yells. “Yes, you are funny.” My son retorts. “No, I not funny!!” my daughter bellows. This great debate goes on until my son leans too close, goading his opponent, and catches a flailing hand to the cheek. He retreats to nurse his wounds.

On to the next arena of conflict. The scene, a pleasant cafe at a national trust site. The audience, a large number of sensible, mild mannered middle aged people. Also my children’s mild mannered aunty and uncle, visiting from a long way away.

“Where’s Aunty gone?” My daughter asks loudly.

“She’s gone to the toilet.” I say, mouthing the last word as quietly as I can so as not to embarrass any one.

“Is she doing a wee-wee?” My daughter asks very loudly.

“No.” My son says, more loudly. “She’s doing a poo-poo!”

“Wee-wee!” My daughter shouts. “Poo-poo!” My son shouts back, raising the volume still further. “Ssssssh.” I suggest.

“The debaters jump off their chairs and start running after each other up and down the cafe, shouting at the top of their voices. “She’s doing a wee-wee!”. “No! She’s doing a massive poo-poo!”. “Wee-wee!”. “Poo-poo!” I chase the debaters around the cafe, suggesting they should not shout. They disagree. The audience do not look particularly enlightened by the content of the discussion.

Their aunty returns from the toilet. They very, very loudly ask her to settle their disagreement.

Dark times.

Let me take a moment to big up the Grandparents. My children’s Grandma and Grandpa are amazing. Wonderful. Lovely.

Every week they take the kids out to dancing lessons, it’s great. I’m sure other parents of small children will understand when I say this: I love my kids more than life itself, and, simultaneous to that overwhelming love, it’s lovely to have a break from them.

At kid’s dance class I understand, and it doesn’t surprise me, Grandma gets stuck right in. She does the hokey-cokey, and the galloping, and the twirling. I strongly suspect she’d sign herself up to the class if she could. She knows how to enjoy things.

Tiny fly in the ointment. The Grandparents do, inconsiderately, have a life themselves. They are not always available to look after my children for me. I know. Outrageous.

This week it meant I had to take my own children to dance class. Gulp.

They reassure me. They tell me my son does the dances himself and my daughter just needs a little guidance. They make it all sound easy. Not like my children at all, in fact.

At the village hall we gather in a ring for the start of the lesson. My daughter reveals her sabotage plan. She is on all fours. She is being a cat.

Miss Emma, the lovely class leader, leads the warm up stretches. I try to do the warm up stretches. I can’t. I’m not flexible enough. I look to my daughter. She is, literally, being a cat. I do the marching and waving. She is being a cat. I start to feel incongruous. I am a man, doing marching and waving with a lot of small children, dragging a cat. I doubt this is what Grandma does.

“Do you want to dance?” I ask her.

“Meow.” She replies.

I take her into the village hall kitchen were the other Mum’s are drinking coffee and nattering. I’m beginning to get the hang of this drinking coffee and nattering myself. Twenty minutes pass pleasantly. I realise my daughter is not in the kitchen with us.

I peer through the serving hatch. She is joining in with the dancing on her own. Amazing! Yet again, I am an idiot parenting genius! The power of me not paying attention to my child has caused a developmental leap. She doesn’t need dance guidance any more. Hurray!

Oh no! I’ve broken dance class for Grandma. Maybe just not tell her this happened.

God loves us. Apparently.

Now, I’m no theologian, but if that’s true, why does ironing exist? Or the tele-sales industry? Or those supermarket trolleys with a kid’s car stuck on the front?

With one child, they’re great. With two…well, as soon as they see it you may as well just shoot yourself.

My daughter gets there first, straps herself in and stares grimly ahead like a pensioner who’s just cut someone up. My son’s agony is heart rending. He pounds the floor with his fists. The only sound my daughter makes is “No. Mine.”

After five minutes shopping my son wears me down and I, wisely and bravely, decide to swap my children over.

Ever seen an angry cat being rescued from a drain? My daughter hisses and flails and somehow manages to kick me in the head. My son dives in. My daughter slaps him square in the face. He doesn’t mind, he’s won. I drag her away as she tries to climb in through the windscreen and carjack him.

My daughter is not a reasonable person. She lies down in the central aisle and shouts abuse at god. I think that’s what she’s saying anyway. Walking away doesn’t work. Picking her up doesn’t work. The nice lady who tries to make her laugh is lucky not to get badly beaten by her. I make the brave, wise choice to swap them back again.

My son is devastated. “But we’re friends!” He pleads with me, tears streaming down his face. I have to spend several minutes hugging him. Meanwhile my daughter, in an astonishing turn around, decides she’s bored of the car and starts running up and down the aisles giggling. I start to feel like Nurse Ratchet.

My son gets back in the car. My daughter makes a break for the exit. I have to run after her. He runs after me. I grab my daughter, go back to the trolley, she takes the opportunity to get back into the car. This is too much for my son. He collapses, rolling around on the floor.

I stop. I have a parent moment. You know, that moment when yet again you realise you have no idea what you’re doing. I sigh. I gaze around. This place has everything, right? I wonder if they have a child-size straight jacket?

What did we do, God? Seriously?

Parenting tip of the day: don’t leave the house.

There’s a Mum coming towards me. She has that look that parents have just before they inform me that one of my children has done something unspeakable. I know that look so well. My blood freezes.

Rewind an hour. The local wildlife centre is extending their softplay, and as is traditional for English builders, the water main has been accidentally severed.

“We might have to close.” The staff say worriedly. But they don’t close. We’re British. We’re sensible. Unflappable. Closing would be excessive. Almost extremism. So instead we all just carry on without really thinking it through.

“There’s no water.” My brain says when my son flushes the loo. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” I ask my brain. It doesn’t answer. All right son, wash your hands. “There’s no water.” my brain repeats wearily.

I decide to go and get myself a lovely, de-stressing cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry, there’s no water.” The lady informs me sadly. I stand, open mouthed.

This is getting truly serious. Hand washing and coffee are the two central pillars of parenthood. Structurally, I need those pillars. But we’re British. So we carry on.

I’m chatting, not paying attention to my children. My daughter probably needs a nappy by now. What’s the worst that could happen? We’re British. I’ll just carry on chatting. Everything will be fine.

Then the Mum comes, and time slows down. The other parents are holding their children back, horrified. The slide, from top to bottom, is covered in a thick streak of human poo. My daughters nappy has exploded.

“Do something!” My brain screams at me. I spring into action. What I do is a sort of a dance. I hop about, flapping my hands as if I’m impersonating a butterfly. And I make this sound: “Wha wha wha wah no aah wha aah wha aah oooooh god. Wha?”

None of this helps. I go to the toilet to get water. “There’s no water!” My brain screams at me. I grab toilet roll and rush back to start smearing the poo all over the slide. It’s sort of like painting. The staff are informed and I hear them say “Oh no! There’s no water!”

This is one of the many situations that being British does not automatically prepare you for. The solution is simple: I refer you back to my parenting tip of the day.

If you read these articles and don’t yet have children, I’d hate to think I’m putting you off. Yes, for me at least there’s been plenty of tiredness, stress and confusion, feelings of inadequacy, fear, failure, frustration, desperation. But there are lots of lovely times too. Really, there are. Er… there’s loads of good bits. Um… Yeah, take yesterday, for instance.

The lovely grandparents are visiting, they can corral my feral two year old daughter, so my son and I go for a special treat, a cafe in a leading retail establishment who’s name starts with the letters “M” and “S”.

I stride across the car park being a giant robot, my son on my shoulders. He laughs and makes the robot noises for me as I go. People smile. Lovely.

We order snacks and drinks, joking with the staff.

We find a table. My son loves cafes more than anything in the world. I’m just glad it’s not restaurants. We chat and laugh. He gulps down a huge apple juice. Earlier, I remember casually, he drank a lot of milk. Then a lot of water. Then a lot of squash. “That’s a lot of fluid” my brain tells me for some reason. Shut up, brain.

“My trousers.” My son says worriedly. “Oh.” I say. I look under the table. Wee is pouring out of his trouser leg and making a growing lake on the floor. It’s like someone’s turned on a hose. He looks at me, on the verge of tears. “It’s all right.” I smile. “It’s fine.” I use my calm, capable, reassuring adult voice. I have no idea what I’m going to do. I feel like a dog pretending to be a brain surgeon that’s suddenly found itself in an operating theatre being offered a scalpel.

“Um…” I look around. I go to the counter. They’re very nice. I take a huge amount of industrial kitchen paper and start hand mopping.

I have no change of clothes. I carry my son at arms length through the shop, dripping, to the store loos.

A few minutes later another customer comes in to use the toilets. He finds a boy, naked from the waist down, dancing around like a robot. He also finds a man trying to dry a tiny pair of blue under pants in a Dyson air blade. The man is also dancing like a robot. They are both laughing.

Just have kids. You cannot get moments like this any other way.

Turns out, despite all the evidence, I am a parenting genius.

If you like solving problems, don’t be a parent. Parenting problems are, I’ve discovered, basically unsolvable.

Take the classic night nappy conundrum, for instance. When do you stop putting a child in nappies at night? How can you know when the time is right?

If you stop too early and it all goes horribly wrong, you can’t go back to nappies. That’ll just make it twice as hard when you try it again, which could then go wrong again, making you have to start again, again, quadrupling the difficulty. Before you know it you’ll be putting a nappy on a five year old.

Of course it could go right, but how can you know? After all, why on earth should they stop weeing in their nappy, or bed. It’s so convenient for them. And things have not exactly been problem free so far. Earlier today my son told me he had decided not to use toilet paper any more. I asked him what he was going to use instead. He held up a hand and wiggled his fingers. My horror at this was so great I struggled not to phone the emergency services.

The impossibility of knowing what to do isn’t helped by the fact that I’m not one of life’s most decisive people. Amazingly, though, when faced with impossible decisions, my brain weakness turns out to be a huge advantage. Almost a super power. I seriously thinking of becoming a motivational speaker.

Here’s how it works. Imagine you’ve got an impossible parenting decision to make. Now, empty your mind. Completely. Think of nothing. Just go vacant. I know it sounds hard, but you might have a talent for it like me. When your mind is completely empty, let your unconscious mind make the decision for you.

My son woke up this morning without a pull up nappy on. He hadn’t wee’d in his bed. My amazing vacant brain solved the problem by simply making me forget to put a nappy on him. Genius. Thank you brain.

Now, he just needs to not wee tonight, and all subsequent nights, and my genius will be confirmed.

Why have kids?

Even for a parent, it’s not an entirely straight forward question to answer. They’re obstinate, unreasonable, melodramatic, petulant and obsessed with chocolate biscuits. And they don’t ease off when things aren’t going your way. When you’re ill, for instance, they seem to demand even more attention. Even when truly bad things happen in life, small children still want to be entertained and comforted, their quarrels adjudicated and their hurt fingers kissed better, no matter how you’re feeling. In fact they sense your weakness and use it to get what they want. Most of the time, in fact, they’re merciless. And yet.

Say someone significant in your life has passed away. You’re sitting, feeling a bit lost. Then something triggers you. It could be anything, a song on the radio, an advert, a Cbeebies program, and the thin veneer of normalcy cracks, and you do what adults aren’t really supposed to do. Especially not men, and especially not in front of your two year old daughter. You start to weep. For a little while you’re a bit out of control. And the tears make more tears, and you can’t help but let a bit of the lostness out.

Your daughter turns away from the TV and looks at you quizzically.

“Daddy?”

“Yes my beauty?”

“Are you a bit sad?” She asks. This makes you cry more, just as you were getting it back under control.

“Yes, I’m a bit sad.” You manage to say, tears rolling down your cheeks. You feel like a child yourself, adrift in a world of adult emotions and tragedies. Your two year old daughter comes over to you, stands beside your chair and starts stroking your arm. “It’s all right, Daddy.” She says softly. “It’s all right.”

There aren’t really words for how this makes you feel. Just… no words. For a little while you cry as she strokes your arm and tells you it’s all right.

“Daddy?” She says finally.

“Yes my beauty?” You reply with a deep, tremulous breath, a love-grin splitting your face.

“Can I have a chocolate biscuit?”