I have a friend who farts so regularly that he doesn’t even know he is doing it. It took him nearly ten years to realise that his wife was blaming him when she did it.

Anyway, Tiny Flirt is now at that wonderful age where he is only happy when he is being held and involved in all conversations and social activities. It is very important to listen to his contribution - which consists of coos and gurgles - because if you ignore him, he will punish you. He will barf on you.

The main advantage of this is that babies are expected to make noises and smells.

My problem is that Darling Wifey is beginning to suspect that it isn’t always the baby.

I suppose it comes to all parents. The scrap at the dining room table. Except ours was at the kitchen table.

Mealtimes are usually same old same old: Little Madam is pushing the occasional forkful of food into her face in between expounding massively on some subject or other. No-one else can get a word in edgeways. Meanwhile feeding Little Nutter is kind of like that old black & white film of some poor bloke shovelling coal into the Flying Scotsman whilst it breaks the speed record on the London-Edinburgh line. And Darling Wifey has to somehow manage to eat with Tiny Flirt on her knee, because there is no way that boy will allow any social activity to take place without him…

Today, though, whilst Little Madam’s favourite was being served up for lunch, she announced, “I don’t like lasagne any more.” Let’s skip the rest of lunchtime, and just summarise: by dinnertime, she was utterly ravenous.

For dinner, the rest of us had a kind of home-made French sausage casserole (cassoulet, apparently, but that sounds a bit fancy to me. Sossy Stew.) Little Madam was licking her lips, and was outraged when her untouched plate of lasagne was put in front of her.

Those of you who know Darling Wifey well will no doubt know what inevitably followed. Little Madam decided that she must put Daddy in his place, because such insolence was not to be tolerated.

“Just what do you think you are doing? How dare you give me this? I am very cross, and if I don’t get my casserole right now, you will regret it!”

The irony? She was saying all this whilst wearing a sequinned pink gown and tiara, weilding a wand covered in tinsel.

Back again! Blogging once more, after an absence of a fortnight. Still, Darling Wifey has a lovely new toy for her website, and this gives me a lovely new format for my blog.

Anyway - Christmas.

Child number one: Little Madam.
Tonight, she arranged a tray for Santa. He has eight reindeer, so there should be eight carrots. Check.

Chocolate biscuits, as a treat. Mrs Santa will have made him some sandwiches, and everyone else will give him mince pies.

“How about a nice glass of whisky?” I asked.

“No Daddy,” she said. “Santa has to drive his sleigh. He can have milk to drink.”

Child number two: Little Nutter.
I’m still coming to terms with all this, but have to admit that now we know he is autistic, things make sense. We can understand what he is getting upset about.

Example: on Sunday, we visited Hall Hill Farm to see a proper stable with all the animals, and to see Santa. For Little Madam, Santa is a pant-wetting experience: “Oh, I promise to be so good, and to be asleep when you come, and to write all my thankyou letters, and is that chocolate really for me?”

For Little Nutter, Santa is a freak in a red suit and a fake beard.

In the words of a new friend with ASD, “There is something suspicious about a guy in a false beard, who only cares about you once a year.”

I have something to learn from autistic children.

Child number three: Tiny Flirt
Wow! Pretty flashing lights!

I thought that Little Madam was a reasonable child. For example, sometimes after Darling Wifey & I have had a disagreement (don’t worry! nothing is every thrown and the language is always restrained!) Little Madam comes to me and tells me, “I think that mummy is right.”

I just discovered that she never, ever says to mummy that daddy is right.

No more stories at bedtime.

You have to laugh when your two-year-old, who never, ever speaks, says a word (”potty”) whilst peeing on the carpet;

you have to laugh when your five year old comments, “That’s very naughty, isn’t it?” just as her little brother is finishing his task;

you have to laugh when one of them posts the keys through the letterbox, and you have to climb out of the window, into the flowerbed, to retrieve them;

you have to laugh when the paediatrician arrives to assess your son just in time to find him naked in the conservatory, colouring in his *parts* with an orange felt-tip pen;

you have to laugh when your newborn son barfs on your best suit;

you have to laugh when your daughter has a tantrum in an overcrowded shop and, just when she has everybody’s attention, shouts clearly, “You’re not my daddy!”

you have to laugh… and plot revenge! I am going in to every party they attend, wearing a cardigan, and I’m going to dance.

Laugh and the world laughs at you. Cry and the world thinks, “What the hey!” and laughs anyway.

Parents who threaten teachers.

Yeah, it finally happened. Yesterday I joined that every-growing band of teachers who have been threatened. This guy (let’s call him “Mindless Thug”) was in to collect his daughter who had phoned home complaining that she was being bullied by her best friends. Apparently, I am to be held personally responsible for her welfare in future, and must understand that it will hurt.

A quick examination uncovered the truth: darling daughter had missed meeting her friends as they were on detention, and concluded that they must be talking about her. Mindless Thug doesn’t want to know. He just wants me to know that I will protect his child from bullies, successfully. Or else.

I confess that I then, quite deliberately, wound him up. He was pleased to make me feel threatened, so I pleased myself and made him feel like an idiot.

Of course, he threatened me again…

Moron.