Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  'How can you know that?'

  'I can't, but if I were to place a bet . . .'

  'I wish you weren't so negative the whole time.'

  'I'm not!' Sally snapped. 'You always accuse me of being negative. Just because I'm not like you, and just because I don't jump in feet first at every opportunity, doesn't mean I'm negative.'

  I didn't reply. I thought she was wrong, but I had somehow lost the will to argue. I got up and slid the rest of my omelette into the bin.

  'Look,' Sally said. 'I'm sorry, it's just that I can't quite share your enthusiasm. It's not as if this bloke Dom emailed you the next day, is it?'

  'He was busy.'

  Sally waved that one away.

  'We're all busy,' she said.

  'Well, not everyone thinks it's a crap idea.'

  'Oh yes? Like who?'

  'Well, Emily for one.'

  Pin drop silence.

  I couldn't believe what I had said. Of all the names I could have come up with, I said HERS. Fool, Holden, you sodding fool.

  'Emily?'

  'That's right, Emily,' I said, trying to sound calm about it. 'She's moved back to the village. Jim's moved to London and she's renting 50 per cent of the house off him. I think it's a very good way of doing things . . .'

  'And when did you see her?'

  'At the school gates. We chatted a bit, caught up on news, you know.'

  'And you told her about your TV idea at the school gates?'

  Crunch time. Did I mention that I had been round to Emily's house? Well, I had nothing to hide, and if I did hide it, then Sally would be bound to find out, and when she did, she would assume I was hiding something far worse than I actually was, so in the end, I thought it better not to keep things hidden. Phew.

  'She invited me round for coffee last week.'

  'You kept that quiet.'

  'Didn't think it worth mentioning.'

  'Is that right?'

  'Well, I also thought you might get jealous, and I didn't want that.'

  'How very thoughtful,' said Sally. 'But I rather thought you were the jealous one.'

  Immediately my mind flashed back to over a year ago, when I obsessively chased Sally through the streets of London while she was ensconced in the back of a car with ex-beau-cum-close-confidant-and-colleague-who-I-now-know-is-gay Nick.

  'We can all get jealous,' I replied.

  Sally sighed.

  'I'm not being jealous Sam, I'm just being protective. The last time we went to her house, she tried to have sex with you, and kept saying how good-looking you were. You do remember that, don't you?'

  'Just a bit.'

  'So it shouldn't surprise you that I might not like the idea of you going round there.'

  'Which is why I didn't tell you.'

  'Wrong, Sam. Which is why you shouldn't have gone round there in the first place.'

  'Are you telling me who I should and shouldn't see during my days?'

  'No! But we know what Emily is like, and by seeing her you're playing with fire.'

  'I can keep her under control.'

  'You can, can you?'

  I was genuinely angry by now.

  'Look – I have no interest in Emily. I don't fancy her, she's not my type. If she still fancies me, then that's her problem, isn't it? But she's good company, and heavens above, I could do with some adult conversation during the day.'

  'There are plenty of other people you can see.'

  'Like who?'

  Sally named some names, names of people that I have no interest in seeing. I dismissed them all as either being too boring, or women who clearly didn't like the idea of a man 'invading' their female-only world of coffee mornings and lunchtime quiche.

  'Well, you do what you want, Sam, you always do.'

  'Now you're making me sound like some selfish twat, riding roughshod over your feelings.'

  'You said it.'

  With that, Sally went upstairs and shut herself in the bathroom. When we went to bed, there was a sort of polite kiss goodnight, a kiss that engendered more frostiness than had we not bothered.

  Wednesday 30 January

  I spent much of today preparing for tomorrow's meeting. I have to confess that I am more than a little nervous. The last time I did something like this was back at work, although we used to have weeks – if not months – to prepare an important pitch. And not only that, we had secretaries and researchers and all manner of other support staff. Instead, I have Peter and Daisy, who are crap at PowerPoint. Nevertheless, I think I've managed to cobble something together that will be both convincing and 'sexy'. (I think that's a word these TV people use a lot.)

  Both children have been on particularly revolting form today, especially Daisy. At lunchtime she refused to eat her tomatoes, and kept trying to get down from the table. Under normal circumstances, the slack dad that I am, I would have let her toddle off, convincing myself that a few chunks of ham and bread constituted a healthy lunch. However, today I decided that I would put my foot down, in a pathetic attempt to exert some discipline before tomorrow's meeting.

  'Don't want them!' she announced. (I think this is the only sentence Daisy knows.)

  'But you like tomatoes,' I insisted.

  'Don't want them!'

  'Come on, Daisy, you must eat your fruit! Otherwise you won't become a big strong girl.'

  (I briefly wondered how much she actually wanted to become a big strong girl.)

  'Don't want them!'

  I picked up half a cherry tomato and held it near her mouth.

  'Come on Daisy – just eat this one and the ones on your plate and then you can get down.'

  'DON'T WANT IT!' (A slight variation. Her language is definitely improving.)

  She started struggling to get down from her chair, but I forced her to sit. This thwarting of her 'great escape' served to only make her more furious, and soon she started to scream, the prelude to a full-on Daisy tantrum. Still, I tried to play it cool, which went against my entire nature.

  'Come on Daisy. Just. One. Little. Tomato.'

  Had she screamed any louder or higher, then I swear the light bulbs would have burst. She was turning the same colour as the food I was trying to feed her, and she was writhing in her chair like a dervish.

  'DOWN!' she kept screaming. 'DOWN! GET DOWN!'

  'No Daisy! You stay here until you finish your lunch!'

  By now my voice was beginning to rise, partly because I was getting angry, but more crucially because I wanted to drown out her tantrum. For the next two minutes, our screaming increased to the point that I was sure the neighbours would call the police. What could I do? I was determined not to let her get down, and I was doubly determined that she was going to finish her food.

  Options included:

  1) Walk away and let her stew. This would have been hopeless, as she can scream for hours, and that would have driven me insane.

  2) Force the food into her mouth. Clearly too dangerous.

  3) Continue yelling. Tempting, but traumatic.

  4) Give her a smack on the bottom. Hmmmmm. Corporal punishment. Tricky one. I once smacked Peter on the bottom, and although it had the desired effect, I've regretted it ever since. But right then, I came closer than I've been in ages to giving Daisy a smack. While she carried on screaming, writhing and doing the full 'terrible two' tantrum, I caught sight of the two of us reflected in the kitchen window. I looked so big next to her, and she so small and defenceless, that it made me realise that it would be a complete abuse of my physical superiority.

  5) Sit there and ignore it. I've tried that tactic before, but it doesn't work. Her will is too strong, and mine is too weak.

  6) Pour a glass of water over her. Extremely appealing – would shock her but not harm her. Show her that I was very cross. Only downside was that it might be humiliating, but by then I was beyond such niceties, so this was the option I plumped for.

  At first, I thought the tactic backfired. Although I gently sploshed only a finger
of water on the top of her head, she screamed even louder, a feat I didn't think was possible.

  'Eat your tomatoes, Daisy!' I growled.

  I stood poised with the glass.

  'Otherwise I'll pour more water on you!'

  'NO!'

  Whereupon she grabbed all the remaining tomato halves and shoved them in her mouth as though she hadn't eaten in a month. She chewed them messily, and the seeds splurged all the way down her white top, but I couldn't care. The tactic had worked! I decided immediately that I would include it as part of my Wonderhubby pitch.

  While her temper subsided, I confess that I felt sorry for the little thing, and I gave her the most enormous hug, and told her that Daddy was so happy that she had eaten her food, and that she was a good girl. She sniffled and sobbed for quite a few minutes, which almost made me sniffle and sob as well. Had I been cruel to her? I don't know, but what I do know is that I haven't told Sally what I did. I expect housewives don't confess all their errors to their husbands, so I don't see why I should be any different.

  Anyway, big day tomorrow, very big day. I think I know what I'm going to say, but what the hell, I can just make it up as I go along. After all, that's all they do on TV anyway.

  Thursday 31 January

  It would have been so much easier without the children. Everything always is. (In fact, being a househusband without children would be the best job in the world, although it wouldn't actually be called a job, it would be called 'unemployed'.) Peter and Daisy behaved atrociously. The worst ever. It would have made so much more sense to have left them at school/ playgroup, but in my boundless confidence, I thought they would prove to be great examples of the Holden Childcare Programme (not that it really exists).

  The first mistake was taking the train, which, naturally, was overcrowded and delayed. I had wanted to sit at a table, but none were available, so the three of us had to cram into two seats which made those found on a budget airline look like armchairs in a country house hotel.

  For two minutes – perhaps three – this was fine. Daisy and Peter coloured in their respective colouring-in books – Spider-Man for Peter, Little Mermaid for Daisy – and I even had the opportunity to briefly wonder what sort of offspring Spidey and Ariel would have in the event of their getting it together. And then the trolley came, containing all the crap you never ate unless you were on a train.

  'Daddy, can I have a crisp?' asked Peter.

  'Crisp! Crisp! Crisp!' chanted Daisy excitedly, bouncing up and down on my lap.

  'No you can't,' I replied. 'It's not lunchtime.'

  They simultaneously let out the sort of whine that attracted the attention of everyone in earshot, which in this instance meant the entire carriage. I was aware of some fairly disapproving scrutiny, and I was determined to show the world how excellent a father I was by not caving in.

  'Ah, ah,' I went, holding up an admonishing finger. 'No whining.'

  'But I want a crisp!' said Peter.

  'I'm hungry,' said Daisy.

  (Incidentally, Daisy's two-year-old speech is never quite as fluent as this diary makes out. 'I'm hungry' was more like 'I ungee', but for the sake of future generations of Holdens – should there be any reading this – I feel that it is best to translate Daisy's highly individual version of English.)

  'In that case you can have an apple,' I said, reaching inside the daybag.

  I fumbled in its dark interior, smugly congratulating myself on being Captain Efficient. Before we left, I had sliced up said fruit and put it in a Tupperware container, along with some water biscuits. Very healthy. Very keen. Very perfect dad. Very out of character.

  However, there was one small problem. I couldn't find the container.

  'But I want a crisp!'

  'Crisp! Crisp! Crisp!'

  I looked up from the bag, catching the eye of the trolley bloke, who was pouring warmish water into a cup for the middle-aged woman across the aisle. He looked at me, no doubt wondering whether I was going to give in.

  'Crisp! Crisp!'

  I rummaged in the bag again, noting that I had usefully brought their swimming costumes and some towels. Bugger. Completely the wrong bag. Not just no apple and no biscuits, but no water bottles, nappies, or anything else that might actually be of some use.

  'Crisp!'

  'Daisy, stop it!' I barked.

  'Would you like anything, sir?' asked the trolley bloke.

  'I'd like a crisp!' Peter informed him.

  'He wasn't talking to you,' I said.

  'Cheese and onion,' said Peter, almost admirably oblivious to his father.

  'Or do you have salt and vinegar?' he asked.

  'Peter!' I hissed.

  'Crisp! Crisp! Crisp!' Daisy chanted.

  I was desperate for a coffee, but I decided that it would be unfair if I ordered something and the children didn't, so I shook my head.

  'No thanks,' I said through gritted teeth. 'We're fine.'

  Trolley bloke trundled off, much to the annoyance of Peter and Daisy.

  'It's not fair!' moaned Peter.

  Daisy started to bellow.

  'Ungee! Ungee!'

  'Well, it's not my fault you didn't eat enough breakfast.'

  The middle-aged woman looked at me with an expression that suggested that it was my fault. I just stared back at her with axe-murderer eyes and she looked back down at what passed for tea on our train line.

  I decided the only way to distract my now apoplectic children was to resume the colouring, but to no avail. They weren't going to be bought off so easily. Instead, they continued to moan about the lack of crisps, which was not just infuriating, but highly embarrassing. The 'tuts' from our fellow passengers were about as regular as the text-message bleeps emanating from the teenage girls behind us, and equally annoying.

  And then Daisy went mysteriously quiet. A look of fierce concentration came across her face, and she then looked as though she was having some moment of epiphany.

  'Daddy,' she smiled. 'I done a poo.'

  I didn't need telling, and within seconds, neither did teenage girls or middle-aged woman. The former were giggling, and the latter gave me another foul stare. I closed my eyes, and tried to think Zen thoughts. Here we were, ten minutes into a seventy-minute journey, and I had a son who was noisily bleating for junk food, a daughter who had just created a small brown Krakatoa in her pants, and a carriage full of pissed-off people. Needless to say, nothing in the Holden Childcare Programme can prepare a parent for such a situation, so I did the decent thing – and bought three packets of crisps. When Peter moaned that there was no cheese and onion, I told him he could get off at the next stop and stay there. He looked terrified – for the first time ever, he seemed to have believed one of my threats.

  The Daisy nappy situation was sorted when we arrived in London, although the only nappies stocked in the chemist at the station were not to Daisy's high standards. However, her bleating may have had more to do with the fact that I had to change her on the floor of one of the cubicles in the Gents. Normally I try to use the disabled lavatory in these circumstances, but, as usual, it was locked, and there was no one around who had a key.

  After we emerged, I felt ready to go home. The last thing I wanted to do was to give a presentation, but I steeled myself, and thought of the riches and fame as I tried to hail a cab. Miraculously, we arrived at the TV company at 12.05, just five minutes late, and I thanked my all-too-rare good judgement that I hadn't plumped for the train an hour later, which, if one were travelling without children, would have left plenty of time.

  The reception area was just as I expected – all marble and steel, with a brace of flatscreens showing the company's output, and another showing some rolling news channel. Perched behind some swanky iMac sat a studenty-looking girl, with red-dyed hair and a pierced nose, without both of which she might have been quite attractive.

  'Hello,' she smiled. 'Can I help you?'

  'Hi – we're here to see Dom Simons. Sam Holden at twelve o'clock
.'

  Studenty-girl looked at her iMac and frowned.

  'What was the name again?'

  'Sam Holden.'

  (How hard a name is it to remember?)

  'To see Dom?'

  'Thassright.'

  'Hmm . . . hold on, I'll give him a call. I'm sure everything's fine, but it just doesn't seem to be on the screen.'

  I briefly closed my eyes. If the fucker had forgotten, I would kill him, I really would. I listened to Studenty-girl explain the situation, and then I could make out an 'oh shit' down the line. So he had forgotten, the bugger. I sort of collapsed my shoulders and felt pathetically small. Not a great start to one's stellar TV career. I made eyes at Studenty-girl that I wanted to talk to him, but she held up her hand while she listened to Dom.

  'OK,' she said, eventually. 'I'll ask him to wait.'

  She put the phone down.

  'Wait till when?' I asked curtly.

  She grimaced, sympathising with the situation.

  'Until 12.45. Is that OK?'

  'Not really.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  I tried to calm myself down. More Zen thoughts were required. (I really need to take up meditation one of these days. I always think it's for goatee-wearers, but perhaps it should be mandatory for all those who look after children.)

  'There's a café just round the corner, you could go there. It's quite nice.'

  We did go there. It wasn't nice, at least it wasn't for me. It wasn't a café, but a caff, which are sometimes all right, but this one was really dreadful and had that unmistakable aire de chip fat rancide. The children, on the other hand, loved it, as it only served the beige food of which they are so fond – chips, bread, egg – which they munched away on very happily.

  As we walked back, Daisy fell asleep in her buggy, and Peter became ratty, demanding that he watch TV etc., and wondering where Necky was. (Necky is our unimaginative name for his teddy giraffe.) I told him that Necky had to stay at home in case he got lost, which caused more whingeing from him, and more shortening of my temper.

  An apologetic Dom was waiting for us in the reception.

  'I'm so sorry,' he said, his eyes doing that bulging Tube-station-logo thing again, and he sounded as if he meant it.