Play Doh!

This is awesome! in no way did I think that this would ever work, surely you have to buy play dough? No my friend, it’s quick and easy to make and better than the real thing – although I can sincerely recommend that you restrict the amount fed to the dog…

Here’s how;

Ingredients

2 cups flour

2 cups salt

2 tsp oil (vegetable is fine, we’re not that foody…)

2tsp Cream of Tartar (I know, I know, what exactly is a Tartar and how do they gather that?)

2 cups of water

A few drops of food colouring (although if you add more it makes it easier to spot following feeding to dog…)

To ‘Cook’

1. Mix it all up in a Saucepan with a big stick (or a spoon if you are a girl)

2. Stir continuously over a medium heat

3. Remove from heat when thickened completely & becomes one piece of dough

4. Knead on a floured surface (Grownups, you may want to ask a child for help with this…)

This Play Doh! will keep in a plastic bag for several weeks in the fridge. Happy Days!

!@#$!

I was bundling Arran and Seren into the car ready for a trip out, just the three of us – mum’s working. A faint drizzle begins while I secure Serens buckle, from the far side of the car, clear as bell;

“Shit, it’s raining”

“Arran, what did you just say?” fingers crossed it was ‘ship’…

“I said shit daddy, shit it’s raining again”

“Umm Arran, where did you hear that from?” other fingers crossed it was mum…

“You daddy, you say it all the time, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

I wait til the evening and ask their mum if she’s ever noticed me swear. Evidently I do. A lot. Not just like a fish wife, but also like her sisters, her aunts, neighbours and all the other spouses of men gainfully employed in a variety of other professions as well.

Clearly I must cease the profanity instantly, although it’s become such second nature as to form an intrinsic part of my personality. I find this worrying. Casting my mind back, the most powerful and shocking swearing I have ever heard has come not from the words used, but because they have come from somone who doesn’t normally swear. I remember finding myself slightly in awe as a result. To me this demonstrates restraint and strength of character – traits I want to pass on to my kids.

In terms of parenting skills, Arran has moved on to trying to persuade his little sister to shout “Poo Poo!” and “Wee Wee!” at every opportunity, the rudest words he knows. We are meeting this with indifference and without acknowledging that he has said anything wrong. In theory this stops the words from becoming special and as before, removes their power. Hmmm we’ll see how it works out…

Choc or not?

 

That is definitely the question. I read somewhere that kids form their taste for certain foods in the first year of their lives so all junk food was banished, chocolate was forbidden and fresh fruit and vegetables became the order of the day. Also curries, chilli, olives and seafood were introduced, because lets face it we want the kids to be cool and to grow up ‘foody’. This has met with mixed success. After strictly policing friends, relatives and most of all grandparents for the best part of two years, Arran is now a fully fledged chocobsessive constantly searching for his next fix. Seren for whom we adopted a much more relaxed approach is really not bothered and would rather have a nice piece of fruit. Both can demolish a bowl full of chilli olives in a matter of seconds…

Is this down to individual taste I wonder? or did we make chocolate too special for Arran and therefore a luxury associated with the good times? The bottom line I guess is that it all comes back to moderation. A little bit here and there, with a focus on the good stuff is probably the way forward to healthy appetites and development.  By the way, can’t leave without warning about the nappy situation following the chilli olives…yuk!

Sports Day

So, Arran and Seren have their first ever pre-school sports day. I’ll be honest, I’m meeting this day with mixed emotions. On the one hand I don’t want to echo the “WIN, WIN, WIN, YOU MUST WIN!” era of my own upbringing and my own dads peculiar form of encouragement, but at the same time I know that sporting achievement leads to popularity and a propension towards exercise rather than video games, junk food and inevitable obesity. Deep down I also know that here is an opportunity to build character and learn that taking part and trying your best is important. 

2 minutes into preperation for year 2′s race for the under fours, I find myself coaching my son – “remember, pump your arms, focus on where you are going and run as fast as you can” if I thought massaging his shoulders with a white towell around my neck would have improved performance, I would have done so in an instant.

I retreat to the finish line and with shouts of encouragement urge Arran on to third place, narrowly beating a girl who ran in the opposite direction. Arran is upset about losing and I do my best to console him “you did your best, and you tried your hardest and Daddy is proud of you” I tell him and it genuinely doesn’t matter I find, despite the confusing surroundings he did his best and just seeing him in that environment makes me explode with pride anyway, it really is the ‘taking part’ and ‘doing your best’ that is important.

Later I limber up for the Dads egg and spoon race while my wife retreats to the sidelines, shaking her head in disgust. My ‘casual’ trainers are laced up tight as I head towards the start line and feel the unfamiliar burn of adrenalin as my shaking hand accepts the egg and spoon. I cast my eyes over the competition - they, like me, are out of shape - tired and drawn but there is fire in their eyes – even so I think I can take them, I think I can be a hero to my kids and my wife and make my dad proud. The whistle blows and for glorious seconds I streak out in front, sure of victory before the egg wobbles and falls to the ground. Scooping it up I finish 5th out 7.

“For a while there, I was winning..” I begin,

“But you lost” says Arran shaking his head in disbelief “Daddy you lost”.

“Yeah, but I tried my best” I counter “and that’s what counts most”.

“You lost, you didn’t win” says my son again in a kind of awe and it’s as though I can hear the scales fall from his eyes, and suddenly I kind of get what its all about and what my dad was driving at in the first place, and I feel ok again because I know that it might take another 32 years but Arran will understand…eventually.