When my boys grow up, I want them to be big, suave devils that could charm the pants off anyone. Not literally, of course. My precious angels won’t be allowed to have sex until they’re at least twenty-five, and only then with my express permission and after the potential suitor has been vetted by me for pure motivations and foolproof contraception.

  Since the fundamental basis for charm and social skills is good manners, husband and I are already endeavouring to educate the boys in common courtesy. They’re only two and four, so we’re breaking them in gently and just going for the basics:

  1. They have to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.

  2. No interrupting adults when adults are speaking.

  3. No taking food or drinks without asking.

  4. They must ask to be excused from the table after eating their dinner.

  It’s fair to say we’re having a few teething problems, and not the kind that can be sorted by a quick dab of Bonjela and a dose of Calpol.

  Callan is usually fairly consistent with his ‘please’ and ‘thank you’s. But lately, we’ve discovered that he carries the same rogue gene as his mother – the one that compels him to find his own bad, obtuse or inappropriate jokes absolutely hilarious.

  Last week, we were in a pizza restaurant (the Low equivalent of nirvana) and a waitress was taking our order. ‘I’d like fresh orange juice,’ Callan announced.

  My right eyebrow, the one that is responsible for maintaining order and discipline in our house, shot upwards at the speed of light. It’s not an attractive look, but it usually gets the message across. ‘What’s the magic word?’ I asked haughtily. Cal gave a sly glance at Brad. I recognised the signal – it’s very subtle, but that quick look invariably accompanies them having a high-speed telepathic conversation to plan out a strategy for imminent mischief. The waitress was fidgeting so I knew I had to speed things up.

  ‘What’s the magic word?’ I prompted again.

  A cheeky smile, another impish peek at his brother, a deep breath, then in the loudest voice his wee lungs could support, he announced ‘PUMP!’

  At which point, Callan, Brad and everyone at the eight tables within earshot collapsed into fits of giggles.

  Just my luck to have spawned a comedian.

  Still, at least it’s better than Brad’s efforts. Brad, aka Wee Chunky, isn’t the most eloquent of toddlers and has developed a particular fondness for the word ‘okay’. Thus, reminders about manners tend to go along the lines of:

  ‘Say “please”, Brad.’

  Brad: ‘Okay.’

  ‘No, not “okay”, “please”. You have to say “please” if you want something.’

  Brad: ‘Okay.’

  ‘No, “please”. Not “okay”. Say “please”.’

  Brad: ‘Okay.’

  It can go on for hours. It could be worse. His one-favourite-word vocabulary could consist only of a loud, proud ‘pump’.

  We’re not having much more success with the concept of waiting in turn to speak. Both boys were like those really annoying ascending ringtones that you get on mobile phones. If husband and I were talking, they’d interject with a fairly calm, ‘Mummy, I want a biscuit/juice/toy/video/push on the swing/all-inclusive week in the most expensive suite in the Disneyland Hotel.’ (Delete as applicable.)

  If we had the temerity to ignore them and continue our conversation (which of course was usually about global warming, international economic strategies or the plight of the Amazonian rainforest and never, ever a trivial verbal joust about such mundane things as whose turn it was to put out the wheelie bin) then the boys would just repeat the same sentence over and over again, getting louder with ever utterance. We’d be forced to give in when the decibel level threatened to shatter the windows.

  So, as soon as we thought they could comprehend it, we introduced the concept of saying ‘excuse me’ then waiting until they were asked to continue. They haven’t quite mastered it yet. Instead, they now just shout ‘excuse me’ in gradually increasing volume until they reach the noise level of an outdoor rock concert.

  Rule number three? Yesterday, I twice walked into the kitchen to see baseball boots attached to toddler-sized legs dangling out of the biscuit cupboard – a definite health hazard as the biscuit cupboard is an upper-wall unit. The only way for a four-year-old to scale that height is to climb up onto a bar stool then jump onto the kitchen worktop and balance there precariously while trying to manoeuvre the cupboard door open and locate Jaffa Cakes. I can feel another trip to accident and emergency looming.

  And as for asking to be excused from the table, if we could get them to sit there long enough without having an urgent compulsion to lie on the floor, dance like Michael Flatley, or wander off to the toilet at five-minute intervals, then perhaps we’d get the chance to try that one out.

  Oh, the sheer weariness of it all. Manners may maketh man, but for mum? Permission to leave the table, please.

  Terror Tots

  I pride myself on being a fairly fearless member of the female species. I’m the woman who spent several years standing at the doors of Glasgow nightclubs, knocking back anyone who had drooled on their outerwear or had the temerity to wear white socks with black shoes. I’ve flown EasyJet and survived the scrum of death between the boarding gate and the aeroplane. I’ve even had a Brazilian wax. Once.

  But I’m about to be subjected to the one event that terrifies me to the extent that my hands start to vibrate like an Ann Summers’ party bag at the very thought of it: playgroup duty.

  Two-year-old Brad is about to join the same playgroup that his older brother once terrorised. It’s a wonderful environment where they focus on the positive interaction between the children and on developing their creative skills. The session is managed by two lovely and ever-patient playgroup teachers, supplemented every week by at least three mothers.

  And woe, oh woe, it’ll be another exercise in proof that when God gave out ‘coping with kiddie’ genes, I was down the pub with the over-eighteens clutching a Bacardi Breezer and a ciggie.

  The irony is that it’s one of my girlfriends who does the duty rota. You’d think that she would cut me a bit of slack. I’ve offered her everything from my left kidney to the entire contents of my bank account (enough to buy her, oh, at least a curry and a DVD for a wild, wanton Saturday night), and still she won’t let me off the hook. She says she’s doing it for my own good. I reckon it’s for the entertainment value of seeing me fraught, harassed and begging for mercy, surrounded by people who come up to my knees. If this were Roman times, they’d sack the gladiators, free the lions and just put me in an arena with a bunch of three-year-olds instead.

  Apparently, most of the other mothers view their monthly shift as an absolute joy, a treat that allows them to share in the playgroup experience with their offspring.

  So why do I feel more out of my depth than a Premier League footballer at a monogamy convention?

  I think what causes the overwhelming anxiety is the sheer responsibility of it; the intense pressure to be on my very best behaviour for a whole three hours, in the presence of the most hypercritical, brutally honest and super-observant members of our race. Give me a room full of souped-up ravers or a boardroom of city-slicker executives any day of the week. At least they don’t burst into tears when I dole out plain digestives instead of Jammy Dodgers.

  It’s just a whole different stratosphere from handling your own children. When my two have an altercation rivalling the last Tyson/Lennox bout, it’s easy to prise them apart, put them in separate corners and warn them not to come out until they can shake hands without it turning into a sumo bout.

  The joy of parenting is that I am at all times free to resort to threats, bribery or negotiation in the name of discipline. It’s amazing what a warning of withholding Jaffa Cakes can achieve.

  But when it’s someone else’s children, they have to be treated with a sunny disposition and kid gloves at all times.

  I have a recurring nightmare that one of the little darlings goes home after I’ve been looking after him and informs his mother that, ‘Brad’s mummy taught me a new word today: arse!’

  So, tomorrow I’ll spend three hours smiling (if a little dementedly), acting like the epitome of serenity and doing my damndest to be pure of mouth. I’ll join in the singing, even though I don’t know the words to ‘Miss Molly Had a Dolly’ (most of our songs are ones we made up ourselves, consisting almost entirely of inappropriate references to bodily functions, which my two Neanderthals find hilarious).

  I’ll referee when Child A coshes Child B with Bob the Builder’s hammer. I’ll clean up the mess when a receptacle of milk is hurled at speed because the cup is ‘the wrong colour’. I’ll valiantly manage to conceal the fact that I’m counting the minutes until I can return to adult civilisation. And I’ll try my bloody best not to swear once. Not even under my breath.

  It’ll be my biggest achievement since childbirth.

  And a month later I’ll get to do it all over again. Although, I think I might be busy that morning. Flying EasyJet to Brazil for a spot of waxing.

  It’s Criminal…

  Picture the scene: twenty years from now, I’m sitting on my sofa, sipping a port and lemon while I watch television. I’m wearing the latest fashion – a pink Teflon housecoat and a furry big slipper that covers both feet. I’ve had so many facelifts that my hips are sitting somewhere above my inflatable neck cushion, but you can’t see that I’m upset about it because I’ve overdone the Botox again. I turn to my husband (I’d love to think it’ll be the same one I’ve got now, but guaranteed he’ll have left me by then for a woman who doesn’t think all food comes frozen) and ask him to turn the channel over.

  ‘No way,’ he moans, ‘Match of the Day is on and they’re giving Gary Lineker his bus pass.’

  ‘Aw, go on,’ I plead. ‘I want to see if our Callan is on the other side.’

  Reluctantly, he turns it over, just as the show I want to see is about to start. Yes, I’m sure my oldest son Callan is going to be in the starring role.

  So what programme has got me on the edge of my big slipper?

  Is Callan the sexiest Scottish Bond since Sir Sean? Is he addressing the nation in his role as Prime Minister?

  The opening credits fade and suddenly the face of a geriatric Nick Ross fills the screen.

  ‘Welcome to Crimewatch.’

  Yes, I’m getting seriously worried about my firstborn son. A few months ago, I read a report claiming that criminal tendencies could be spotted as far back as early childhood – apparently it’s all to do with brain function and social habits. To be honest, I filed it in my great big box marked ‘complete tosh’ – along with the recent revelations that eating loads of chocolate makes you want to have more sex (armed with three selection boxes and a family-sized Dairy Milk, I’ve extensively researched this subject and it’s definitely not true).

  However, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s an element of truth in the claims and, if there is, then I fear that Crimewatch beckons. You see, my gorgeous firstborn, aged four and two weeks, wants to be a ‘baddie’. Gone are the days when he was Buzz Lightyear, saving the universe and making three trips a week to casualty because he’d flown off the top step again. Now, he’s Doctor Octopus, nemesis of Spiderman and the biggest threat to our planet since the eradication of the ozone layer.

  I first noticed the change in his objects of hero-worship a few months ago. We had a few of his friends over for tea, and the superheroes were busily banishing the world of all evil from their nerve centre in my hall cupboard. Batman was there, complete with one of my best black towels serving as a cape. Spiderman was wearing my favourite red leggings circa 1985. And Superman had somehow managed to wangle on his Postman Pat pants over his jeans.

  ‘And who are you?’ I asked Callan, slightly disconcerted that he had my mop bucket over his head.

  ‘Darth Vader.’

  Oh. It was his first outing to the dark side. But I don’t think he’s left it since. Some weeks later we were cuddled up on the couch watching Scooby Doo. Batman, Robin and their usual entourage of villains must have been hard up for cash because they were making a special guest appearance with those pesky kids.

  ‘I want to be like him!’ Callan yelled halfway through. Ah, my boy was back on the right side of the law, I thought with relief. ‘Which one, Batman or Robin?’

  ‘No, Mummy,’ he replied with utter disdain. ‘I want to be the Joker.’

  Nope, I wasn’t laughing. Nor was I amused when he demanded a few days later that his name be changed. In this household, we now have Mr and Mrs Low, and their children, Brad and Doctor Doom.

  And if Brad (aka ‘Me Too’, because he copies everything his brother does) follows suit, then I’ll have to face up to the fact that my hall cupboard is now the breeding ground for the next generation of dastardly criminals.

  Crimewatch, if my pink Teflon housecoat and a furry big slipper go missing, I’ll be in touch.

  2005

  Porcelain Thrones and Megaphones

  Ready, Aim, Fire…

  If reincarnation does in fact exist, can I please make a special request to come back as Julia Roberts? The lovely Julia was pictured last week leaving a Pilates class with her six-week-old twins. It was a sweet, precious and intimate snapshot of domestication: just Julia, her husband, her babies, and an army of helpers so large it could have invaded a small country.

  Ladies, how many things are wrong with that scenario? Well, for a start, when my babies were six weeks old I couldn’t find my way out of my dressing gown, never mind into a wee Juicy Couture tracky for a jaunt up the leisure centre.

  Secondly, the gilded A-lister was partaking in the practice of evil: an exercise class. Doesn’t she know that there’s an unwritten rule among the sisterhood (or should that be motherhood)? For at least two months – or in my case, years – after childbirth we’re supposed to milk the memory of the physical trauma we’ve inflicted on our bodies by endeavouring at all times to have our feet in an elevated position and our mouths in close proximity to a chocolate snack. It’s the law.

  And thirdly – and this is the real killer – Team Julia were carrying everything for her. She didn’t have a bulk-size box of Huggies strapped to her back. There were no bottles of milk dribbling up the arm of her jumper as she attempted to juggle baby, bag and feeding equipment. And she wasn’t within projectile-vomit range of either of her newborns.

  That’s not motherhood, it’s a holiday.

  While Miss Roberts gets the five-star, deluxe version of motherhood, this week I’ve been subjected to the self-catering, dodgy plumbing and offensive odours version. In the latest episode of my oh-so-glamorous life, I decided it was time for almost-three-year-old Brad to lose the nappies.

  For those of you who are just tucking into a wee cup of tea and a bacon roll, I’ll spare you the details. But let’s just say that disinfectant spray became my very best friend. On the first day of Brad’s nappy liberation, I spent the whole time on my hands and knees contemplating puddles. Who knew children that small could store that much water? My second-born son is the toddler equivalent of a Saharan camel.

  By lunchtime, I was soaked, exhausted and could feel the thud of my will to live tunnelling to freedom.

  Worse, Brad was getting thoroughly sceptical about my promise that ‘Big Boys Pants’ would give him supernatural powers. Hopefully, one of which would be the ability to control his bladder.

  Never has my familiar prima-donna war cry, ‘I bet Jackie Collins doesn’t have to put up with this pish!’ had a more literal meaning.

  At four o’clock, wet, smelling of Eau de Sewer and covered in stains that I didn’t even want to think about, I speed-dialled the husband for moral support. It didn’t go well.

  ‘Hi, honey, having a good day?’ he had the absolute temerity to ask.

  A GOOD DAY? Aaargh!

  Yes, I know the poor man was only being polite but in my pee-soaked brain that somehow became a patronising comment from a smug bloke sitting in a comfy chair, in a civilised office, having conversations with other adults that consisted of words of more than one syllable, all the while partaking of hot and cold running bloody cappuccinos.

  How dare he!

  I slammed the phone down in disgust. I didn’t say I was rational. I’m a mother of two toddlers – that’s not in the job description.

  Next day, over breakfast I was mulling over my dilemmas for the day: whether donning waterproof clothing was an overreaction, whether Dettox was available in gallon-size tubs and how to convince my husband that we didn’t, in fact, require a marriage guidance counsellor. So absorbed was I in my woes that I didn’t notice that Brad had left the table for a far comfier seat – one atop the porcelain throne. Yes, my wee angel had finally mastered the concept of waste management.

  Overjoyed, I had an irresistible compulsion to call the One O’Clock News team to announce the thrilling news: Brad was toilet-trained. There’s only one downside – his aim isn’t brilliant. But then, I’ve never met a grown man who doesn’t share that problem, so I’m guessing it’s a gender thing.

  There’s obviously a limit to the supernatural powers of Big Boy Pants.

  Jamie’s Bitchin

  My boys are threatening mutiny. They can’t decide whether to call Childline or the NSPCA. Apparently, I’m up there with Cruella de Vil and whoever invented face-washing, since I took the monumental decision to banish their favourite pet forever. Yes, the chicken dinosaur is no longer a cherished member of the Low family. Thank you, Saint Jamie of the Immaculate School Dinners.

  I am so glad that television series is finished. Don’t get me wrong, it was an admirable crusade on the part of Mr bleep bleep Oliver to highlight the scandalous 37p that’s allocated for our children’s school lunches. Disgraceful. In my day (when a balanced diet was equal amounts of salt and vinegar), that would only have bought two packets of Worcester sauce crisps and a donut from the baker’s across the road.