Ian's Weans . . . and their stains

Myself and my wife have four kids who, between them, cause us to love, laugh, cry and scream. I have decided to start this blog in order to help me decipher the days, to understand my kids and to give me the chance to reflect on my own behaviour with them. How I reacted to the spilt milk, why it bothers me so much that they don't always eat their dinner, the fights, the tears, the tantrums. I desperately want to be a great dad. Actually, to be more precise (and this might be part of the larger problem with me), I want their memories of me to be fond ones. If I died tomorrow, I'm not sure their recollections would all be as pleasant as I'd like them to be. That's what I want to change.

Today has been like many I've experienced as a parent. An 8am row with a four-year-old ensured I spent the day with a heavy burden of guilt sat firmly on my already haunched shoulders (will enlarge upon Dr S[t]oma's African Back diagnosis at a later date). I think it has been the catalyst for starting this blog - the day of guilt, not the African Back! I have to change. I want to change. I have to learn where the line is between 'Why Did I Do That?' and 'Why Did (insert name of child 1-4) Do That?'.

If I write an honest account of what happens in my dealings with the kids, it could be a therapeutic journey. Bumpy, but therapeutic. The aim being to better understand my kids and to better understand myself. To be a better dad.

Just killed a mozzie . . . not a great start on the Being A Better Dad front.

So, day one . . . September 22, 2008.

Today started well. Last night Nicky bought the boys hats and gloves. Spiderman hats and gloves no less . . . a guaranteed winner! Our youngest, Livvy, was spared the superhero garb and was treated instead to a hat/glove combo that wouldn't be out of place on a Swiss mountainside being worn by a girl called Heidi. Anyway, we left them beside their beds so they'd find them when they woke, which is precisely what happened. Our twins, Woody and Ben, arrived in our bedroom fully clad in Bob The Builder/Postman Pat pyjamas, topped off with Spiderman gloves and hats. A glorious ensemble. Breakfast went well . . . four orders of Golden Balls all went down the chute with only minimal spillage.

Then Charlie's mood soured. His Spiderman gloves were ''too tight''. (The hat was a complete non-starter . . . Charlie is not, and has never been, a hat wearer). A minor altercation ensued between him and I which culminated in me taking the gloves off! He was not amused. The moment passed, but the scene had been set. That was the moment which laid the groundwork for what was to follow. A quick blast of Dora the Explorer and, before we knew it, school time was upon us. Just one thing to do before I leave for the 15-minute walk with Charlie . . . give him his medicine.

He's recently had an ear infection for which Dr S(t)oma prescribed him some antibiotic. Bright yellow, dangerous-looking antibiotic. The colour alone is enough to frighten a child. Our first attempt at getting him to take it was a few days back and we ended up waterboarding a four year old, Guantanamo Bay style, in our kitchen. A soon-to-be bright yellow kitchen. He really wasn't keen. Since then, though, most likely in a bid to avoid any repeat of the aforementioned terror, he's been very compliant with the medicine. Until this morning, that is.

Nicky was already on the case, knelt beside him in the kitchen, spoon filled. The tight-lipped Charlie was having none of it. After a couple of ''Please Charlie'''s, ''Your Ear Will Fall Off If You Don't'''s and one last hurrah of ''Open Your Mouth Right Now!'', time was getting on so I decided to intervene. Why did I do that? Had I left it to Nicky, Charlie would most likely have taken the medicine. It might have taken a while but she's patient and clever and lovely. She would have won him round. Instead, I waded in with all the panache of a sledge hammer and got sprayed with luminous yellow antibiotic for my trouble. Nicky, to her credit, stayed relatively calm but the look on her face was one of hopelessness. And it was all for me. It was a look of ''I have no words to express what a useless twat you are sometimes''. I turned away to get our coats, shrouded in the uneasy knowledge that she was, of course, quite right.

He finally took the medicine, just as he finally put on his coat and we were finally ready to leave, Charlie with a big yellow phospherous stain on the collar of his nice white polo shirt and me with my yellow-speckled Levis. As I stood outside the front door, hand outstretched in invitation to my beautiful, red haired, brown eyed, yellow-collared boy it became apparent he was going nowhere with me. This was no more than I deserved. In the end, after much begging and pleading, I simply picked him up and started walking. A passerby would have been forgiven for thinking I was kidnapping a child, his blood curdling screams echoing all around the otherwise tranquil DA9 postal district.

In the end, the walk to school was, quite literally, a drag! We didn't talk much. I tried to make conversation a couple of times, but was met with stoney silence and a bottom lip so disfigured by sulk it was practically blinding him, curled, as it was, somewhere between his nose and his forehead. I stopped a couple of times, kneeling down to his level in futile attempts at reconciliation, but he's made of sterner stuff. We finally arrived at school with only a minute or two to spare before the bell rang and then the little purple people formed eager, ragged lines to greet their teachers and a brand new day at Big School.

By now my guilt was on a drip with the valve set to 'open'. I knew I had ruined our morning but was hopeful of one last fond kiss, a smile, a ''love you, dad''. Instead, he joined the end of the dwindling queue of classmates, gave his teacher a shy, quiet smile and made his way towards the classroom entrance. Usually, he looks back and gives a final, excited, proud wave and shouts ''love you, dad!'' or ''bye, dad!''. I was thinking ''this will make everything okay . . . he'll turn and wave and we'll be back on speaking terms.'' Instead, I watched his little forlorn, golden head disappear through the doorway and his book-bag and Dalek lunch box wobbled out of sight. There was to be no wave today. No ''love you, dad'', no smiling, pink-cheeked, red-haired ''bye dad!''. And the real tragedy was that I had raised my hand in anticipation of his farewell. I was left standing in the playground alone, embarrassed and ashamed at the damage I had done to his day.

I had a knot in my stomach as I walked off towards the station to catch my train to work. Thoughts of my own childhood came flooding back, snippets, moments, incidents. I know how he must be feeling. And I know it isn't nice. What I don't know is why I would then inflict those feelings on a four year old. Our four year old. Our first born. Our beautiful, bright, loving, caring, four-year-old, who just happens not to like tight Spiderman gloves and luminous yellow antibiotic.