Previously on Moobz.com: Having stumbled through IVF and Adoption we now have two lovely girls: Sara and Sophia. I stopped blogging when my posts became so sweet the teeth rotted from the heads of those reading.

I suppose I had envisaged that getting the girls would mean a blogging gear change. I would type wise things about parenting: specifically, perhaps about being a father. It is commonly asserted that Fatherhood has lost its way. Its virtues are discernible only by the hole it leaves when it is absent.

Fatherhood, though, feels like something that happens to you rather than something you do. Plans hatched whilst the children sleep fail in the very instant of first contact with the enemy. For instance, I had resolved to be less indulgent of Sophia. She ran up to me at teatime today and said “Can you pick me up? I want to dance!” Before I could refuse she closed her eyes and said “You’re my PRINCE”. I was completely undone. I lifted her up into my arms and we twirled dangerously around the kitchen, ignoring the maternal facepalm.

The essence of my dilemma is that I want the best for the girls. I realise that means discipline but I have an irresistible need to make them happy.

This can backfire. I left them this morning, wrapped in aprons, painting at the little table we have for them in the kitchen. I went off to the loo. Sophia visited me twice to ask me to arbitrate minor disputes. When I went downstairs to take charge I found black paint everywhere. it was on the walls, the chairs, the ceiling. Black footprints marked the path they had taken to little washroom. They had decided to wash their hands but had taken the precaution of wiping paint onto the towel before turning on the tap.

Sophia was beside herself: “Dad, it’s all my fault. I’m really, really sorry. Mummy will be angry with us.” Sara nodded. They were both jittering with panic. I pushed them aside and got mopping. As I wiped the walls I could hear P approaching down the gravel path. I ran to the washroom and locked myself in it, scrubbing away at the sink. P appeared like the Sorceror discovering Mickey, her eyebrows knotted. I couldn’t work out what was causing her mood to darken. I had disposed of the evidence. Her cleaning standards are higher than mine. That proved my undoing. Hints of spillages I thought no human eye could detect were enraging her.

I set about cleaning for a second time. As P began to calm I spotted Sara’s new sheepskin slippers lying in a corner. Black paint spots gave them a Dalmatian look. I edged towards them, waited till P’s back was turned and ran upstairs with them. I rinsed them under the tap in the bathroom and the paint washed away. Now I had two wet slippers. I snuck into the girls’ room and put them on top of the cupboard to dry. I believed them to be well out of P’s reach and, more importantly, eyeline. I felt very manly. My resourcefulness had won the day. I had thrown myself on the grenade and saved the girls from an admittedly deserved bollocking.

At 7 pm I came across Sara sat tear-streaked in the Utility Room, with P hanging up washing and staring daggers at her. “Sara has got her new slippers wet, HIDDEN them on top of the cupboard and now is not honest enough to admit to what she did.” Another grenade – this time with my name on it.