Back in my day the only thing children could swipe was the half penny sweets from under the nose of the dirty-fingered newsagent. Today, however, children have become masters of swiping as they assume every brightly lit screen they come in to contact with is a touchscreen.
Take our house as an example, not too long ago my three-year-old managed to wipe my work ipad, restoring it to its default factory-fit settings and erasing all email, contacts and everything else I call upon daily. Our TV, meanwhile, now displays a permanently blurry picture along its bottom half as grubby two-year-old fingers attempt to swipe the screen to control the actions of Mr Tumble or to end any attempt by the adults in the room to watch anything of interest to them.
Touchscreen technology and the ability to swipe photos, pinch and zoom images, pause, stop and play videos is a part of every day life and I guarantee that 99% of today's children become adept at using and controlling this technology much, much quicker than they do at using a pencil and writing their name. Is there anything wrong with this? No. It's natural evolution and as they'll grow up to live in a world where the pen and the pencil are increasingly redundant, our ipad-destroying infants will go on to become the Bill Gates' of tomorrow, albeit Bill Gates with terrible handwriting.
Does this mean we ditch writing lessons altogether? Don't be daft. It just means that handwriting will become less important as our children grow up. In my case, possessing handwriting that my secondary school English teacher once described as the worst she had ever seen, probably means that my children will be genetically predisposed to write with similar cack-handiness (or at least there's a 50/50 chance, their mother's handwriting may just spare them).
So, personally, I'd have no issues with my offspring preferring the keyboard to the pen, just as long as they don't add LOL to the end of any sentences!
Tuesday, 14 October 2014
Monday, 3 February 2014
Happy holidays...
I've just returned to work after a week's holiday with the family; a week's holiday that was intended to be a break from work, an escape to the countryside, even a time to relax.
In reality, of course, it was none of those. It was a week at Center Parcs (an unashamedly middle class wooded Butlins for those who haven't been), a week where we rushed around after the children more than we do at home. A week after which I feel exhausted.
Don't get me wrong though, I love Center Parcs, with all its faux alpine cottages and road trains. It does feel like you're on another planet. Indeed, you'd almost expect to bump into an Ewok clan as you chase your offspring through the trees.
However, there's one element of Center Parcs life that all parents loathe, a daily ritual that sends blood pressure soaring; the pre and post swim multi-child cubicle change.
Like trying to nail jelly to the wall, drying and dressing an infant and a toddler, while yourself slowly catching pneumonia as you remain in wet trunks until the bitter end, is a seemingly impossible task.
And so it was last week, sometimes twice a day, that my wife and I squeezed into a tiny cubicle with children, bags, towels and locker coins (that instantly rolled under the door or down the drain), attempting to undress or dress two human jellies who, pre swim, were too excited to stay still and, post swim, too tired to stay still.
Believe you me, you have no idea how good a glass of wine in the evening tastes until you've done the Center Parcs pool!
Roll on next year.
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Attack of the spambots...
Turn your back on your blog for a few months and the world's spambots go comment crazy. Many thanks to you all for wasting the past half hour of my life as I deleted all the faux congratulations and appreciations, together with the assorted advice on everything from earthworm anatomy to Malaysian hotels.
Toothpaste boy strikes again...
Whenever my phone rings as I'm walking to work, with 'HOME' flashing up as the caller ID, my heart inevitably skips a beat.
What on earth has happened? My mind spins at a thousand miles an hour as I imagine a whole host of accident and incident scenarios playing out at home; child(ren) trapped in tumble drier, roof collapsing, electrics blowing, burglar at the front door...it's got to be bad!
Anxiously, I pick up the call.
"He's done it again," proclaims my exasperated wife. "I turn my back for two seconds and he's got a mouth full of toothpaste."
I breath a sigh of relief. But, wait a minute, this is bad news after all. Our son clearly has an addiction to flouride. Indeed, this is the fourth time this week that he has grabbed a window of opportunity to squeeze as much Colgate into his mouth as possible.
"He's complaining that his tongue hurts," continues my wife. "But he's smirking at the same time."
What is this? A terrible twos game of 'let's see how far I can push Mummy and Daddy before they break' or has our little lad got a genuine taste for toothpaste?
And what tactic do we take from here? Experience has shown me that dealing with a two year old requires intensive levels of diplomacy, and that different scenarios can require radically different approaches. Do you, for instance:
1. Take the calm approach: Sit him down and explain to him why ingesting toothpaste in large quantities is not a good idea
2. Take the naughty step approach: Raise your voice, go a bit bananas and leave him in no doubt that his actions have resulted in banishment to said step of naughtiness or...
3. Ignore him completely: Pretend that you haven't noticed, that you're not bothered by the toothpaste eating at all and that it's completely normal behaviour, in the hope that the lack of any kind of reaction means that he drops it altogether (hopefully not to be replaced with shampoo drinking)
"I've had it," says the wife, "all toothpaste is now kept on top of the medicine cabinet."
Fair enough, I just hope this isn't setting a precedent for the future; one in which all our bathroom products are stored out of sight and above adult head height.
As for the boy, he certainly smells minty fresh at the moment, so no complaints there!
What on earth has happened? My mind spins at a thousand miles an hour as I imagine a whole host of accident and incident scenarios playing out at home; child(ren) trapped in tumble drier, roof collapsing, electrics blowing, burglar at the front door...it's got to be bad!
Anxiously, I pick up the call.
"He's done it again," proclaims my exasperated wife. "I turn my back for two seconds and he's got a mouth full of toothpaste."
I breath a sigh of relief. But, wait a minute, this is bad news after all. Our son clearly has an addiction to flouride. Indeed, this is the fourth time this week that he has grabbed a window of opportunity to squeeze as much Colgate into his mouth as possible.
"He's complaining that his tongue hurts," continues my wife. "But he's smirking at the same time."
What is this? A terrible twos game of 'let's see how far I can push Mummy and Daddy before they break' or has our little lad got a genuine taste for toothpaste?
And what tactic do we take from here? Experience has shown me that dealing with a two year old requires intensive levels of diplomacy, and that different scenarios can require radically different approaches. Do you, for instance:
1. Take the calm approach: Sit him down and explain to him why ingesting toothpaste in large quantities is not a good idea
2. Take the naughty step approach: Raise your voice, go a bit bananas and leave him in no doubt that his actions have resulted in banishment to said step of naughtiness or...
3. Ignore him completely: Pretend that you haven't noticed, that you're not bothered by the toothpaste eating at all and that it's completely normal behaviour, in the hope that the lack of any kind of reaction means that he drops it altogether (hopefully not to be replaced with shampoo drinking)
"I've had it," says the wife, "all toothpaste is now kept on top of the medicine cabinet."
Fair enough, I just hope this isn't setting a precedent for the future; one in which all our bathroom products are stored out of sight and above adult head height.
As for the boy, he certainly smells minty fresh at the moment, so no complaints there!
Thursday, 17 January 2013
A lot can happen in a year...
When I began this blog I envisaged myself casually writing a post a day, with ample time to reflect on life's intricacies, tweeting and retweeting to the lovely people who follow me on Twitter and generally finding enough time in the day to live a fulfilled digital life.
Well, I think I may have been a tad optimistic. A year after my last post - and half an hour after my five failed login attempts - I have just about found the time to pen these words.
Oh how life has changed.
I'm no longer a first time dad for starters. Number two was born last July and the six months since have proved to be the toughest of my life.
"It'll be easier with the second," I remember some smug, but deluded, people telling me back in June. Indeed, double the offspring has actually quadrupled the amount of stress, tiredness, emotional exhaustion, household mess and general child-induced madness under our roof.
So, as I return to irregular blogging, again, I hereby want to set the record straight. Two children, 18 months apart, is BLOODY HARD WORK!!!!
Let me, for instance, talk you through a standard breakfast routine:
Mummy, shattered from feeding throughout the night is asleep, No.2 is awake and crying, No.1 hears No.2 and wakes up, shouting; "Dadddddddddddyyyyyyyyy" at top voice.
Carrying No.1 (with nappy at saturation point)I pick No.2 up with the other arm and proceed precariously down the stairs, looking like an Olympic weightlifter in a dressing gown.
Still with No.1 in arms I set No.2 down and, with one hand, attempt to make tea for myself while also peeling a banana for No.1 (who is now attempting to turn on the TV and demanding immediate 'Bob Builder' entertainment).
Preparing a one-handed breakfast for myself and No.1 I carry a tray into the dining room, spilling tea on to the increasingly stained carpet in the process, and ignoring it.
Change No.2. Strap No.1 into his seat. Help No.1 with his breakfast. Soothe the now crying No.2 who refuses to be left lying in the middle of the floor. Finally have my tepid cup of tea.
It's 7.30am, bedtime is a lifetime away.
Well, I think I may have been a tad optimistic. A year after my last post - and half an hour after my five failed login attempts - I have just about found the time to pen these words.
Oh how life has changed.
I'm no longer a first time dad for starters. Number two was born last July and the six months since have proved to be the toughest of my life.
"It'll be easier with the second," I remember some smug, but deluded, people telling me back in June. Indeed, double the offspring has actually quadrupled the amount of stress, tiredness, emotional exhaustion, household mess and general child-induced madness under our roof.
So, as I return to irregular blogging, again, I hereby want to set the record straight. Two children, 18 months apart, is BLOODY HARD WORK!!!!
Let me, for instance, talk you through a standard breakfast routine:
Mummy, shattered from feeding throughout the night is asleep, No.2 is awake and crying, No.1 hears No.2 and wakes up, shouting; "Dadddddddddddyyyyyyyyy" at top voice.
Carrying No.1 (with nappy at saturation point)I pick No.2 up with the other arm and proceed precariously down the stairs, looking like an Olympic weightlifter in a dressing gown.
Still with No.1 in arms I set No.2 down and, with one hand, attempt to make tea for myself while also peeling a banana for No.1 (who is now attempting to turn on the TV and demanding immediate 'Bob Builder' entertainment).
Preparing a one-handed breakfast for myself and No.1 I carry a tray into the dining room, spilling tea on to the increasingly stained carpet in the process, and ignoring it.
Change No.2. Strap No.1 into his seat. Help No.1 with his breakfast. Soothe the now crying No.2 who refuses to be left lying in the middle of the floor. Finally have my tepid cup of tea.
It's 7.30am, bedtime is a lifetime away.
Friday, 27 January 2012
Techno genius
It seems my 15-month-old son is a master of modern technology.
Over the last few days he has taken his fleeting moments of chance (when his parents have dared let their eyes wonder from him for a fraction of a second) to snatch the nearest high-tech gadget he can reach.
'What harm can he do?' I used to foolishly think. Well, the answer is 'a lot!' Indeed, it transpires that two seconds are all he needs to press a combination of buttons on the TV remote that fundamentally alters the set up of our telly, muting whatever we were watching, bringing up subtitles we can't get rid of and changing the ratio of the screen to cut off all visible heads! Two seconds!!!!
And it was the same with my phone. A momentary snatch and grab, and now I'm locked out! How does he do it? These advanced manoeuvres take me ten minutes, five different menu screens and about 50 keystrokes, but my genius son can do it in the blink of an eye.
I'm tempted to take him along to CERN, the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, to shave decades of work off the boffins' search for the answers to the big bang and the creation of life as we know it. All they really need to find what they're looking for is to allow an infant in the control room for 30 seconds!
On a separate note, does anyone know how to revert my phone's language from Turkish back to English?!
Over the last few days he has taken his fleeting moments of chance (when his parents have dared let their eyes wonder from him for a fraction of a second) to snatch the nearest high-tech gadget he can reach.
'What harm can he do?' I used to foolishly think. Well, the answer is 'a lot!' Indeed, it transpires that two seconds are all he needs to press a combination of buttons on the TV remote that fundamentally alters the set up of our telly, muting whatever we were watching, bringing up subtitles we can't get rid of and changing the ratio of the screen to cut off all visible heads! Two seconds!!!!
And it was the same with my phone. A momentary snatch and grab, and now I'm locked out! How does he do it? These advanced manoeuvres take me ten minutes, five different menu screens and about 50 keystrokes, but my genius son can do it in the blink of an eye.
I'm tempted to take him along to CERN, the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, to shave decades of work off the boffins' search for the answers to the big bang and the creation of life as we know it. All they really need to find what they're looking for is to allow an infant in the control room for 30 seconds!
On a separate note, does anyone know how to revert my phone's language from Turkish back to English?!
Sunday, 15 January 2012
It's been a while...
It probably hasn't required any Sherlock-like powers of observation on your behalf to spot the slight gap between this blog's last post and today's all-new offering. A period of eight months, no less.
However, while this may be stretching the definition of 'regular blogger' a bit far, I am pleased to say that Clued Up Dads is back in action and I can henceforth promise that posts will be at least seasonal, if not daily!
'So where have you been?' I hear you call (or at least vaguely murmur).
Well, when last we met Baby B was but a predominantly immobile seven-month old, happy to stay in one place and amuse himself with a sock. Today, however, he is toddling precariously around the lounge, smashing the telly remote control against the wall, attempting to escape our clutches at every opportunity, eating American-size portions of food and getting through clothes faster than Lady Gaga.
Which gives you a slight clue as to why my dedication to CUD may have wavered slightly over the last eight months.
The time has, however, been utterly magical and although I may moan with increasing regularity today, I wouldn't have changed any of it for the world (frequency of soiled nappies aside).
'So, why I are you back?' I hear myself call, for the sake of a narrative tool.
Well, this July my wife and I will be starting all over again as Baby B2 (The Sequel) is due to join our ever manic household, and I thought I'd share the journey from hereon in with you all once again.
Are we prepared? Absolutely not. Do we know what to expect? Only the prospect of eternal tiredness.
One thing's for certain though, it's going to be an adventure!
Right then, where's that TV remote?
However, while this may be stretching the definition of 'regular blogger' a bit far, I am pleased to say that Clued Up Dads is back in action and I can henceforth promise that posts will be at least seasonal, if not daily!
'So where have you been?' I hear you call (or at least vaguely murmur).
Well, when last we met Baby B was but a predominantly immobile seven-month old, happy to stay in one place and amuse himself with a sock. Today, however, he is toddling precariously around the lounge, smashing the telly remote control against the wall, attempting to escape our clutches at every opportunity, eating American-size portions of food and getting through clothes faster than Lady Gaga.
Which gives you a slight clue as to why my dedication to CUD may have wavered slightly over the last eight months.
The time has, however, been utterly magical and although I may moan with increasing regularity today, I wouldn't have changed any of it for the world (frequency of soiled nappies aside).
'So, why I are you back?' I hear myself call, for the sake of a narrative tool.
Well, this July my wife and I will be starting all over again as Baby B2 (The Sequel) is due to join our ever manic household, and I thought I'd share the journey from hereon in with you all once again.
Are we prepared? Absolutely not. Do we know what to expect? Only the prospect of eternal tiredness.
One thing's for certain though, it's going to be an adventure!
Right then, where's that TV remote?
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