Not many people are aware that Russell Crowe and I have something in common. Oh, yes, two peas in a pod.
Well, almost.
Obviously I’m not Australian, male or prone to developing outbreaks of facial hair. Not since I discovered epilation.
Sadly, we don’t share acting talent. Or Oscars. Or a multi-millionaire jet-set lifestyle. And, much as I have been known to occasionally get frazzled with inefficient hotel workers, I’ve so far refrained from any situation involving alleged violence, a receptionist, and the latest weapon from Binatone.
Furthermore, as far as I know, Russ doesn’t spend his Saturday afternoons in Evans’ changing rooms repeating the words ‘effing, effing, effing’, while trying to manoeuvre his bod into a size sixteen summer frock.
But Russ (I feel I can call him that – as long as he’s out of earshot, obviously) and I are both… drum roll, drum roll… a parent of two wee boys. Or at least he soon will be, according to his announcement this week that his wife Danielle is expecting their second son this summer.
So, never one to miss a chance to ingratiate myself with someone who has holiday homes in exotic places (credits cards are maxed out – I’m desperate), I thought I’d share the benefits of my maternal wisdom by passing on some cerebral, spiritual little nuggets of my experiences of raising brothers.
First of all, it has to be said that the inherent bond between brothers who are close in age is a beautiful thing. My sons are five and four, and their frequent demonstrations of reciprocal love, their natural instincts to defend each other, and their lively interactions can often bring a tear to the eye. Especially when a Batman car hurled at speed catches you right on the shins.
I’ve also learned that brothers can have the same gene pool, environment and upbringing and they can still be polar opposites, with different preferences when it comes to food (result: preparation of two different meals every night), pastimes (sports fanatic/couch potato) and toys. Although that last rule of thumb is defunct if there is only one of said toy, in which case they will both want it and a fight to the death will ensue. When this happens, a firm rule of owner/possession must be applied – except if altercation occurs in a public place, when whoever screams the loudest gets what they want. It’s the law.
Brothers have a driving need to establish their own identity, often using tactics that disassociate them from their sibling, e.g. name-changing. As a result, I am not currently the mother of the Low brothers, but my sons Dr Doom and SpongeBob SquarePants are doing just fine.
As a nation, we have many paranormal occurrences: crop circles, UFO sightings, Derek Acorah’s hair. In homes with two small boys, there is the spooky and inexplicable phenomenon of the phantom crayon – a manifestation that normally targets soft furnishings and anything in your wardrobe that’s white.
They will disagree on everything, except the comic merits of passing wind, pants and the word ‘pump’.
They can be too tired to remember their manners, tidy their rooms or brush their teeth, but they’ll still have enough energy to play football or swing from the curtains while making Tarzan noises.
They are programmed with a voice system capable of repeating, ‘Muuuum, he’s annoying me,’ until the end of time.
Like teenage girls, they have a strange compulsion to visit toilets en masse. I won’t go into details of their other bathroom idiosyncrasies, other than to say that, as the parent of brothers, you will never again sit down on a toilet seat without checking it first. And when you hear, ‘Whoo-hoo, mine’s hitting the ceiling,’ you will immediately understand and head for B&Q.
And a word of warning… When rearing boys, it’s probably best not to ponder their historical role models: the Krays, the Gallaghers, the Mitchells or worse, the evil duo who have caused excruciating pain and misery to the ears of millions – the Chuckle Brothers.
Although it’s probably safe to say that, with the state of the British dental care system, it’s unlikely that they’ll ever become the Osmonds.
So, Russ, here endeth the lesson. And if you want to experience my boys in action, we’re available for trips to sunny holiday homes. Preferably the sooner the better – before that new Evans’ summer frock gets crayon on it.