Christmas crackers

Dear Dave,

The decorations are up, the mince pies are warmed, carols are playing and the weather outside is truly horrible. I guess it must be Christmas.

Remember I mentioned in my last letter that after all these years, the kids might not have any tricks left up their sleeves? Turns out I was right.

Well... about the sleeves anyway:

Christmas seems to have got here in a panicked rush of cards and wrapping but I've managed to find time to watch some films with the boys in the last few weeks. It's only been after Marie has gone to bed on nights when Sarah's busy but we've managed to squeeze in the entire Star Wars saga. We've settled down on the sofa, the boys in their pyjamas and snuggled under blankets, and we've done some male bonding while people with glowy swords leapt around before our eyes. Fortunately, the prequels aren't as bad as I remember. (Then again, I remember them being pretty bad.) Episode 3 is remarkably dark and scary, though. Glad I watched the original trilogy with boys first, a couple of years ago.

Last night, we sat down to watch the end of Return of the Jedi - a little ewok treat before the chaos of Christmas really set in. I had some reheated mulled wine from our Christmas party last weekend, the room was dark apart from the tree lights around the TV (don't ask) and we were all nice and cosy as I switched on the DVD player.

"Would you like a cracker?" said Fraser, offering me a handful of little, round snacks with a hint of chive.

"Yeah, thanks..." I said, taking one. "Er..." I stopped in the process of moving it towards my mouth as every alarm bell inside my head went off at once. (Not to mention several on my tongue, a strange prickling in my thumbs and an itchiness in my toes that made them want to curl up reflexively.) I hesitated. "Where did you get these exactly?"

"They were underneath the sofa cushion," he replied, his mouth full.

"Pardon?"

"They fell down there during the party, while I was jumping on Lewis."

I blinked. "And you didn't think to take them out again?"

"Er... No."

"So, they've been there all week?"

"Yeah." He clearly wished he'd kept the knowledge of his secret stash to himself.

"Are there any more?"

Fraser nodded reluctantly and I ordered everyone off the sofa again while I switched on the lights and then went hunting around in the fluff and loose change. There were a couple of dozen of the things. My toes curled involuntarily.

Sarah overheard this exchange from another room and called out to me as I went to find a bin and wash my hands. "Never mind, dear. At least it's not snot."

I wasn't too impressed at the time but I suppose she's right. This is the time of year for counting blessings, after all...

Have a great Christmas and all the best for the New Year.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Advent calendars

Dear Dave,

Gah! It's almost Christmas again already. I'm not sure where the time has vanished to this year. It's disappearance has been all the more galling, however, because I don't have the excuse of sleepless nights and clingy small children. I've had more time available to me than at any point in the last decade and yet I'm still confused the summer has already been and gone. What happened to the long days of sunshine? The strawberries and tennis? The sweet smell of newly-mown grass? The happy sound of children locked outside the back door and forced to play in the fresh air while I have a rest?

Ho well. There's always mince pies and mulled wine to look forward to, I suppose...

I've started work on what to include in our Christmas letter this year and we've decorated the lounge in a confusion of tinsel but I'm not entirely prepared for the deluge of carols, cards and calories that's on its way. The kids, on the other hand, have already begun on the festivities. Thanks to their advent calendars, they're getting a daily dose of chocolate at breakfast.

It's maybe a sign of the end of civilisation that they see this as only natural.

When I was their age, I remember being excited at the prospect of opening a tiny cardboard door each morning of December to find out whether there was a little picture of a robin or a snowman behind it. This simple surprise brought a little colour to my life in between cleaning chimneys and playing with my single toy (a loaf of stale Hovis). That said, I was immensely jealous of a friend who had an advent calendar with chocolate in it. The pictures were on the front of the doors, which was a little odd, and the compartments didn't entirely line up with the openings, so getting the treats out was a battle but, nonetheless, it was an object of wonder, surrounded by warmth and light in my hazy recollections. Truly, it was amazing...

These days, it's tricky finding an advent calendar without chocolate in it. You probably have to go to a Christian bookshop. I'm also pretty certain that's the only way to avoid something that isn't merchandising for Ben 10 or Barbie. I wouldn't be surprised, though, if a plain card one is more expensive than a chocolate one. The things are scarily cheap. We've got a fabric calendar with numbered pockets to put sweets in. Filling it up cost more than it would have done to buy a job lot of three pre-filled calendars from the local supermarket.

That's not taking into account the fact that the packaged ones have extra doors. When I was young, advent calendars stopped on the 24th. Admittedly, this seemed miserly even then - it might be traditional but it felt a day early to my six-year-old mind. Not to mention that there was never any mystery over what the final picture was going to be. (Double-sized nativity scene? Boring...) Nowadays, advent calendars often keep on going right up to New Year. I'm beginning to long for nativity scenes rather than Scooby-Doo in a Santa hat.

Bah, humbug. Something isn't right. Mutter. Grumble. The kids of today don't know they're born. Etc. Etc.

Hmm... I think I need to go have some chocolate for breakfast...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Once again, this was finally going to be the week. The week where I had all the kids at school every day and nothing to distract me - no holidays, illnesses, school trips, visiting relatives, cleaning or anything else.

Unfortunately, I walked them along the road this morning only to discover the heating was broken and school was cancelled. I was back home playing Mouse Trap by five past nine.

Definitely need that chocolate now...

Happy New Year

Dear Dave,

Those sound like some excellent resolutions. To get more sleep, drink less coffee and wear less vomit are, indeed, noble aims. Unfortunately, you have a fifteen-month-old.

Basically, you're stuffed.

Perhaps next year, eh?

As usual, I haven't come up with any resolutions myself. If something's worth doing, it's worth doing whatever the date. Thinking up things specially at New Year doesn't seem like a great idea. If I'm not inspired by a plan, then starting it in the depths of winter during the holiday chaos isn't exactly going to give it a large chance of success. Now is not the time to lose weight or attempt to be less snappy with the kids.

I suppose I did (totally coincidentally) think of something worth doing yesterday anyway. Not so much a New Year resolution as a Christmas Sale resolution. These aren't as common as New Year resolutions, admittedly, but I suspect they might catch on. Maybe not everyone's going to have a seasonal epiphany in the menswear department of Debenhams but, what with the confusion of crowds and deals and Credit Crunch uncertainty, I doubt that I was the only person at the shops who suddenly wondered what they were doing.

I wasn't buying clothes, obviously - that would have made twice in the past twelve months. (After my shopping trip at Easter, I shouldn't need to buy anything other than a few pairs of socks until Fraser is at secondary school.) Nope, I was browsing through the half-price toys that had spilled over from the department next door. There were licensed cuddly toys, simple board games, brightly coloured plastic steering wheels and a remote controlled helicopter.

The helicopter was vaguely tempting but it didn't have a price tag on it. Besides, Marie isn't quite old enough yet and the boys wouldn't be interested in it for more than a few minutes before sloping off to play the Wii. Doubtless those few minutes would contain a fair amount of fun but they'd also contain some arguing, quite a lot of frustrated bickering and a small explosion.

It didn't really seem worth it.

Then it struck me that none of the other items were of interest at all. This was a peculiar thought. Not so very long ago, I'd have rifled through the garish tat, hunting out educational bargains to set bleeping and flashing before my children in an effort to stimulate them. These days I'm pretty sure that extra stimulation is not required - sometimes it feels like I'd be better off shutting them all in a darkened room in order to get them to calm down.

Most of the toys on offer were beneath my kids and the others we have plenty of already. Lewis has enough cuddly toys to start his own carnival stall, Marie got a whole book of simple board games for Christmas and Fraser has long-since moved onto the kind of plastic wheel which you have to put a wireless controller in and then use to steer Mario round a race track.

It turns out that I no longer have small children - I simply have children. It's a change that seems to have taken an age to achieve and yet has still managed to creep up on me. Maybe Mike's right. Maybe I need to start thinking about what I'm going to do once Marie starts school in August.

After nine years of being a housedad 24/7, I will have time on my hands. People may even expect me to go back to my old job. This is nonsense, of course. It's been such a while since I left LBO that I've forgotten where the toilets are, let alone how to write a complex data retrieval program for a Large Banking Organisation that functions smoothly without bringing the world's financial system to its knees. Although this isn't so much of an issue as it would have been a few months ago, someone will still need to take care of the kids after school, in the holidays and when they're sick, and that might as well be me.

I won't have time for a 9 to 5 job. I will have some time, however. I will have a chance to explore new career paths and dabble in fresh possibilities. Perhaps this is an opportunity. Disregarding childcare related expertise, all my skills have atrophied. I'm not tied down by up-to-date qualifications. I could do anything!

As I wandered the upper floor of Debenhams, I started to feel disoriented, overcome by the frightening array of potential options available to me. That said, I may just have been dizzy from walking around the escalators in the same direction for twenty minutes, killing time while waiting for Sarah to finish her shopping and appear for lunch.

Then I had another revelation that cheered me up - I don't need a plan for August at all. I need a plan for the following August. I can keep myself busy for a year. There are untold chores to be done around the house. Decorating, cleaning, tidying, organising - there's plenty to get stuck into. The loft needs cleared out; the garden requires a tactical nuclear strike. If worst comes worst, I can always take some time to buy more clothes. You know, smart ones without vomit that would be suitable for interviews.

It's possible I might even have the occasional day where I relax and don't achieve much besides eating biscuits and playing the Xbox.

Yep, I can certainly 'keep myself busy' for a year once all the children are at school. It's only after Marie begins Primary 2 that I'll feel some pressure to justify my subsistence and contribute financially to the household. I hasten to add that this pressure won't be from Sarah but will mainly be internal guilt fuelled by well-meaning acquaintances asking what I've been doing in my 'spare' time. Nonetheless, it will start to get to me.

I suppose we could always have more children to keep me occupied. I'm maybe reaching the stage where that thought doesn't instantly give me a nervous twitch. The other day, friends came round to visit and show off their young baby and I unexpectedly got a strange desire to give it a cuddle...

Then again, when I was actually holding it, I noticed there was dribble coming out one end and at the other there was a feeling which wasn't quite damp but was definitely warm and humid. The kid started to cry because I wasn't entirely holding it at the angle it preferred and it was already hungry, tired and sitting in pee. I noticed I was referring to it as 'it'.

I quickly returned the adorable little bundle to its mum.

So, yeah, maybe I should look into a new career. I'm not going to be a housedad forever. There's no rush but I definitely need to work on a plan. I need to try and think what I want to do and figure out how to achieve it - who to talk to, what training to do, where to go, what to change and when to do it. And I can create this plan happy in the knowledge that I don't really need to go through with any of it yet.

I guess, when it comes down to it, my Christmas Sale resolution for this year is to work hard on coming up with some proper resolutions for next year. Can't be too hard...

...can it?

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Good luck with the sleep. Happy New Year!

The twelve days of housedad Christmas

Dear Dave,

It's that time of year again. Think I may have had too much mulled wine:

On the first day of Christmas,
My children asked from me
A plaster for a sore knee.

On the second day of Christmas,
My children gave to me
Two lovely hugs
And a disease that made me rather queasy.

On the third day of Christmas,
My children caused to me
Three crushed toes,
Two bruised limbs
And a very painful groin injury.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
My children lost for me
Four unpaid bills,
Three left shoes,
Two remote controls
And the remains of my sanity.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
My children made to be
Five muddy marks,
Four sticky floors,
Three stained shirts,
Two soggy socks
And an unexpected puddle of pee.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
My children found for me
Six 'interesting' sticks,
Five dropped coins,
Four elastic bands,
Three stray dogs,
Two mouldy socks
And a slug to keep them all company.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
My children left for me
Seven empty tubes of glitter,
Six sparkly carpets,
Five sparkly cushions,
Four sparkly ceilings,
Three sparkly computers,
Two sparkly socks,
And a sparkly cup of coffee.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
My children went to Gran's
With eight cuddly toys,
Seven warnings to behave,
Six sets of clothes,
Five heavy bags,
Four hours on trains,
Three Mario games,
Two long good-byes
And I got some time without my family.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
I worked around the house:
Nine toys for gluing,
Eight rooms for tidying,
Seven shelves for dusting,
Six taps for gleaming,
Five carpets cleaned,
Four beds changed,
3,427 sparkles hoovered,
Two toilets scrubbed,
And shower sealant all over me.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
I had a long lie down,
Ate lots of crisps
And drank beer while watching TV.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
I caught up on my sleep,
Ate mince pies,
Watched action films,
And then lay around playing a PS3.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My kids returned to me
With twelve toy drums drumming,
Eleven gadgets bleeping,
Ten lice a-leaping,
Nine hankies dripping,
Eight tales for telling,
Seven bags of washing,
Six arms a-waving,
Five nettle stings,
Four startled Kurds,
Three new pens,
Two painted mugs,
And their mum
(whom I was very glad to see).

Merry Christmas!

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Christmas sneeze

Dear Dave,

There are a few phrases I never expected to have to say as a parent. I feel that someone really should have warned me they might come up. They include such things as:

'Why are you wearing your brother's socks on your ears?'

'Don't slide down the stairs naked - you'll give yourself carpet burns on your bottom.'

and

'Where did you find that poo?'

I've also had plenty of unlikely conversations. Only a minute ago, I said to Lewis, "Stop swinging on the banisters, you'll pull them off the wall. How many times do I have to say it?"

Quick as a flash, he replied, "Yes, but you normally say it to Fraser..."

Ho hum. I'm kind of used to the bizarreness of parenthood now, though. Not much throws me. I have to rely on adults for my surprises. Like last Saturday night, when Mike said, "Turn the heat down or you'll burn off all the alcohol."

That simply can't be a common utterance for ministers of religion.

"I haven't added the alcohol yet," I shouted above the surrounding chatter and cheesy Christmas music. "The recipe says I've got to boil the other ingredients for ten minutes before I add the wine. It's still got a little bit to go."

Mike peered suspiciously into the huge pot I had bubbling away on the hob. "It looks like you've put some wine in."

"That's just the dregs from the last batch."

"Ach, it'll be fine. Pour in the plonk. Some of us are waiting."

"OK, OK," I said, unscrewing the tops of three bottles of cheap red and emptying them into the pot. Then I stirred the resulting concoction with a wooden spoon, spices and slices of fruit whirling around. It all certainly smelled like mulled wine, which was most of the battle. I was reasonably hopeful that it would taste like mulled wine too and I tried not to sneeze in it.

I seem to have had one disease after another the last couple of weeks - cold, cough, stomach bug, you name it. What with the end of a long term approaching, all the kids at school are worn down and there are loads of bugs going about. It was so quiet walking along the road the other morning, I was convinced the bell had already gone and we were late. Turned out that we were on time and everyone else had merely decided to stay home, crank up the heating and hide under a blanket.

Wish I'd thought of that plan.

I've been stumbling around, following the normal routine. The man in the corner shop treated me like I was mad when I bought six packets of throat sweets at once. Maybe he was right. I should probably have given up, hidden under a blanket for a couple of days and let the kids run wild. Instead, I've chain-sucked Lockets and risked menthol poisoning in an effort to make sure they make it to all their usual clubs and activities.

At least the kids haven't succumbed to any of the illnesses yet. Doubtless they're saving them for next week but I should have recovered by then.

When we had our annual Christmas party, I was still feeling grotty. Nonetheless, several helpings of hot, spicy wine did improve matters somewhat. Once the contents of the pot had warmed up, I ladled myself another medicinal dose and then filled Mike's cup as well.

"Cheers," he said and we turned our attention back to the room.

All the children present had vanished upstairs to the lounge where they were being mysteriously quiet. I hoped they were happily playing computer games rather than dismantling the furniture but I didn't dare go find out. Judging by the number of adults packing out the kitchen, no one else was too keen to risk breaking the spell either. Friends and neighbours mingled together. Every so often, someone remarked, "The children are being very good." This was a cue for every parent in the room to glance nervously at the ceiling and then mutter something about 'going and checking in a minute' before shiftily returning to their drinks.

Useless Dad and my sister-in-law, Catriona, had found each other and were introducing their spouses in an excited exchange of business cards. My niece, Lisa, was chatting with Kate and cooing over baby Luke. Trevor was showing off his tattoos and shrapnel scars to Ned. Scary Karen had Rob trapped up a corner and was regaling him with the details of the birth of her children. By the look on his face, she'd got to the part with the spatula on the train.

A dozen other people swirled around. Everyone was mingling nicely.

That or the combination of mulled wine and over-the-counter cold remedies was making my vision blur slightly. It was hard to tell.

"So...?" said Mike.

It was that time again.

"So...?" I echoed, playing stupid as always.

"Thought about where you're headed yet?"

"I've got a few days break coming up. Sarah's taking the kids through to her parents before Christmas. I'll get a chance to do some things round the house, like re-grout the shower and clean the carpets, and then I'm going to have a lie down. Just me, the Xbox and some beers."

Mike didn't look impressed. "That's not what I meant."

"I know."

He shook his head. "It's only another few months now."

"It's nearly a year!" I replied, incredulously.

"It's nearly a year since Marie started nursery," said Mike, not having any of it. "How long does that feel?"

"Like a few months," I sighed.

Mike nodded. "She'll be at school before you can blink. Better be ready." He ladled himself some more mulled wine. "I'm busy enough without coming round here every week to counsel you."

I wasn't entirely sure if he was joking.

"I do think about it," I said and blew my nose. "There really is plenty of time left, though. Once I've had a rest and I'm well again and Christmas is over, I'll maybe have a better idea what I'm going to do."

"And who you're going to be?"

"That's what I meant."

Mike was sceptical. "Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh. You've made the point enough times recently; I've just about grasped it now."

The words came out sounding more irritated than I'd meant.

He was right, of course. I've spent so long as a man in a woman's world, constantly having to explain my existence, that it's come to define me. 'Housedad' isn't merely my job - it's what I am. Looking after the children is my justification for being. There's a chance that I'm going to get to September and feel redundant. I'll lose the place I've made for myself in society and mope around in a haze of self-doubt and imagined social rejection.

"Sorry," I said. "Look, honestly, I'll figure it out but... for now I'm still a housedad. I know there'll be something the other side of that. Something soon. I'm just going to have to make my way barefoot through that darkened room littered with LEGO when I come to it, though. I'm too tired to be prepared."

As if to confirm this, I had a fit of sneezes and sagged against the worktop.

Mike thought for a moment but then took pity on me and decided not to press any further for the time being. The interrogation was over. "You do look like you could do with a rest. Do you want someone to come round and help you with the Xbox and the beer?"

"Forget that," I said. "I'd have to get dressed. I'm planning to loll around in the armchair in my pyjamas... Now, excuse me, I'm going to go rescue Rob before Karen decides it's her turn to show off her scars..."

I squeezed my way through the throng and pulled Rob clear in the nick of time, roping him into handing round mince pies. I set about serving drinks. There was more chatter and laughter and thankfully someone swapped the CD over to Christmas carols. It was all very pleasant.

Eventually, however, I couldn't resist any longer and I had to go and check on the kids. I was hugely pleased to find that four of them were playing on the Wii and the rest were keeping amused with toys I'd scattered about.

There was only one small problem - there were crumbs everywhere. I had to use one of those unexpected parental phrases. "Did it rain crisps in here?" I asked.

Most of the children ignored me but Marie was quick to pipe up. "No," she said, giggling. "Don't be silly. It can't rain crisps. It snows crisps..."

That pretty much answered my question.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

What I really wanted them to get for Christmas

Dear Dave,

Well, we've been back a couple of weeks now and I've had time to evaluate the kids' Christmas presents. All in all, they haven't done too badly this year. The unexpected drumkit from Chris and Catriona has been successfully smuggled to a charity shop without the children noticing but, apart from that, the gifts have generally been appropriate and reasonably appreciated. Now we just need to work out where to store all the loot amongst all their other stuff.

The boys got a huge construction set consisting of scores of wooden wheels and poles and joints. It's quite nice but comes in a tin drum the size of Wales. On seeing it for the first time, I gave a little sigh, unsure where on Earth we were going to keep it and fairly certain that none of the kids would show the slightest bit of interest. We've had Duplo and K'Nex for ages - stacks and stacks of it that they've hardly touched. It's filling up shelves that could be better used to house their boardgames and the army of cuddly toys. This new set is very like K'Nex. I expected them to ignore it.

To my surprise, however, they've had great fun building rockets and robots and towers almost every day. Maybe it's the novelty of it being wood rather than plastic... or maybe it's just that the drum got left out in the middle of the lounge because we couldn't think where else to put it. Who knows? Whatever the reason, they've got quite into it. Perhaps there's hope they'll like Lego yet. To my mind, having a legitimate excuse to play with Lego again is one of the reasons for having children.

I had a Lego moon base when I was a kid that I played with all the time. I designed all kinds of lunar vehicles and buildings myself with the help of cannibalised parts from other sets. If I saw one in a charity shop, I'd buy it instantly, even if it had teeth marks all over it like my one did. (My dog was frequently hungry and permanently stupid). The Mars Mission sets call to me whenever I wander through a toy department. I drag children along with me, hoping they'll attempt to pester me into buying some, like they do with every other shiny bit of plastic in the store. Doesn't happen, though. The girl wants to play with the pink, sparkly trikes and the boys want to know when we're going to the computer game section.

Annoying.

I guess it's for the best, though. It probably wouldn't be as much fun as I imagine, just as finally getting my hands on a copy of Hungry Hippos turned out to be far noisier and less exciting than I was expecting. The children would get me to do all the work putting together the Lego and then they'd merely muck about with the moving parts for a bit before leaving it all to lie around the floor waiting to be stood on. Unless they were prepared for a bit of construction and make-believe themselves, there wouldn't be much point to it.

Disappointingly, the children haven't taken a second look at Playmobil stuff either. I had the mobile hospital set of that when I was Lewis' age. It was superb. As for Action Man, I had a tank but I was desperate for the submarine and the death-slide. I tried to make my own death-slide tower out of cardboard but over-specced the project and never completed it. With hindsight, I could have just tied one end of a length of string to the latch of an upstairs window and the other end to the back gate, cuffed Action Man with a bag-tie and sent him screaming across the garden to splat into the woodwork. (He could take it. His normal experience on exiting an upstairs window was having his parachute fail to open and then plummeting head-first onto the patio.)

One of the boys got an Action Man a while back that I would quite happily have bought all kinds of gadgets for but it's long since been left lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of drawer, abandoned to spend a hundred thousand years biodegrading in his injection moulded underwear.

It's all quite distressing. As I said, maybe the kids will get into Lego now. I can't see it ever happening in a big way, though. Marie might conceivably want Playmobil stuff soon, if I suggest it often enough, but the submarine isn't going to happen unless there's a lilac version which comes with fairies. (The Barbie covert infiltration and assassination range!) I feel I'm missing out on one of the perks of parenthood i.e. the chance to buy all the toys I wanted when I was a kid but didn't get.

In reality, it's all a little silly. Do I really want to play with Lego? These days, if I want to create, I can make something more lasting and more useful. Shelves, anyone? If I want to imagine, I can write. If I want to play, there are plenty of computer games.

What I really want is to be seven and play with Lego. I'd like the freedom to just run around with a Lego space ship without people staring at me. I'd like to be able to create and imagine without feeling the responsibility to produce something useful; to be able to relax without feeling pressure to recharge before the end of my scheduled downtime.

That's not going to happen, unfortunately. Not even if I buy the totally enormous space station thing. I should probably stop hankering after it and start directing the kids towards stuff that I would actually find fun in the here and now.

The boys already play computer games, so that's a beginning. Our taste and ability occasionally overlap. One day we'll be able to play co-operative Halo. In the meantime, I need to start getting them interested in games involving little plastic figures and dice with an improbable number of sides.

Is there a Pokemon version of Risk?

Yes, a readily available supply of strategy game opponents - that really would be good and might be achievable. I should go poke around in the loft and see what games I've got lying about that I can get my little minions playing.

Being an adult is actually pretty good sometimes.

Still, there's one thing I can fairly easily do for the part of me that will forever long to be seven again. I'm off to find that Action Man, a bag tie and a very long bit of string...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

My little Santa

Dear Dave,

Glad to hear you had a good Christmas and that your mum is finally giving you some sympathy rather than treating you like a slacker who callously sends his wife out to earn a living in the cruel world while he stays home and eats biscuits.

It's probably thanks to the large age gap between you and your brother. Your mum never had to deal with two children under four at the same time herself, so you've gained a stack of ranking points relative to her in the All-Time Parental League Table. (You did know scores were being kept, didn't you?)

Obviously, you haven't had to put up with being in charge of yourself as a teenager, so you'll have to handle any number of rows, dubiously pierced girlfriends and a couple of police cautions before you catch up with your mum entirely but at least you're on more equal terms now. You've been a housedad long enough that she knows it's not some passing notion you're going to jack in when things get tough. She'll also know, from her own experience of parenthood, that things must be pretty tough already. She still may not understand why you're living your life in this crazy, mixed up way but she can appreciate the effort you're putting into raising her grandchildren.

That effort is especially noticeable at Christmas. I remember a time before kids when Sarah and I went to stay with my folks for the holidays. I would sit around drinking beer, eating mince pies and watching the Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special. Then I would doze off while reading the paper. I have vague memories that my mum might have had to do a certain amount of cooking at various points but I was fairly oblivious. It was a blissful break from work.

This is somewhat in contrast to a couple of years ago when we had Sarah's family round to ours for Christmas. The children were one, three and five. I had to lay on the full turkey spectacular in adult, toddler and baby formats while co-ordinating nappy changes, naps and tantrums. I needed a lie down for most of Boxing Day to recover. Except, of course, I didn't get one because it's not like the children went anywhere. It was a fun Christmas but not much of a rest.

Things were a bit more relaxed this year, though. For a start, we went to my sister-in-law's to eat but it also helps that the kids are older and more able to entertain themselves now. It's going to be a long time, however, before I, once again, get to spend Christmas eating and drinking and then doze off while watching ancient repeats of Only Fools and Horses. Judging by the state of the various grandparents attending, though, my wait will not be forever.

Anyway, Christmas morning, we unwrapped some of the presents, dressed Marie up in a Santa outfit, went to church and then headed off to Catriona's.

We were greeted at the door by her husband, Chris. "Good to see you. Looking gorgeous as always, Sarah; sometimes I wonder if I married the wrong sister. Oh, and Ed, you're just in time - Catriona's needing some help in the kitchen and the kids are no use - you know what teenagers are like. Hope you brought your own pinny!"

"Nope, brought yours," I said and, on cue, Marie danced over with a small, squishy parcel.

"I'm Santa!" she said, grinning. "Merry Christmas!"

Chris looked confused, both for being given an apron and at Marie's attire. "I thought you didn't do Santa," he said.

"We don't."

"Then why...?"

"We don't pretend there's a real Santa but pretending all the pretend Santas don't exist would be crazy." I called Marie over. "Are you really Santa?"

"No," she said, giggling at my stupidity. "I'm me!" Then she pulled another grin, did a little twirl and danced off into the lounge to an adoring fan club of aging relatives.

"She's having fun and we're not having to lie. Everybody's happy," I said. "Hopefully it will stop us having to explain that we don't do Santa so much as well."

"How do you mean?" said Chris.

I motioned him over to the lounge doorway so that we could observe. Marie had bounced over to Great Aunt Edith. "What did Santa bring you?" said Edith. Normally this would have led to Marie looking blank and Edith repeating the question over and over, until someone mentioned our unwillingness to join the Santa conspiracy, and then Edith looking blank and the someone repeating the statement over and over, and... You get the picture.

The costume helped get round this. "I'm Santa!" said Marie.

"Yes, and you look lovely, dear," said Edith, "but what presents did you get for Christmas?"

And thus confusion was avoided. Well, the Santa confusion was avoided, anyway...

"I got Rabitty-Rabbit!"

"You got a rabbit?" said Edith, struggling to hear and getting the wrong end of the stick. "That will be hard work to look after."

"A cuddly rabbit. I cuddle her."

"Oh, a new cuddly toy?"

"No!" said Marie, shaking her head. "She's not new. She's my rabbit."

"But you got her for Christmas?"

"No! Mummy and Daddy took her out of my bed and wrapped her up in a present and I opened up the present and I said, 'Rabbity-Rabbit!'"

Edith's eyes narrowed. "Your mummy and daddy took a toy you already had out of your bed and gave it to you for Christmas?"

"Yes, and for my birthday, too."

"They gave you a toy you already had for your birthday as well?"

"Yes, and her name was Rabbity-Rabbit!"

Edith's voice quivered with genteel indignation. "They gave you the same toy you already had for your Christmas and your birthday?"

"Yes! I cuddle her. She's Rabbity-Rabbit." Marie smiled sweetly and twirled off. "I dance now."

Edith scanned the room and then fixed me with a steely glare. I hurried over to explain that Marie had asked for her rabbit to be wrapped up and that, yes, she'd got other presents as well and, no, they weren't all recycled. Chris couldn't help laughing, however. "Looks like you're out of the will," he called after me.

I think I'll stick to bad-mouthing Santa next year. I'll look less of a Scrooge that way.

Not long after that, Chris was very keen to point out that he'd managed to secure for his daughter the very last Nintendo Wii console in Britain, thanks to calling in a favour. He'd only had to pay twice the normal asking price.

He then proceeded to play Wii Tennis on their vast plasma TV in a hugely aggressive manner without strapping the wiimote to his wrist. Luckily, Fraser told him off and then soundly trounced him with a few quick flicks of his hand.

I've never been more proud.

Chris didn't get much support from his own family either. Lisa was too busy texting to pay attention and Ned just smirked. "Don't worry, dad," he said, without looking up from his PSP. "He's had practice. Uncle Ed's had one for ages."

The wind taken out of his sails, Chris stomped off to carve the turkey.

I shouldn't have felt superior, however. Despite receiving the latest (translation: most expensive) Pokemon and Mario games for Christmas, the boys have spent much of the last week playing Sonic Adventure which I picked up second-hand as a stocking-filler. So, essentially, they've been using the must-have present of 2007 to play a game from 1999. I could just about cope with this until they unlocked a version of the original Sonic the Hedgehog and started playing that and it was suddenly 1991 on our telly. Next year, I think they'll be the ones getting recycled presents. I'll just go hunting in the loft - they can have a Walkman, my old Atari and some Fighting Fantasy books.

Actually, better not. I might find something really scary buried underneath. You know, like Mr Blobby or John Major...

Lunch was vast and then we stumbled through to watch the Queen in HD and very wide screen. It was a little perturbing in a number of ways. The persistent thought I had, however, was that the huge face plastered on the wall in front of us made it feel like we were conducting diplomatic negotiations over the viewscreen on the bridge of the Enterprise. I kept expecting an analysis from Mr Data and for Counsellor Troi to sense that Her Majesty was holding something back.

I'm guessing Prince Philip's up to something suspicious in the Neutral Zone.

After that, some of the guests went for a walk, the kids played and I helped clear up until I was told to get some rest while I could and I was sent back to a lounge full of snoring septuagenarians. I plonked myself down on one of the sofas and then realised Ned was there too. He'd been ordered to stay out of his room and mingle but he was still gazing intently at his PSP.

"Playing anything good?" I ventured.

"Syphon Filter."

"The new one or the old one?"

"New one," he mumbled.

"Oh, I haven't played that. The old one was quite good, though."

"Yeah. This one's the same."

I nodded. "I'd heard that. Got anything else?"

"Uh-huh."

There was a pause.

The pause continued.

I eventually realised that, although Ned seemed willing to talk in principle, I was going to have to do most of the work.

"What are they?"

He rattled off a few titles. I'd played about half of them and that was enough for me keep the conversation going. It felt good having some firm point of contact. There are probably some TV shows we both watch but he'd have been bound to mention something I'd never heard of pretty quickly. As for music, the only CDs I've bought in years are The Best of Don McLean, an anthology of Celtic melodies and a Dido album. I suspect that may put me in the realm of 'uncool'.

After a while, there was another long pause. I'd run out of things to say. It wasn't awkward, though - we'd had a little male bonding and we were done. I settled back in the sofa and reached for a magazine to see what was on TV.

"Sorry about dad," said Ned, unexpectedly.

I sat up again. Ned didn't seem to be referring to anything in particular. It was more of a general apology. "No problem," I said. "He's not the first person I've met who totally couldn't cope with the idea of a housedad and... Actually, no, now I come to think about it, he was the first person I met who totally couldn't cope with the idea of a housedad... but, er, he wasn't the last. There are lots of things I don't have much self-confidence about - being a housedad isn't one of them. I can cope with your dad." I shrugged. "Besides, I'm not the one he's thinking of sending to boarding school."

"What?!"

"Ah..." I'd kind of got the information fourth-hand via Catriona, my mother-in-law and Sarah. I'd assumed it wasn't a secret. I hastily back-tracked. "I take it he hasn't run that one past you yet, then? Something about toughening you up. It was probably just an idea. I doubt he really meant it."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going." It wasn't said with defiance. It wasn't determined and said through gritted teeth. As a statement, it barely even deigned to be dismissive. With a minimal shake of his head, Ned consigned the whole concept to the mental garbage disposal unit that teenagers reserve for parental lunacy. He didn't even look up from his PSP.

There was another pause.

I still couldn't think of anything to say but I didn't feel I could leave it there. I looked around the room for inspiration.

"Does that take SD memory cards?" I said, pointing to Chris' snazzy camera that he'd left lying around.

"Yeah, think so."

"Excellent."

I popped the memory card out and stuck it in the Wii. Then I showed Ned how to use the photo-editing software. We'd just finished adding a Mexican moustache, Elton specs and fairy dust to a picture of his dad when the man himself walked in.

Chris wasn't too impressed. "Shouldn't you be in the kitchen?" he said to me but didn't cover it with laughter the way he normally does. I erased the changes and hurried off to find something useful to do.

Maybe I over-stepped the mark. I'm not going to be too thrilled if, when Fraser and Lewis are older, random relatives start taking their side. Of course, when my boys are teenagers, I expect to be an incredibly enlightened parent who is always understanding and open, dispensing gems of wisdom to aid my offspring though life's tribulations. I will always be right and they will know this. There will be no argument and no side for the extended family to take. The world will be at peace. A rainbow will permanently end in our back garden. It will rain cute, fluffy bunnies.

Teenage strife in my household? Never!

Well, maybe a little, when Marie has some dubious piercings and then gets arrested on a date with your Sam...

This is all bound to come back and bite me sooner or later. Hopefully later, though.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly. Chris was quickly back to his jovial self (outwardly, at least). I had a couple of mince pies and a drink or two and the kids mostly found their own entertainment. Eventually, as the evening wore on, Marie started getting crotchety. I scooped my little three-year-old up and gave her a cuddle. "I think it's time to go home," I said.

She cheered up. "Can I go to bed when we get home?" she asked excitedly.

"That sounds like a good idea," I replied.

She produced an enormous smile. "Thank you!" she said and gave me a big hug.

With luck, she'll stay that easily pleased for a good few years yet.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Hopes and fears

Dear Dave,

Merry Christmas! Well, almost... Christmas seems to have been going on for three weeks already this year. The kids are exhausted from a constant stream of parties and relatives and Santas. I'm somewhat confused the actual day hasn't quite arrived yet.

That said, I'm putting off wrapping a big pile of presents by writing to you.

Still, I'm looking forward to singing plenty of carols in the next couple of days. There's the Christmas Eve Christingle service tomorrow. (Forget offering hope, love and forgiveness - the Christingle is where we entice families with young children into the building with promises of oranges and sweets.) Then, of course, there'll be more carols on Christmas Day. I like them because most of them have decent tunes that even tone deaf people like me can just about manage to belt out.

We got a bit of a taster at church today with Oh, little town of Bethlehem:

Oh, little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The ever-lasting light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.

It's probably my favourite carol. ...The hopes and fears of all the years... That line always stirs up emotions and usually makes me think about God becoming human to show us how to live, to fix our relationship with him and to give us a glimpse of the world beyond.

Today, however, my mind turned elsewhere.

Spare a thought for Joseph.

He'd had to live through months of gossip, thanks to the wedding date and due date not entirely adding up. That had been followed by a lengthy trek with a heavily pregnant wife in order to register for a census which was almost certainly merely an excuse to stiff him with a hefty tax bill. Then he'd failed in his first task as a dad - finding somewhere decent for his child to be born. (This isn't normally the first task, but he'd missed out on the usual one and that was a whole different issue entirely...)

So he finds himself in the stable, surrounded by animals. He's finally managed to get the rowdy shepherds out the door, along with all the townsfolk made curious by the talk of angels and saviours. Mary is passed out from exhaustion in the corner. He wouldn't mind joining her. He wouldn't mind just going and lying down beside her and giving her a cuddle.

If only the little Lord Jesus would flipping lay down his sweet head.

No crying he makes? Yeah, right. Newborn babies are usually pretty frustrated and irritated. This one has recently gone from holding the whole world in his hands to not being able to find his own thumb without sticking it in his eye. That's one very frustrated and irritated baby.

Chances of a silent night: slim.

So Joseph sits there, bleary-eyed, rocking the baby in his arms and finally has the opportunity to wonder what he's got himself into. He suddenly realises he's a dad. Never mind the dreams and prophecies, he has a tiny life to take care of. A son! A son to teach and love, to provide for and protect. Terror and pride mix together at the prospect.

...The hopes and fears of all the years...

At that moment, he feels the truth of those words more than anyone.

Then he discovers his sleeve is warm and wet. He sighs and starts hunting around for a few more swaddling clothes. It's going to be a long night...

Best wishes to all your family. Have a great Christmas. I'd better go wrap those presents.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Did you ever read the somewhat unorthodox nativity play I sent? If you haven't, then I can't think of a better time.

Mince pies and mistletoe

Dear Dave,

It was the Christmas party at Scary Karen's parent and toddler group today. I turned up early with Marie to help decorate. There were some streamers in the hall already and a decent sized tree complete with baubles and lights and, if I were running things, that would have been enough. Karen, however, adheres to the 'more is better' philosophy of holiday decor which holds that you simply can't have too much gaudy tack stuck to the walls when the festive season comes round. In her case, it doesn't even have to be relevant tack. She emptied out the Millennium Centre's store cupboard and we hung up everything we could find. Pretty soon, amongst the tinsel and stockings, the Easter Bunny stood atop a pile of grinning pumpkins. It had flashing red eyes and was wearing a Santa hat.

I set up the spinning disco lights. Trevor, the bouncer, inflated huge numbers of balloons with a single breath each. Karen's friend Bess put on some suitable musical accompaniment. It appeared to be the CD that all the shops have had on loop since mid-November. I suddenly felt the urge to buy lots of junk in a mad panic and did my best to phase out the jaunty melodies. I didn't do too badly until Slade came on and Marie started running round the room shouting, "It's Christmas!" at everybody.

She knew it to be true because Noddy Holder had told her so.

"Well, sort of," I said, when she got to me. "It's a Christmas party. It isn't actually Christmas until next week."

She considered this for a moment and then ran round the room again shouting, "It sort of Christmas! But not really!" at everybody. Then she came back to me and said, "Can I have a mince pie? Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase..." She made her eyes wide and pouted mournfully. She gave the impression she hadn't been fed in a week. I knew, however, that only half an hour previously, she'd taken one small bite of toast for breakfast and then declared herself finished.

"No," I said.

"Oh," said Marie. Her lower lip quivered and tears welled up. "But I'm huuun-greeee..."

"You should have eaten your breakfast then."

She started to sob. "You made me sad, daddy," she wailed and buried her face in her hands.

"Tough." I went back to wiring up the lights. The other adults nearby looked at me like I'd just told Tinkerbell to her face that fairies don't exist. I ignored them (and Marie) and, before long, the room was bathed in multicoloured swirls. Marie lay face down on the floor for a bit and then gave up. "I have mince pie later?" she said hopefully.

"OK," I replied.

She grinned, wiped her eyes and ran off to dance. I barely had time to grab a cup of coffee before she ran back and gleefully exclaimed, "It later now! I have mince pie?"

"Nice try," I said, sitting down amongst a group of mums.

"Awwwwww..." She tipped her head to the side, tucked in her upper lip and tried to drown me in eyes that were deep, pleading wells of sorrow.

"Not just now."

"You made me sad again, daddy," she said and threw herself back to the ground. The mums gave the impression that I'd just given Bambi the bad news in a rather callous fashion.

I ignored the looks (and Marie). "You all ready for Christmas?" I asked.

This brought on various tales of shopping woe and festive mayhem that distracted everyone. Marie got up and went back to dancing. The conversation eventually turned to advent calendars.

"Yeah, we got the kids a chocolate-filled one each last year," I said. "They kept forgetting to open them and we ended up with a stock-pile of little edible Scooby-Doos that lasted well into January. They've got one between them this year and we're still three days behind. The only one who's organised is Lewis. He's on the bottom bunk and has taken to suspending an additional stuffed animal from the slats above him every day in the run-up to Christmas. It's less of an advent calendar, more of an advent toy lynching."

"Christmas sounds like fun in your house," said Jess.

"Shouldn't be too bad really. We're off to Sarah's sister's for the actual day. Her husband will make a few snide comments about my place being in the kitchen but, apart from that, it'll be fine. How about you?"

It transpired that they would all be experiencing a mixture of custody wrangles, bickering with relatives and Brain Training. The first two were quickly glossed over in favour of comparing which family members they were getting a Nintendo DS for Christmas. It ranged from kids to grannies. This moved on to some discussion of how much the 'discs' cost and how the bit with the rocket when you do well is ace. I just sat there, somewhat perplexed. By rights, I should have had a great deal to say on the topic but, after years of not having anyone to talk to about computer games at parent and toddler, I was dumbfounded to suddenly be surrounded by women promoting a game as both entertainment and mental exercise. It was as stupefying as my mum suddenly admitting she was thinking of becoming a Jedi and asking me where she could get hold of one of those 'lightswords'. I just sat and looked surprised, wishing I'd bought shares in Nintendo a few years ago.

Marie broke me out of my trance by shouting in my ear. "Is it later yet?"

"No."

She didn't even blink. "And now?" she said, smiling endearingly.

"Nope."

Pause. "And now?" She did the cutest little dance you've ever seen and, still smiling sweeter than a Sugar Puff dipped in saccharine, she asked, "Can I have a mince pie, nooooooooooooooooooooow...?"

"In ten minutes," I said. She threw herself down and cried into the floor again.

The mums looked at me like I'd just flushed the Andrex puppy down a toilet.

"Oh, look," I said, directing their attention elsewhere. "Santa!"

I don't normally imagine Santa with tattoos. Or bald, for that matter. Still, the red suit and fake, white beard gave the impression that Trevor was at least attempting to pretend to be Santa. He didn't look too happy about it, though. I can only assume that Scary Karen had used her feminine wiles to talk him into it. She'd slipped on a slinky, fur-trimmed, scarlet outfit complete with Santa hat. It was surprisingly fetching in a scary kind of way. It also seemed liable to burst at the seams at any moment in an even scarier kind of way. I had visions of an explosion and nothing being left but the hat.

I quickly focused myself on Trevor. He really wasn't looking too good. I imagine he'd be totally up for catching bullets with his teeth but he's quite nervous with kids. Still, all he had to do was sit on a chair, pull the gifts out of a sack, read the labels and call over the children to take them. How hard could it be?

It was unfortunate that the first three gifts he pulled out were for Mateusz, Enkhjin and Joao. Karen had to bend over to help him make out the names. Each time, I tensed myself in preparation for the velvet and ermine shrapnel, and then sighed in relief when the catastrophe never came.

After that, it was Marie's turn.

I picked her up off the floor and gave her a little shove. She trotted over to Trevor, who held out the parcel to her at arms length. He was oblivious to the creaking bodice-work beside him and seemed worried that it was Marie that might explode.

He may have had a point.

She looked at the parcel briefly, obviously torn over whether to take it. She glanced at the sack to see if there was anything more promising in there. She peered suspiciously at Trevor's fluffy beard. Then she made the eyes and pulled the face. "I reaaaa-leeeeeee want a mince piiiiiiie..."

"Er, I don't have mince pies," said Trevor. "Just this." He shook the parcel and grimaced slightly.

She threw herself at the floor and started to cry again.

I rushed over, grabbed her and the parcel, and then whisked her out of the way. "Santa doesn't have any mince pies!" she wailed.

"It's OK," I reassured her. "That's not really Santa and Santa's not really real anyway."

It's possible I may have said this a little too loudly.

Every adult in the room looked at me like I'd just stood on Tinkerbell while wearing fluffy slippers made from Bambi and the Andrex puppy. Luckily, every child in the room remained transfixed by the sack of presents.

"Would you like a mince pie?" I asked Marie hurriedly.

"Yes, please!" she said and we beat a retreat to the refreshment trolley. The whole thing was a close call... but I think we got away with it. The gift-giving resumed and everyone relaxed again. Soon, toddlers were dancing once more and I was being offered something warm and spicy in a mug. Jess had mulled some of her homemade wine specially.

I've never had green mulled wine before. I looked at it nervously.

"It's the spinach," Cress whispered.

I shrugged and tried some. It actually tasted kind of all right - not disagreeable as such but you wouldn't ask for it specially. I guess a lot of Christmas is like that. I had a second helping for no other reason than it was there. I guess a lot of Christmas is like that, too. It seemed to make Jess happy, though.

Marie opened her parcel. It was a set of pretend medical supplies containing a stethoscope, a rectal thermometer, a pair of scissors, a hammer and... a spoon. All the essentials of a home surgery kit, apparently. She was delighted and set about listening to my knees as she took their temperature.

The time slipped away and then, all of a sudden, it was half-past eleven. We had places to be but I was reluctant to get our coats. The Millennium Centre is going to be closed at the start of January so Karen's toddler group won't be on again until after Marie has started nursery. Today was our last one. It was odd looking around at the familiar faces and toys, knowing that, barring sanity-threatening accidents, I'd never be back. I lingered, finding it hard to leave, not knowing quite how to say good-bye.

Then I realised that Scary Karen had found some mistletoe.

I wished everyone a merry Christmas and headed out the door.

It was time to go.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

We've got to let the mums win at something

Dear Dave,

Yeah, I know how you feel - Christmas suddenly seems to be upon us. Sounds like you're mostly on top of things, though.

We're getting there. We've converted the lounge to 'Christmas Land' (as Marie calls it) with the help of plenty of shiny baubles, an explosion of tinsel and a very irritating musical santa. Hopefully we'll get the cards done soon. We've given the kids a gift or two each already to spread things out. We're having a mulled wine party in a few days. (Scary Karen has promised to bring her accordion!) The shopping's mostly done. I've been to a couple of carol services. Everyone keeps asking Marie what santa's bringing her. Fraser keeps impatiently explaining to them that santa isn't real. The school nativity play was yesterday. There's Christmas music everywhere. Christmas adverts. Christmas food. Christmas lights. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas. Christmas.

Too much Christmas.

And there's still over a week to go. Goodness. I'm going to be burnt out before the day arrives.

Must think of something else...

Actually, there is something I've been meaning to write about for a while and it's kind of related to Chr... er, that other thing... in a round about sort of way:

A recent study has indicated that boys who have been cared for by their fathers for a significant amount of the time as toddlers perform less well at academic assessments upon starting school than boys who have been looked after by their mothers.

There are plenty of obvious questions thrown up by this. Why boys and not girls? Exactly how much less? Were the dads who were surveyed looking after their children out of choice or circumstance? How does this compare with children who are looked after by their grans? What sort of assessments? And what's all this got to do with Chr... er, the time of year?

Maybe the actual study answers some of these questions. (Well, perhaps not the last one). Typically, however, the press coverage didn't even ask most of them. It was all 'housedads could be damaging their childrens' future chances'! Men don't give children as much mental stimulation as women, apparently... or, at least, possibly. The study didn't have any definitive reasons for the discrepancy.

Of course, the instant reaction is for us to jump up and down in annoyance. How dare journalists accuse us of not stimulating our kids? They do fine at school. What are the researchers talking about? Unfortunately, this is twisting things to support our own agenda as much the newspapers have done. Men and women are not the same. There are plenty of situations and problems that, on average, men and women will deal with differently. Whether this is due to upbringing or genetics doesn't really matter - it simply is the case. This is bound to apply to childcare too, and thus it's bound to affect the kids in some way. Maybe what this study has discovered is true.

Don't hurriedly rush out to find a job and order Liz back home to stimulate Sam and protect his future, though.

There are a million things you could measure about a kid to evaluate good parenting. These include nutrition, behaviour, happiness, fitness, curiosity, dental health, vocabulary, politeness, bravery, cleanliness, stubbornness, resilience, knowledge, empathy, hand-eye coordination, kindness, imagination, road safety awareness and biscuit decorating ability. Chances are, dads are better than mums for encouraging at least some of these things. Working out whether it's men or women who come out on top for a majority of the list would take rather a long time, however, and, even then, it wouldn't necessarily help very much in determining who should look after the children. Is a slightly higher chance of the kid being resilient more important than a slightly higher chance of them being polite, for instance? That could be quite a debate and, in the end, the childcare duties in any given relationship will still come down to finances and temperament. Which is how it should be. Having parents who are solvent and enjoying their roles is going to do more to encourage a child's long term development than anything else.

Bearing that in mind, I'm quite happy to accept the results of the study. There was always going to be something that dads aren't so good at. I'm actually pleased that it turns out to be this. You see, I'm not certain that children doing less well in academic assessments upon starting school is necessarily a bad thing. Surely the whole point of schools is to teach children how to do well in academic assessments. I wouldn't want to interfere with the teachers' jobs and, besides, being a little behind the curve gives plenty of room for some quick confidence-building improvement. Even The Daily Mail pointed out that the research didn't investigate whether 'the damage to the boys' prospects' is permanent. There's every possibility the boys in question caught up in a very brave and resilient manner after a couple of months. Maybe the other ones, the ones who'd been taught to read by their mums, got bored, burnt out by the end of the second week and dedicated their lives to politely decorating biscuits.

Who knows?

And you're still wondering what this has to do with Chr... the current up-turn in sales of turkeys and Brussels sprouts...

Well, I guess my first point - that housedads aren't an abomination against nature - doesn't actually have anything to do with Chr... Frosty the Snowman... but, given the context of this letter, it's not really much of a point either. You probably saw it coming. My second point, however, is about stimulation:

I grew up somewhere so dull that I used to sit watching the test card for entertainment. Maybe if my mum had sat with me and taught me to spell then I'd be a genius now, but I doubt it. I'd probably just have been a know-it-all who made life difficult for my teachers in primary school. I might also have lost a very useful trait. As it stands, I have a very high tolerance for tedium. This makes my job a whole lot easier. I can play Snakes and Ladders for hours at a time without going mad and watch the same episode of Tweenies endlessly without gibbering. I should really thank my mum for leaving me to my own devices so much as a child. (I'm not going to, though, just in case it comes out wrong...)

So remember, next time you sneak off to check your email, you're not ignoring the children, you're building resourcefulness and self-reliance. After all, there is such a thing as over-stimulation.

If you're in any doubt, think of Christmas.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS I've got a peculiar ringing in my ears now. I think it's jingle bells...

Death to Santa

Dear Dave,

Merry Christmas!

I know it's a little early but I thought I'd better get in there quick before you go to the shopping centre, stumble into a brightly decorated fir tree which wasn't there last week and Santa sets his elves on you. Also, since Squiggly still hasn't shown up, you might want to rush out and buy all your gifts now while you have the chance. The first three months of having two children will disappear in the blink of an eye and a mountain of laundry. Or, in other words, if Squiggly is born today, you'll wake up tomorrow to find it's the day after Boxing Day.

Sam will be annoyed you forgot to get him anything.

What are your plans for this Christmas, by the way? Now Sam's three, he'll have much more of a clue what's going on. You'll be able to get him properly wound up with anticipation and excitement. You'll also have to decide what you're doing about the fat, cheery bloke in the red suit.

The one advantage of Marie not having got a place at nursery yet is that, at least this year, we won't be the deviant parents who 'don't do Santa'. Oddly, not wanting to lie to our children about flying reindeer and chimney-based parcel delivery systems, tends to mark us out as dangerously eccentric. Santa is apparently part of the 'magic' of Christmas and, as it happens, a very useful mind control device. ('Be good, children... or Santa won't bring you any presents. Remember, he's watching you all the time. His elves are everywhere... Yes, even there...')

Quite what the parents from different cultural and religious heritages make of it all, I've no idea. Though I presume they get away much more easily with not joining in. It's a strange quirk of the multi-cultural society. Everyone's worried about contradicting Muslims and Hindus but I'm pretty sure they'd be quite up for some spirited religious debate on the nature of God. We could totally disagree and no one would take offense. After all, only by discussion, can any of us get closer to the truth.

If, however, I were to loudly say, 'But Santa doesn't exist,' as the kids were coming out, I'd get stoned by all the agnostics. (Well, glared at, anyway).

It's a shame that the real Christmas story has become so devoid of awe and wonder that the whole Santa thing has had to be built up to add 'magic' to the day. It's not even like the kids are that fussed - a stack of presents is a stack of presents and they're full of anticipation no matter how it's due to appear.

We'd rather not bother with all the Santa subterfuge, thank you very much, but it's an uphill struggle some of the time. When Lewis was three and a half, nursery went into Santa in such a big way, he simply would not believe that the whole thing was just pretend. We tried being subtle about it so he wouldn't go blurting out the truth to all his friends and make us plenty of enemies but, in the end, we had to tell him point-blank over and over and he still wasn't having any of it:

I was woken at quarter past two on Christmas morning by the sound of crying. Although we don't go in for the whole charade, we do still leave out stockings for the kids. Lewis had got up and opened his. Except he'd totally failed to see the stocking at the end of his own bed and had taken the one from beside the cot on the other side of the room. He was sitting on the stairs, bawling his eyes out. As I approached, he held up a pair of pink baby slippers and wailed, 'Santa brought me the wrong presents!' He was heart-broken until I pointed out that it just might be possible he'd opened Marie's stocking by mistake. Somehow, the thought had never crossed his mind. (Perhaps the fact that it was quarter past two in the morning had something to do with it...) I calmed him down and watched him open his actual stocking and then we both went back to bed. It was the start of a very long day.

(This was, in fact, only the second worst Christmas stocking disaster I've ever had. When I was nineteen, home for the holidays and fairly certain I shouldn't expect sleigh-bells, Santa tried to kill me. He lay a stocking directly across the threshold of my bedroom door. I went to the toilet in the middle of the night, tripped over the flipping thing and nearly went head-first down the stairs. I was not impressed. I was even less impressed when, on further investigation, I discovered the stocking contained a tangerine, a bag of nuts and a car cleaning kit. I didn't even have a car. Though, now I think about it, my parents had a car that I borrowed a lot. Hmmm...)

Yeah, it's impossible to avoid Santa entirely but Sarah and I want the kids to trust us. Lying through our teeth about rotund pensioners sneaking into the house in the dead of night to put satsumas in their socks doesn't really seem to be the way to go about that. Call us eccentric, but there you go.

Just something to think about. Then again, your eyes probably glazed over at the first mention of Christmas. I know it's months to go yet but spare a thought for all the shop assistants who'll be subjected to a looped CD of festive hits from now until New Year. Be gentle with them.

Oh, and another sign Christmas is fast approaching? The auditions for nativity plays are already in full swing. I'm pushing for our church to put on something slightly different this year but I'm told it doesn't have enough cute angels in it. (We have the costumes, you see). Ho, well.

Now go tell Squiggly to hurry up.

Yours in a winter wonderland,

Ed.

PS Microsoft returned my Xbox 360 the other day. Well, actually, they sent me a brand new one - which was a bonus. Unfortunately, I've had to dismantle my safe place again because the tradesmen reckoned it was possible they might turn up to fix the water damage this week.

I now have two 360s but nowhere to play them. Irritating.