“Be Ready for Eight!”
Cometh the hour, cometh the man or so they say. Half-term week could only mean one thing; the Godfather duty rota beckoned again and as the chosen day approached for my day with the chosen one, I steeled myself for the ordeal. Somehow over the years I have been “selected” for this dubious honour by three sets of parents all claiming to be my friend; surely if that were the case then why burden me with one of their noisy, runny-nosed, delinquents none of whom understand even basic English words such as “no” especially when they are trying to strangle me.
Clearly they were all guided by a desire for revenge knowing that I would never, ever opt for parenthood unless drug induced or with the guarantee of a maid for life who looked like Kylie Minogue. “Be ready for eight in the morning” growled working mum as I prepared mentally for a day with Harry aka H, aged seven. The only sure thing was that both H and I knew that a day with me was the last resort for working mum.
Tactics
Although I love the Hugh Grant film About a Boy I have never really wanted to emulate the central character although my current lifestyle does share a few similarities; notably these are largely living a life of leisure based on the ill-gotten gains of past years. I have never, however, attended a single parent group having borrowed my mates’ kid to infiltrate vulnerable women; having said that I have to admit that H can be a bit of a babe magnet if used strategically.
To that end I usually borrow him for a Sunday afternoon stroll in the TK Maxx cookware section or the occasional trip to M&S thereby spreading my bets across the socio-economic range of the vulnerable female species. It rarely works though as the kid has a habit of producing gas on such a regular basis so noxious Iran would no doubt purchase it in bulk. I think he knows what he is up to.
The Drop Off
Of course mothers have no sense of how valuable time is to the idle, single man and so, as usual, having followed my instructions to the word in fear of working mum, said working mum turned up an hour late to drop off sleepy kid with layabout Godfather. It was a pointless and highly probable risk to my own safety to point out the benefits of that extra hour in bed to said harassed working mum so H was simply ushered across the threshold. The cry of “I’m free!” from her car as it sped away was disconcerting.
He was oblivious anyway to where he was having had his nose clearly stuck to his Nintendo DS since waking up. Our days together always start with a trade; I hand over the Sky remote in return for a retreat to my office, coffee in hand where I can steal a last few moments of calm. Kids TV, once again, proved worth its weight in gold for that £1 a month subscription; I thank you Mr Murdoch and don’t believe what they say about you. However, even a man of leisure has commitments – the senior citizens Pilates class was calling – and so I trudged back downstairs to collect H and drag him and the DS, by now fused to his wrist, to the gym tearing him away from Scooby Do.
Shaggy
Now this was not Scooby as you and I may remember it in cartoon form as only Scooby is in animation for the new version. And this was not the only change as, lo and behold, what had they done to Daphne? I admit I always had the hots for the cartoon version of Daphne as a kid, but they have turned her from dizzy blonde into a red-headed siren pouting all episode long; they had even sexed up dumpy old Thelma, the one with the glasses. Sadly as the two girls fizzed relentlessly around hunky Ken – who is now clearly gay as they come – dear old Shaggy’s best chance seemed as always the reliable Scooby hence the perpetual look of fear on the animated hound.
Of course movement was resisted by H and a bit more gas expanded but he did not seem to object to being dragged like a sack of spuds. Naturally H charmed the socks off the old dears at the gym so much so that they thought I had kidnapped him until I offered to accept no ransom at all if only I could have my day back. For the rest of the day we had plans though. First we were going home to make pasta which was a calculated risk as although it involves a flour fight it can often wear him out and gain me an hour whilst he sleeps it off covered in flour. Remarkably though he showed no interest – would you with the sexed up Scooby on multi-play as an option – and so hunkered down with no sign of the DS running out of battery power.
A Family Day Out
Despite freaking him out on our last visit I had been coaxed into another trip to Tropical World in Leeds; basically this is an enormous greenhouse full of all sorts of reptiles looking thoroughly pissed off at having their day disrupted by noisy kids – I felt I was with kindred spirits. H wanted to prove he had overcome his fear of bats as if they were a regular threat to contend with in Bradford. As moral support I had enlisted my friend and her four year old daughter and all of a sudden I was a “family” queuing with the other hapless mums and dads desperate to get back to work at any cost. You spend half an hour queuing in the freezing cold and in an instant you are peeling off layer after layer whilst being buzzed by tropical birds and tripping up over kids.
It’s a short afternoon though – shortened considerably by telling the kids that the snakes often escape and eat them – and soon it was time for a cuppa. One of the things I have noticed about days out with H and my other Godsons is that they do like the odd toilet break. Clearly it was a delight to hear from H that, on visit number nine for the day, he had “pushed one out and nipped it off”. I shook my weary head, finished my tea and listened to another parent on an adjoining table struggle to get their sibling to understand the word “no”. I was not alone.
Uncle You Are Boring
Finally, we were home and Harry and I settled in for the return of working mum. Then he just came out with it like kids do – not a “thanks for a great day Uncle” but “Uncle Willy, our days are getting boring” he said “it’s almost like granddad and grandma’s house. We need an X-Box or a Wii.” I explained I would rather have the Pox than an X-Box but this was lost on the precocious one. Stuck firmly in middle age, I was now not even a cool uncle.
So that’s a lesson for us all. No matter that you never forget its birthday or Christmas presents; no matter that you are there to have flour tipped over you, be punched in your nether regions all day long and farted on till your nasal passages burn; no matter that you let it stuff its face with whatever it wants generally at your expense one day you will be valued no better than a bit of plastic made in China. What makes this far, far worse is that I have no bloody idea what an X-Box is. As they said it is “about a boy”.
Phil Baxendale says
Go on admit it you love having him!
As for H’s use as a babe magnet I’m sure that the locations you have tried him in are more expansive than the few you have claimed!
I do await with great anticipation however on you explaining to the said seven year old what “pushing one out and nipping it off” actually means! I’m sure his busy working mum will also wait with baited breath to hear that mumbling and awkward explanation!
We do so look forward to his half term days with Willy, we actually use it as a continuation of his education in the community, it helps him to develop his life skills and how to cope with near abandonment and all the other little scenarios that life may throw at him. We consider his time spent with you will assist in him fine tuning his capabilities !
Thank you for your continued support in this extremely important phase of his education and look forward to many more years of continued torments!
A greatf absent father (for the day) and a busy working mum!
P.s. H says ” do you think Uncle Willy will enjoy all the Babestations I’ve pre set on his Sky remote?”