Soft Play, Hard Lessons.

This is my daughter Mali.

I swore when she was born that I wouldn't become one of those strange, overprotective odd dads that scream at other peoples children and shout in the faces of sheepish mums and dads who's children have just spilt milk on my child's new shellsuit.

I have never in my life felt violent towards a child.

Lord knows, I've had the opportunity. I've worked as a youth worker, a play-group leader, a children's theatre facilitator and museum re-enactor (dressed as a dapper Edwardian Sailor, tying knots on the dockside). I have been severely tested over the years: By abusive kids from hard areas of Liverpool whose dads would smash your knees for confiscating their home-made knife; With whole classrooms stacked to the gills with statemented 'behavioural disorder" kids press-ganged into a drama workshop by a teacher who surrendered to drudgery years before; And most bizarrely a group Orthodox Jewish kids, in the full Hassidic regalia, surrounding me on the dockside and chanting "YOU ARE A SOFTY, YOU ARE A SOFTY! *

But yesterday I felt like kicking a four-year-old's head in.

Don't call social services yet, I have my reasons.

We took the babies to a 'soft play area'. You know the type of place - the whole thing is like a spongy climbing frame that serves chicken nuggets. Children run feral in socks while mothers gather together in quacks** wearing badly fitting, practical clothes and showing obvious signs of nicotine withdrawal.

The only other male who was there approached me sheepishly with the opening gambit, "I can think of better ways of spending a saturday." I smiled, but when he asked the question, "Have you heard any of the footy scores?" I was forced to admit that I don't follow football, which in Liverpool is tantamount to admitting to enjoying dressing as the late queen-mother and going out to tickle policemen. He turned away in disgust.

Ani, our little newborn babba, is too little to enjoy the delights of the play-zone. Or should I say too young. She really is growing very fast. The other day, she put on 4oz overnight*** She is on the 98th percentile of development and although she is only six weeks-old, she has already grown out of three-month baby clothes.

Mali, who is sixteen months old, took to the toddler area like a true pro. Chubbling up the ramps, squeaking down the slides, getting stuck in the pipes and generally just being the cutest, smiliest little monster you ever did see. I was so proud to see her her take on such challenges as the 'big step', 'the steep ramp' and 'the throng of babies'. But then it all went a bit sour...

She was the littlest one in there, you see, and unfortunately, there are some small boys who like to pick on the littlest people they can. It is my theory that little boys like this, unchecked, grow up to be politicians, policemen and driving instructors.****

There is a new, more sensible, social theory being banded about right now that you can spot signs of criminal behaviour in children as young as two. If that is the case, then this little four year-old is going to grow into a fully-fledged twat. The little ginger sod just wouldn't let Mali alone. Every time she went to climb up a ramp or slide down a slope, he was there, doing kung-fu kicks in the air directly in front of face and side-swiping her off the slide.

I smiled and told him that "she's only a little baby," and that he should play with children his own age. To my surprise he fixed me with a hard stare, daring me to challenge him further.

I had hardened his resolve. Deep inside, I started to suspect he had beaten me.

I moved into the play area to protect Mali, eying the boy feverishly, waiting for him to make his move.

He struck.

It was at that point I realised that he really had won. Mali burst into tears and I began to comprehend that there was not much I could do without hurting the child or becoming so angry I terrified him into floods of tears. The latter option was starting to seem tempting when The Lady summoned us both out of the toddler zone, admonishing me with the entirely correct advice that "you shouldn't get into the business of telling other people's children off".

As we left, the little sod stood triumphant, in the middle of the pen, his arms folded insolently across his chest. He had won.

We went home and shared a bag of jelly sweets (vegetarian, of course).

I couldn't stop thinking about it though. I had been beaten by a four year-old.

My eyes filled with tears as I bathed Mali that evening. My baby daughter had suffered her first bout of bullying - and he got away with it.

Until Ani puts on a bit more bulk and can fight on behalf of us all, does anyone know of any seven year-old hitmen? Ones that can give a really nasty Chinese burn?

Thought not.

You bunch of softies.


* I've never told anyone this before but several of the children were also chanting "My father's richer than you." I've selectively edited out this bit of the story for years, being a liberal softy who doesn't wish to perpetuate stereotypes. See, they were right about the softy thing and the fact that their fathers were richer than me - I mean, their dads weren't hanging around a dockside dressed like a clipperty-clop-nobhead for £5.50 an hour, where they?

** I can't find a collective noun for parents. I mean there's some great ones about - a wunch of bankers, a thicket of idiots, a shuffle of bureaucrats, a hangout of nudists and an ambush of widows. No parent noun I'm afraid. I've made up the term 'a quack of parents' after the noise they make just trying to be heard.

*** Or maybe she was just harbouring a massive turd.

**** I will accept my own driving instructor from this distinction as despite being misguidedly right wing, he is mostly okay and was obviously bullied as a child.