Life just got easier…so why do I feel sad about it?

As the saying goes: today was the end of the beginning. This morning, for the first time in more than two months, our 5-year-old son Nathan went to school. It’s a moment that Laura and I, like many parents, have long looked forward to, albeit with a due sense of trepidation and last-minute doubts.

That’s not to diminish the hardship of the many thousands of people who’ve been more directly affected by the coronavirus than we have. But with both of us working and two kids of different ages (and personalities!) to home school, the last few weeks have been seriously tough.

To finally get a glimpse of the end of it, to have just one unwilling student to cajole and police rather than two, to step off the daily, hourly, rollercoaster of brotherly love and mortal enmity, to inject a smattering of usual routine into our lives again should therefore be joyous.

No more cries of ‘would your teacher really be happy with that?’ – well, only 50% of them anyway. No more having my maths skills shamed by Year 1 extension questions. Less reliance on Roblox and more time to boost the number of shits my 8-year-old Dylan gives about the life-cycle of a plant. A chance for Laura and I to actually do some work. At the same time. Christ.

So, why then do I feel a bit sad?

Is it the fact that this horrible virus is still carving up people’s lives? Maybe. Is it concern about the impact a socially distanced school day might have on Nathan’s young mind, not to mention the possible health risks? Probably. Is it guilt that the youngest, most fragile member of our family has been thrust to the vanguard of our journey back to something-like-normal life? Undoubtedly.

Perhaps some of you are experiencing similar feelings. For sure, many of you will be better at articulating them. Yet the more I scratch the surface, the more I realise there’s something else going on here. For all the overwhelming pressure, exhaustion and frustration of the last few months, for all the times I’ve selfishly wished they could be over right fucking now, I’m actually going to miss them.

Bike rides. Movie nights. Exploring the local woods. Eating every meal together. Playing board games. All the fun, cliched family activities that can get overlooked amidst the unpredictable thrum of everyday family life. The things that have recently become ever-present and invaluable. Indispensable, even.

Maybe that’s why I’m finding the prospect of emerging from this weird, tumultuous, anxious experience nearly as bizarre as going into it in the first place. A sort of empty-nesting lite. Maybe I’ve become a masochist. The kind of parental maniac who enjoys stepping between flailing fists and feet, applying Savlon, cleaning toilets that look like someone tried to hide a kilo of Dairy Milk in the U-bend and arguing about whether or not ‘research’ on Google counts as schoolwork.

Or maybe it’s more simple than that. As Nath said when I asked him how he was feeling this morning: “I’m looking forward to going back to school but I’m going to miss our adventures.” He’s not the only one.

Sleeping is cheating

I overheard a mum at the school gate the other day bemoaning the fact her whole family had overslept that morning and thus nearly been late for registration.  So I killed her. Then urinated on her corpse.

Overslept? OVERSLEPT?! How dare someone with kids the same age as mine be able to sleep longer than they need to? To be gently roused by her own body because it’s sufficiently and blissfully recharged rather than abruptly elbowed, shoved or bellowed into the morning at a time that barely crosses the border between night and day.

Now, admittedly, things in our house aren’t as bad as they used to be. The odd sickness bug or bad dream aside, the days of 4am starts and the nights of constant wake-ups – the ones that leave you wondering if it’s safe to be getting behind the wheel of a car the next morning – are, thankfully, behind us.

But, still, the prospect of oversleeping remains about as likely as hearing the words “you look busy Daddy, what can I do to help?” or eating a family meal that doesn’t feature a blast radius.

Of course, as a parent, you get used to functioning with a fuggy brain and surviving on the bare minimum of sleep. I remember many occasions on my wife’s weekend lie-in day (the staple of any functioning relationship!) of walking the streets of London with my son Dylan in half-darkness looking for an open playground surrounded by people coming in rather than heading out.

It can be miserable but it’s also just how it is – and I’m not complaining. After all, we made the decision to have kids and anyone with half a brain goes into that experience fully recognising the likely impact it will have on their precious 8 hours a night.

But I didn’t expect it to last sooooooooooooo long. I thought by now, with kids aged 5 and 8, I’d at least be seeing the number 7 on the clock when the first sounds of movement occur. Maybe even 8 at the weekend.

After all, isn’t school supposed to tire kids out? But no. Like many of you reading this, every morning at home still invariably begins with a simple, painful and recurring thought: Seriously? Already?

Perhaps stupidly, my wife Laura and I have always steadfastly resisted trying to solve the problem by going to bed super-early, sharing the view that we would rather spend the evening relaxing together or seeing friends than live our life around some insane little sleep tyrant’s body clock.

Besides, on the few occasions I’ve tried that, it makes sod all difference anyway. No matter what time I tuck in, there’s something in the core of my constitution that makes me allergic to waking up before 7.30am.

Pre-kids, I used to set an alarm to get up in time for a Saturday morning yoga class at 11.00am. Fast forward to today and by then I’m mainlining caffeine and getting hungry for lunch. Unless it’s my lie-in day of course, in which case by 11am Laura has done a hefty solo morning shift and is thus standing over me like an American customs officer while I eat breakfast, ready to hand over the kids the very moment I swallow my last Rice Krispie.

Worse, based on what I hear from parents with older children, by the time they finally are sleeping in, your own knackered brain is so accustomed to being bludgeoned into consciousness at the crack of dawn that you find yourself waking up anyway! I mean, how cruel is that?! Although not as cruel as what I’m planning for my own teenage sleeping beauties should that happen to me.

Maybe you’re a morning person reading this. In which case: you probably think I’m whinging about nothing. Maybe you’re like me and depressingly resigned to starting each day in a near-permanent state of unreadiness. In which case: I feel your pain and send my best wishes.

Or maybe you’re one of that rare breed of parent with kids aged less than 10 who may sometimes sleep more than they’re meant to. The ones who still get to doze (remember that?). Who come around gently every now and then. Or who might conceivably be late for school because they were in bed too long rather than because someone took 20 minutes TO PUT THEIR BLOODY SHOES ON!!!

In which case: lucky you. Now, damn well keep it to yourself.

Tell me lies.

The other day, I was paddling at the seaside with my sons Dylan and Nathan when we came across a small jellyfish. Instinctively, Nath, as most five year olds probably would, reached out to grab it. Cue me delivering a quick warning about how this wasn’t a good idea as it might sting him.

One thing led to another and I ended up explaining to them that urine can actually be an effective way to alleviate a jellyfish sting should they ever need to. It was intended to make them laugh before we all moved happily on with our paddling, but what followed was 10 minutes of them actively (and, I have to say, quite cunningly) trying to get each other stung in the hope they would have an excuse to piss on their brother. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Fortunately, it didn’t happen. But it did make me think about the stuff we tell our kids in the hope of educating, protecting or steering them on their journey through childhood. In this case it was something, which as far as I’m aware, is true, albeit a bit feral. But how often are the things we say actually lies?

If you don’t go to bed then you won’t have any energy to play in the morning. Bollocks. Maybe I’m unlucky but I’ve never seen a kid below the age of 10 go to bed late and then spend the morning mooching around like they knocked back a bottle of gin the night before. But we do want them to stop messing around and for the love of God go to bed. So, we try to hit them where it hurts by threatening their ability to have fun.

Eat your carrots and you’ll be able to see in the dark. Another old classic but likewise a whole heap of shit. Yes, there’s some evidence that carotene helps eyesight but I think we can all agree it’s unlikely any kid who polishes off their roast dinner is going to spend their adult life roaming around the night-time streets like the Caped Crusader. But it might just get them to hurry up and eat their effing vegetables.

Even Father Christmas. A big, beardy bloke who circumnavigates the planet in a single 24 hour period breaking and entering people’s homes – but only if they’ve been good enough to deserve their presents. And not only that, a man who, nowadays it seems, unleashes an army of shelf-dwelling elves who report back to him about children’s behaviour throughout the rest of the year. Still, the prospect of waking up to a stocking full of air on Christmas morning is useful leverage when you need your kids to behave anytime from about October onwards.

The examples are myriad and various. In fact, I’m sure you have plenty of others, either from your own childhood or as a parent. Because here’s the other big lie we tell our kids: it’s not OK to lie.

I mean, it isn’t. But it is. Like when I told Dylan to pretend he was eight not seven so he could go on a waterslide. Or when I claim I don’t have any change, just to avoid the argument about putting a quid into the machine that rewards you with a bashed up, elongated penny. When I assure them we’re almost there on a car journey we’ve barely started, so they don’t get downhearted. Or imply that just a single extra Haribo could be the difference between a happy life and a future of dentures and type 2 diabetes.

Yes, all these untruths are relatively harmless and told with the best of intentions. But they’re still lies. Something pretty much any parent would crack down on like a tonne of bricks were the boot on the other foot. It’s not fair really and it makes me wonder whether, sub-consciously, we’re all teaching our kids that not telling the truth is a normal and necessary part of life. Maybe our parents instilled the same lessen in us. And their parents before that.

Of course, I hope not. After all, nine times (OK, eight times) out of 10, lying is wrong while truth is the basis of any lasting positive relationship. But I also know I’m unlikely to stop doing it. I need it. Like Calpol and peripheral vision, it’s a key weapon in the parenting arsenal.

Besides, if the worst does happen and Dylan and Nathan do turn into pathological liars as adults, I guess they can always use their skills to become a successful politician. And a successful parent, of course.

Wipe Power.

There’s a new favourite cartoon in our house: Captain Underpants. Hardly surprising given the boys’ intensifying love for lavatorial humour. One of the erstwhile Captain’s various bog-related catchphrases is “Wipe Power!”. No harm there. Or so it would seem…

My 4 year old son Nathan has recently found great amusement in bellowing this phrase at home and, more pertinently, in a variety of public settings. Again, there are worse things that a kid can shout, like when a 2 year old Dylan sat on my shoulders as we walked through Bury St Edmunds town centre yelling, what to outraged onlookers, sounded like ‘Fuck!” at the top of his voice. (He was, in fact, shouting “fug” – a word I had stupidly used to describe the experience of him noxiously breaking wind as soon as he had sat up there.)

Anyway, the problem with “Wipe Power” is that Nathan’s diction doesn’t tend to distinguish very well between a ‘p’ and a ‘t’. Thus, a relatively innocent cartoon catchphrase suddenly sounds like a rallying cry for the Far Right. All from a tiny blond, blue-eyed kid who looks like he stepped straight out of Hitler’s Aryan Master Race.

It’s attracted some pretty interesting looks from passers-by, fellow diners and even a Traffic Warden. And it’s usually followed by one (or both) of Laura and I leaping in with that classic move that all parents do. You know, the one where we try to make it sound like we’re addressing our child but actually we’re speaking to everyone around us. Normally in a bid to either: a) prove that we’re not a terrible parent; b) imply that our child would never normally behave like this; or, best of all, c) that we really don’t think another parent is doing their job properly.

Like: “No, you have to wait your turn until that little boy has finished” – subtext: get off your phone Mummy A and move your kid along.

Or: “Now, remember, this is a VERY SPECIAL TREAT” – subtext: I know you’re judging me and, of course, I would never normally resort to such bribery. (Actually I would and I do.)

Or, in this case: “Let’s save the CAPTAIN UNDERPANTS QUOTES for home, shall we Nathan?” Subtext: my son is not a white supremacist.

Luckily, it’s yet to lead to anything more than a few raised eyebrows but it has got me thinking. Even if Nath was shouting “White Power!”, in his mind there would be absolutely nothing wrong with that. Not because he’s a racist (I hope!) but because it would be the same as shouting “Dog Power”, “Poo Power” or anything else that counts as silly, 4 year old style playing.

The problem comes when we adults impose our own historical hang-ups and anxieties on it. I can honestly say that our boys don’t even notice the colour of someone’s skin, accent, religion etc. any more than they might notice their height, how good they are at football or whether they’re wearing shoes. I imagine the same goes for most, if not all, young kids.

“White Power” is only offensive within the context of it being shouted by Tommy Robinson or Eugene Terre’Blanche. When it’s being used as something derogatory and subversive. The same way calling someone a Blonde or an Essex Girl or a Scouser is only a problem if it’s being said to belittle or abuse.

Of course, I’m not for one minute condoning anyone who gets their children to say this stuff as a way of vicariously expressing their own poisonous beliefs. Or who tells them the context – then encourages them say it anyway. I’m not dismissing the fact there are certain words we can all think of that are completely unacceptable in any scenario and whether you know the context or not. Nor am I underestimating the hurt and pain it must cause to people who are on the end of such insults.

But I am saying that as an entire generation of parents, we have to get over ourselves. If we keep going off like a car alarm every time our child says something that, in the adult world, would be deemed offensive but in their world is nothing more than a simple, childish statement of fact, all we’re doing is re-enforcing and continuing the very divisiveness we’re trying to avoid.

If I tell Dylan: “Oh no, you can’t say THAT!”, he’ll ask “why?”. I then have to explain why what he said is considered offensive when, to him, it was something totally fleeting and innocuous. In other words, I’m turning what he sees as a harmless statement into something more sinister, thereby forcing him to recognise a negative connotation that previously didn’t even occur to him – and now has another host brain in which to endure.

I guess it’s a choice. A world where children are brought up to be painstakingly politically correct without understanding why until they’re old enough that all those false barriers they didn’t used to notice have become unconsciously hardwired? Or one where describing someone as “Tom with black/white/brown skin” remains forever as innocuous, matter-of-fact and contextless as saying “Ellie with the red hair or the blue jumper”?

I’m not saying it’s simplistic or straightforward. But I do know which one I’d prefer.

A magical time of year?

This week, my wife and I finally bit the bullet, each sold a kidney and stumped up for a family ticket to Lapland UK. With 7 year old Dylan asking ever more challenging questions – “surely if Santa has to travel that fast he’d just burn in the Earth’s atmosphere, right?” and 4 year old Nathan finally old enough not to shit his pants at the mere sight of a giant, bearded man in a onesie, we figured it was now or never.

Besides, we’d heard good things – and not just on Lapland UK’s own website. Making toys with the elves and cooking gingerbread with Mother Christmas. Tick. A snowy, elven village set deep in the forest. Tick. And a magical door capable of instantly transporting you from…ahem…Ascot to Lapland. Tick. Big tick, in fact, given my fear of flying.

Even the pre-amble was good: a box of personal invitations for each of the boys that you put in the freezer so it feels cold enough to have feasibly come direct from the North Pole.

Thus we pulled eagerly into Owl Car Park – “This car park must be for night time ‘cos owls are nocturnal”; “Alright, Dylan, I get it, you’re clever like mummy. Stop ramming it down my throat you cocky little…” – before taking a fairy lit path through the pine trees and conifers to be greeted by some pretty convincing elves.

Here we waited to venture through the magical door. Unfortunately, things got off to a bad start when some jumped-up-Holby-City-wannabe-extra calling himself the Elf Travel Master mistook my quiet contemplation (is this going to be one of those Christmas lands that ends up as a story in the Daily Mail every year?) for ‘not being cheery enough’. My punishment was to be hauled on stage in front of dozens of people and forced to skip and sing with him.

After 30 painful seconds, a few false grins and one whispered threat about where I was going to jam the horn he was holding, I was released. In we went.

Much as the cynic in me would love to lampoon the next four hours, in truth it was incredible. No expense had been spared – nor should it, given what we paid for the tickets! – and the boys were totally enthralled. Even the 90 minutes of free time in the elven village (a period that would normally be spent trying to distract the boys enough to stop them charging around like they’d just snorted three lines of cocaine) passed enjoyably.

The climax of course – if you don’t count when Anya, our 20-something Scandinavian husky herder appeared – was a meeting with the man himself. And while the wait alongside others in a kind of holding area for over-excited, over-sugared kids was not especially festive, picking our way through snowy paths, following our elf guide (sadly not Anya) past tiny wooden houses and finally arriving at Father Christmas’ home was genuinely magical.

Inside, Mr C had clearly done his homework (i.e. read Laura’s online notes) and spoke kindly and naturally about everything from the boys’ favourite cuddly toys to the things they like doing, and showed them their names in his giant good list book. He didn’t even lose his bonhomie when Dylan started firing questions at him like a terror suspect.

Having seen a procession of dads, grandads and, let’s face it, the occasional pervert take on the role of Father Christmas and paint a mixture of bemusement, awkwardness and outright terror on the boys’ faces over the years, I can honestly say this felt like the real thing. To the point I had to remind myself it wasn’t. Most importantly, Dylan and Nathan were completely convinced and utterly enchanted.

Which I guess is the point. For reasons I won’t go into, this year has not been one we will look back on as being filled with carefree joy and gay abandon. But if ever Laura and I needed a reminder of the kind of unfettered, fairy-tale charm that exists in the world, we had only to look at our sons’ enraptured faces throughout our visit.

As adults and, especially parents, we’re probably all guilty of not making enough time for magic – at Christmas and beyond. There are too many school runs, clubs, bedtimes, homeworks, tantrums, jobs and a whole heap of other crap getting in the way.

So, thanks Lapland UK for bringing back the magic for us, even for a few hours. Just don’t ever, EVER make me skip, sing or link arms with an elf again.

Note: Lapland UK didn’t ask me to write this post. However, if they would like to send me free tickets as a thank you, I will gladly receive (and eBay) them.

F*$k off Sunday Times

A couple of weeks ago – yes, I’m a bit late and, yes, I’m still angry enough to write about it – The Sunday Times published an article entitled Test Your Dad Skills. In it, a male journalist called Ben Machell gives a rundown of the various abilities required to “pull off” life as a father of two.

Now, as most of you well know, I’m no superdad. And I’m always willing to learn how to do it better from other people. So, I started reading. But with caution.

What exactly were these mysterious fathering skills worthy of a multi-page article in a national newspaper? What would Ben add to the long list of mental, physical and emotional capabilities any parent needs to survive?

Apparently ‘handle a sleepover’ was one, as was ‘make pasta and pesto’ and ’look good in a papoose’. The latter, in particular, is a key consideration for any new dad. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure it was my first question during antenatal classes with Laura before our first son Dylan arrived.

Similarly, ‘how to read a bedtime story’ – another of the mighty challenges Ben addressed. Useful stuff. I’ve always wondered why, night after night, Dylan and Nathan are so disappointed when I recite the book’s title, open the pages and then leave their bedroom without further word.

In truth, the article was not about being a dad at all. Well, not in any real sense anyway. It was an opportunity for Ben, presumably at his editor’s behest, to present himself as some sort of inept buffoon, blindly (and, admittedly, comically) bluffing his way through the day-to-day challenges of fatherhood.

Simple things were presented as a curious mix of impossible and unnatural for a tiny male brain to compute, let alone measure up on when compared to our vastly superior wives and girlfriends. Because, you know, really us dads are just subbing in for the ladies. The people who are meant to quit work and raise kids while we go to work and bring home the bacon.

Er…

Anyone who knows Laura also knows she’s brilliant – professionally, personally and as a mother to the boys. Likewise my own mum is a wonderful, capable and successful woman. But what the hell? Who on earth sanctioned this ridiculous downplaying of men’s ability to fulfil that most innately human of tasks: namely raise a child?

It’s like a bad joke – but it’s not.

This is certainly not a rant against feminism. The likes of MeToo and Time’s Up are so right and so important. But this article didn’t do anything for their message of gender equality and mutual respect. It didn’t redress the balance or promote a progressive, modern agenda. It skewed things off wildly in the other direction.

I mean, imagine the (entirely appropriate) outcry were a newspaper to publish an article in which a female journalist returning to work after maternity leave was presented as some kind of office clown, desperately trying to reply to emails, use the coffee machine and locate the toilets.

Maybe I’ve completely misinterpreted their reasons behind this piece – in which case, apologies, my bad. But for me, it strikes a nerve. Like millions of parents, I work really hard to balance professional and family life – and do both of them half decently (mostly). Seeing that effort belittled by some idiot with a baby carrier in a national newspaper is really annoying.

Equality, as I see it, is about helping every parent balance their work and home lives as best they can (if they choose to). It’s not a competition. Women don’t have to succeed or be happy and fulfilled at men’s expense, nor vice versa. And we all (well, unless we’re Donald Trump) want a fair, compassionate, meritocratic future for our kids.

Man or woman, mum or dad, clichéd, bullshit articles like this send us all crashing back in time.

Eat Up. Headphone Up. Shut Up.

Last month was my wife’s birthday, which coincided with a family holiday to Italy. Not only that, our hotel had a two Michelin starred restaurant on the top floor. How perfect, I thought. What a lovely treat for Laura, not to mention an apt way to spend the final night of our trip.

Then I remembered we couldn’t just leave our six and four year old sons alone in a hotel room while we spent three hours pretending to know what Spelt pasta is and convincing ourselves that hazelnut tastes SO much better as an espume.

Nor was babysitting an option. Not because the hotel didn’t offer it (providing you were willing to sell a kidney first) but because the chances of Dylan and Nathan responding positively to the bedtime arrival of a stranger in a strange place were about as high as them eating an Italian-style ice cream without needing a jet wash afterwards.

That left just one outcome on the table: the boys were coming with us and I would have no choice but to despise myself as a result.

Aside from the sheer ludicrousness of taking kids to a Michelin starred restaurant, some of you may remember a post I wrote a while back about dining out with them. Though it’s fair to say things have improved somewhat since then, the prospect of combining hungry, tired, overexcited boys with the height of gastronomic elegance was cause for trepidation.

Would Dylan loudly announce he needed a poo before marching to the toilet like the evacuation could begin at any minute? Would Nathan jam a burnt butter breadstick up his own nose? Would a subtle under the table pinch escalate quickly into a full-scale brawl amidst (and possibly involving) the carefully chosen tableware? And would our fellow diners insist we were forcibly removed from the restaurant before we got our main course?

Actually, none of the above. In fact, aside from the 100 Euros they charged us for the boys’ fish and chips followed by ice cream, the most shocking thing was that Dylan and Nathan did us proud. They were polite, kept their voices at an appropriate volume (mostly) and avoided smashing each other in the face with a pepper mill. They even ate neatly.

Of course, we owe a heavy debt of gratitude to technology. Having smugly congratulated ourselves on keeping all meals iPad and phone free during the rest of the holiday, everything went out the window, replaced by a new approach entitled ‘Eat Up. Headphone Up. Shut Up.’

As soon as each boy had swallowed his final 4 Euro chip, out came the iPads. There was even a cosy nook behind our table where they could sit on the floor. Claimed reason: to ensure they wouldn’t disturb other diners. Real reason: so people couldn’t see what shit parents we are.

And thus the meal passed. The food was excellent, the ambience lovely (occasional bellowed goal celebration from Dylan and panicked ‘Shush’ from us aside) and Laura’s birthday was fittingly celebrated.

Which really left only one problem. I took my kids to a Michelin starred restaurant before either had reached their seventh birthday. This obnoxiously pretentious act is something I must live with for the rest of my life.

Fortunately, just as we were getting the bill and I was having an existential crisis, another family arrived. Like us, they had brought their children: four of them ranging from a similar age to Dylan up to what I’d guess was about 15. The three boys were dressed in the same cream chinos and blue shirt combo as their father. The girl sported a matching floral dress to her mother.

As they sat down and we paid up, the dad caught my eye. I smiled. Not an empathetic, isn’t-this-a-brave-but-lovely-thing to do with our children smile. A thank you smile. Because no matter how much I hated myself for doing this, I hated them even more.

 

Note: This is the first thing I’ve written since having eye surgery, so it was done with at best 50% vision and in several separate stints. Forgive me if it’s even more crap than normal.

Sibling rivalry

Is poo flammable?

That was the question my 6 year old son, Dylan, suddenly fired at me the other day. And one I spectacularly failed to answer without the help of a good friend called Google. It is, by the way – worth knowing if your BBQ won’t light over the next few months.

Having congratulated myself on dissuading Dylan from conducting a live test, what I wasn’t prepared for was the onslaught of competitiveness this revelation would uncork. My poo’s more flammable than yours, Nathan! Dylan was quick to point out to his younger brother. Furious at this slur, Nathan responded with a bellowed No, it isn’t! and a breadstick jammed roughly into Dylan’s ear.

As for why either of them gave a shit (boom boom), I have no idea. Is having to struggle with the matches for a few less seconds when trying to ignite the cable you just laid really something to brag and/or get angry about?!

Yet, while the subject matter on this occasion was a little leftfield, the argument itself is increasingly typical. As the boys get older, the nearly three year gap between them seems to be closing all the time. And that’s bringing lots of benefits, especially when it comes to playing together and agreeing upon what to watch on the TV.

But the other side-effect is a rapidly intensifying sense of competition with each other. On EVERYTHING. My biscuit’s bigger than yours! No, mine’s bigger than yours! Isn’t it, daddy? (Whisper) Yes, Nath, that’s right. (Turn to Dylan, whisper). Yours is biggest really, Dylan.

I was better at football than you are when I was 3. My Chelsea dinner mat is better than your Ninjago one. You’re cheating. I’m taller. I’m better behaved. My sweetie lasted longer. That joke wasn’t as funny as mine. I want the big half. My cuddly is more precious than yours. The oneupmanship never stops.

And if you ever dare give one of them a compliment or praise for something, you can set your watch by the indignant and inevitable And me! from the other.

It’s kind of irritating but also kind of entertaining.

On the one hand, the incessant bickering and battle to outdo each other can be exhausting, especially as it invariably escalates to a point where either I or my wife, Laura, has to intervene and discreetly lie to both boys that they somehow came out on top or remind them there are no prizes on offer for who can stuff their finger furthest up their nose anyway.

But I also get it. As one of two brothers myself, I know there’s simply nothing better than beating your sibling – a feeling that seems to be supercharged when you’re both the same gender. In fact, I still cherish the day my brother handed over £1,000 of Monopoly money to me while crying like a newborn. Happy times – although probably not for my mum who had to deal with the aftermath!

More importantly, competing with my brother certainly helped (helps) spur me on to be better at stuff, which can only be a good thing. Besides, just like me and him, I know it’s all part of growing up and that Dylan and Nathan have got each other’s backs when it really matters.

So, I guess despite the antagonism it sometimes causes, what I’m saying is: long live the sibling rivalry. Providing, of course, it’s done in the right spirit and just as long as we never find out whose poo really is the most flammable.

#RollingBackTheYears. Yeah, right.

We all do it. Remember our pre-kids life as if it was some unendingly hedonistic cycle of spontaneous nights out, lavish meals and alcohol/erotica-fuelled holidays. And even though, for me at least, that would be a gross overestimation of both my inventiveness and staying power, it’s nearly impossible to resist a glimpse through rose-tinted specs every now and then.

To a time when going for a meal out didn’t involve a bulging rucksack of distractions and the human equivalent of a carwash afterwards. When holidays actually meant returning home more relaxed than when you left. When a night out didn’t entail weeks of negotiation, pre-planning and clock-watching as the babysitter’s fee ticks up beyond the cost of the evening itself. And when a Saturday morning hangover started once your body decided you’d had enough sleep to get through it, not when some miniature idiot buries his bony knee in your testicles at 6.30am.

Thus, when I went away skiing with three mates a couple of weeks ago, the plan was to set things straight. A triumphant, albeit temporary, recreation of those youthful, halcyon days. Yes, we’d make sure we maximised our time on the slopes, but what really mattered was taking on the post-piste drinking like the legends we knew were still there,  lying latent beneath our middle-aged spreading.

We even had a hashtag: #RollingBackTheYears. That’s how Millennial we were planning to be. This was on.

Then reality arrived – about as softly as the good morning knee I mentioned earlier. Two litres of gin exuberantly purchased at the airport resulted in an unplanned gift for the cleaners on departure. One crate of beer between four turned out to be enough. We cooked, averagely. And even our ‘big night out’ saw at least one of our party (no names) tucked up in bed by 10pm, with the rest of us only a couple of beers behind.

That’s not to say it wasn’t great fun. In fact, it was a brilliant trip. But to claim we delivered against our hashtag would be pushing it.

In fact, if anything, it was more a glimpse of the future. One where enthusiasm and intent are ever more distant friends of capability. Where waking up on your terms is as much a treat as going out in the first place. Where ‘getting a table’ is more critical to a successful night than how much you drink. And where a ‘white out’ doesn’t just apply to the mountain weather anymore, but to the thick fog in your 38-year-old brain when you drink Stella.

Maybe I’ve learned my lesson. Perhaps I’ve realised that I can’t keep blaming the kids for my partying failures. I mean, I even just used the word ‘partying’ for Christ’s sake. But, really, I have little doubt I’ll be donning those same rose-tinted specs again next time the opportunity arises. And if I’m honest, I’ll be glad to. After all, what’s life without hope and misplaced self-belief? For most of us, those traits are exactly how we ended up as parents in the first place.

In the meantime, it’s time for my wife Laura to take a similar trip this weekend. Maybe she’ll get on better than I did at pretending she’s still got it, although I hope not. Now, that really would be hard to accept.