Chapter 39

Amid the chaos that three tiny children can create for each other and for their parent, there are hilarious moments. Most of these are the non sequiturs and incongruities absent from adult conversation. One of the first was, ‘I’ve got tummy ache in my eye.’

Looking out of the streaked nursery window, unable to go out, I said, ‘It’s pouring down.’ ‘Yes, it’s raining, too’, said Lars.

When the children became used to being read stories, Lars would grab the ‘brag book’ that Tina had sent me full of photographs of them during their first week of life.

‘Can you read this one?’ he would ask earnestly.

I took the book upstairs.

‘Once upon a time there were three small boys. Their names were Piers, Ian and Lars. They lived with their Daddy. Although they loved each other very much, they would always squabble. When Piers picked up a toy, Ian and Lars immediately wanted to play with it, too.’

Many is the story that has emanated out of thin air. Later, after I had told them what it contained, his request changed to: ‘Read "When We Was Born", please, Daddy’.

In their first month at nursery school, I wondered what on earth they were doing including political figures in their songs. ‘Alistair Campbell has one hump’ came from the back of the car as I drove them home. The next day, not only did he have one hump, but he also had two. The following day, he had three humps as well. I sang it back to them.

‘Alistair Campbell has one hump. Alistair Campbell has two humps.’

‘No! It’s Alistair Campbell!’

‘That’s what Daddy said!’

It was only when I asked one of the nursery staff, that I was told it was ‘Alice the Camel’ who had the hump.

When they came home from school, I would say, ‘Drink up your milk and then you’ll get a chocolate egg.’

‘Don’t want milk.’

‘If you don’t drink it, you’ll get none.’

Ian looked at me, relieved. Here was something he could get without having to drink milk.

‘I want none! I want none!’

When they returned to nursery school having been away with a tummy bug, I told the boss lady at nursery school that their stools were now formed.

‘And how are you?’ she enquired solicitously.

‘Formed, too, thanks’ was the automatic reply.

* * *

And there are the moments that are only funny in retrospect. When you are only two, hysterical screaming can be a dropped toy or something of more significance.

‘What’s the matter with Ian?’

‘I think he’s yelling because you’re shutting his finger in the door.’

The young nursery assistant was distraught. One of her colleagues plunged the throbbing finger into cold water.

‘Never mind, you didn’t mean it.’

After a wakeful night, I told their favourite teacher that Ian has been up much of the night because his little finger still hurt from being caught in the door

‘Oh, which one is that?’ she asked absently.

‘The one that’s red, swollen and painful. The one he’s waving about.’

While I was thinking about all the various titles a parent has, I realised I had lost mine. I no longer had my name. Having called myself ‘Daddy’ to the children, I found myself using this name first to the cats, then to myself and, eventually, occasionally to grown-ups in general conversation. I taught the boys their second names and they proudly stressed them.

‘I’m Piers Thomas Mucklejohn.’

‘Who are you, Ian?’

‘Ian Aidan Mucklejohn.’

‘And. Lars, who are you?’

‘I’m Lars Conrad Mucklejohn.’

‘And,’ pointing to myself, ‘who’s this?’

The response was instant.

‘Daddy Mucklejohn.’

‘Doesn’t Daddy have another name?’

Again instantly.

‘Mucklejohn.’

I thought I wouldn’t complicate matters. My sons had no idea what my name was. I would be ‘Daddy Mucklejohn’ for the foreseeable future.

Long-held assumptions disappeared as well. On the day they were born, down went their names on the list of a nice private prep school some miles away in the countryside. I had not dared tempt providence by doing it earlier.