It's a Dad's Life: We're watching The Den on RTÉ 2, well the elder child is watching it and I'm sneaking in a coffee and crash-out time on the couch while the younger has a nap.
There's loads to do: the house is falling down, we can't move for dirty clothes and dishes and there isn't a screed of food in the fridge. But sometimes you have to grab the couch, a mug of Java, a Danish and pretend you're taking a break from a real job. Don't tell the Missus.
Slowly I realise the presenter on the telly is one of the girls who made it into the pop-band Six, the result of Ireland's Popstars competition a few years back. If memory serves me right they went on to have at least one number one hit, but it was so heart-stoppingly awful that my unconscious has blocked it out. Not surprisingly they hit the skids soon after and I presumed they had all had the decency to go back to wherever victors of reality TV shows retire. But this lady is now making a career out of singing for the under sixes and performing miracles with pipe-cleaners and bottle tops.
So I'm looking at her and imagining that she had no idea her career arc would lead to her being unfailingly enthusiastic for a bunch of toddlers every weekday afternoon, when I notice her speaking voice. Don't get me wrong, she seems like a lovely girl, but she could cut turf and light a fire with that accent. Half to myself I mumble, "where is your one from?" The elder frowns at me with the kind of look kids reserve for senile great aunts who don't know their Bratz from their Barbies, and replies, "PO Box 2222, RTÉ, Dublin 4". Obviously.
That's it, telly off, she's spending far too much time indoors. I have to rouse myself and get proactive with the entertainment.
What did I do when I was four and had time to burn? Easy, run amok on the streets of my suburban estate with my buddies, playing football and racing the old Raleigh Dart as fast as stabilisers would allow. I have some difficulty letting the elder out our front door alone - she may come back with a rock of crack cocaine or witness the latest gangland execution. Being walking distance to town is great for us big kids, but it has its disadvantages for the nippers.
Often I will get the buggy out, briefly reminisce about a time I pretended I had some street-cred, then get over it and drag the monsters to Fairview Park. That might kill an hour or so, but my God is it boring.
Even at this early stage the elder is feeling the limitations of the playground. She wants to be able to peg off by herself, leave me for dust and hang out with her mates. I would love for her to be able to do this but it's not an option where we live. So, for the moment, we continue our tour of north Dublin's playgrounds.
Fortunately both elder and younger are showing an interest in books. The elder won't go to sleep until I go through at least two stories every night, which is great, but there's only so much Gruffalo you can take. I'm starting to wonder why they don't have her reading in Montessori yet, what am I paying all that money for? For God's sake, she's four and a half, she should be on to Dostoevsky in Russian by now.
The younger beats me over the head with our hardback copy of Peepo when she wants to be entertained, but I know that off by heart, so no hardship there.
If I'm not careful I'll wind up with a pair of literary gangsters under my roof, insisting on playing vintage Six CDs just to wind up their Dad.
