I Only Have a Ph.D.

My son thinks I'm an idiot. Yes, an idiot. Now, I realize that eventually this was bound to happen. It's a natural part of the evolution of any father-son relationship. At some point in his life, a boy discovers that his father is not Superman after all and bears a much closer resemblance to Homer Simpson. Still, I had hoped this revelation wouldn't happen until Cieran was well into his teenage years, or kindergarden at the very least. Alas no. My son, still a week short of his second birthday, thinks I'm a complete and utter nincompoop.

Let me relate the unhappy circumstances of my fall from demi-god to half-wit. It was bath time after a long and trying day at home (Saturday is now officially the toughest day of all - daycare is over for the week, the temperature outside is hovering just above absolute zero, and Cieran is bored, full of energy, and STILL teething!). On this particular Saturday, Cieran passed the time doing all the usual things: playing trains, climbing the cat tree, jumping off the furniture, and vanishing completely when nobody was looking, reappearing moments later with a loud crash on a different floor of the house. By seven o'clock though, he was winding down, and showing every sign of falling asleep in front of the television, despite the thrilling English football extravaganza that was playing out before his eyes.

Linds and I jumped at the possibility of an early bedtime for Cieran, and no doubt the rest of the Chambers household minutes later. Linds whisked Chambers Junior upstairs, then set about gathering pyjamas and hot-water bottles and nighttime juice bottles etc, while I was left to supervise bath time itself.

I should point out here, that while I am a thoroughly modern husband in most respects, and certainly do my fair share of household chores on quite a regular basis, bath time is normally administered by the lady of the house. Tonight though, Linds was beat. I manfully offered to take her place at the side of the tub, dispensing soap and shampoo and toothpaste to approximately appropriate locations, and doing my best to minimize the torrents of water coming over the side which are an inevitable part of bath time with Cieran.

After ten minutes scrubbing away the layers of grime and chocolate, it was time to move on to phase two of bath time: reading a story. Through many months of experimentation, at great psychological cost to all involved, we have discovered that story time is best and briefest when carried out in the tub rather than in bed itself. Accordingly, I reached over to the pile of damp, dog-eared tomes sitting by the sink, pulled one off the top, and began to read. As in many other aspects of his life, Cieran is very particular about his books at bed time. To be specific, it is absolutely essential that the same three books are read to him every evening, in a particular order, and in a particular manner. Linds had been careful to pass along these detailed instructions to Daddy, and I embarked on the task confident that my son would not be disappointed.

We began with Goldilocks and the Three Bears, a staple of bedtimes the world over. The book we were reading was a fairly condensed version of the famous ursine epic, specially designed for two-year old attention spans. There were perhaps a dozen pages, each with a jolly colour drawing, and a line or two of monosyllabic text. To add zest to the tale, I gave each of the characters a different voice, drawing on the extensive repertoire I have developed over many years alone in the shower when nobody was listening. While I think it's unlikely that Dreamworks will come knocking on my door any day soon in hope of signing my voice talents for their latest animated blockbluster, I'm sure I was doing a pretty good job all in all, especially since Cieran seemed more interested in his wind-up tugboat than in who's porridge was hotter than whose.

Midway through the book, as Goldilocks was laying waste to the poor Bears' home in much the same way that Cieran does to ours, a little voice piped up.

``Dinosaurs.'' said Cieran, putting down his tugboat for a moment.

I ignored him and continued on, steadily building towards the exciting denouement where the humble Bears confront their vicious blonde intruder.

``Dinosaurs!'' repeated Cieran, gesturing vigorously to another book in the soggy stack by the faucet.

Now this was odd, because while Ten Little Dinosaurs is a regular feature on Cieran's evening list of books, it normally occupies third billing rather than second. This, together with the fact that Goldilocks still had porridge in her mouth, should have alerted me to the fact that story time was not going well.

``But what about The Three Bears?'' I asked. ``We haven't finished yet.''

Cieran gave me a look which made it very clear that we had in fact finished with The Bears, and to get started on the Dinosaurs forthwith.

``Okay.'' I said, opening Ten Little Dinosaurs at page one.

``How's it going?'' said a voice at the bathroom doorway.

I smiled as Linds entered the bathroom and sat down beside me.

``Not bad,'' I said, still blissfully unaware of the shoddiness of my efforts.

I turned back to the book, and waited for some time until I had Cieran's attention.

``Ten little dinosaurs, bouncing on the bed.'' I began.

``Pachycephalosaurus fell and bumped his head...''

Now I don't know who wrote this book, but while I'm sure they know a lot about dinosaurs, they obviously haven't spared a thought for the poor parents who have to read it. Go ahead, you try saying pachycephalosaurus at high tempo on the first attempt without stumbling. Suffice it to say that I made a complete hash of it, went back and had another go without significant improvement, and then quickly mumbled something incoherent in order to get on to the next line of verse. But the damage was done. Linds leaned over my shoulder and calmly pronounced the cursed reptile's name with ease, then recited the rest of page one without even glancing at the book.

Cieran's eyes lit up. He immediately laid aside his tugboat, snatched the book from my grasp and handed it to Mommy.

``Dinosaurs. Yes!'' he said gleefully, for here at last was somebody who knew what she was doing.

Feeling utterly hopeless, I stood up and walked towards the door. Linds did her best to console me, complementing me on the fact that Cieran looked quite a bit cleaner than before, and repeating pachycephalosaurus slowly, one syllable at a time, so that I might be better prepared next time. Still, I can't help feeling it's too late. I might have a Ph.D. in astrophysics but my two-year old son thinks I'm a complete idiot.