Even Stevens

3-2-1…

That’s it!!

7.27pm: Marks the point at which our little man has now lived longer on the outside of the womb, than the time spent inside the womb.

Which officially makes us…

Even-Stevens!

He’s as much mine as he is your’s now, Mumma. (Don’t try to defeat my logic, it will only end in tears for all us…and by ‘us’, I mean…me).

You’ve spent 41 weeks and 4 days with him on the inside and I’ve spent 41 weeks and 4 days on the outside. I know you were there too…tut-tut. Hush, my love….AND SLEEP! (I’m having a moment).

So, for you little man, it’s like going to bed at 9:30pm instead of 6:00pm. It’s a whole new world opening up before your outstretched arms…“Wow, what happens now? I’ve never been out this long.”

I can only tell you this, it all gets so much better from here. A whole world of experiences to gather up, grab hold of and venture out into.

So many things to look forward to like walking, running, bikes, girls, school, jobs, rent, cars, bills, university, experimentation, proper jobs, proper girls, improper decisions, fun, family…the list goes on!

But one thing at a time, young man. Don’t be in a hurry to grow up.

We’ll discuss your rent, next week.

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World’s Greatest Dad?…World’s Biggest Heel

It was a day I hoped would never come.

I’ve prided myself on being the cool calm collected one.

A dad so cool, the sun needs a sweater when it shines on me!

The dad who flows like water, who bends in the wind, goes with the flow and smells like teenspirit. (Wait…is that a cologne? I have no idea).

The kind of dad who exists only in family sitcoms. Loves his family, does crazy and outlandish things, quick with the funny remarks, dishes out sage worldly advice and never…ever…EVER…raises his voice in anger.

The kind of dad where Zen is my friend and karma is my confidanteÄ—…

So, what went wrong?

To put it simply…

Daddy growled at me 😦

And boy, do I feel like the World’s Biggest Heel.

What would Chuck Norris do? Or better yet, what would Bill Cosby, Mike Brady or Alex P Keaton’s Dad, do?

Here’s the scene:

Baby’s so tired, he can hardly keep his little red eyes open, BUT…won’t have a bar of sleeping. Daddy Cool tries for 40 minutes to settle him off to sleep, all in vain. Baby then has poopy nappy. DC needs to change it and D-scovers a HUGE deposit in his Access account. Baby is still not happy and squirms all over the change table like a ninja playing laser-tag and as Daddy struggles with a handful of poop up to his elbow in one hand, baby decides to…crocodile death roll in his own poop and almost Nadia Comeneci it over the edge of the change table. At which point, Daddy Cool snapped…

STOP IT!

Indy froze and stared at me like a deer in headlights. His face, red with anguish and upset, eyes on the brink of dam-busting through glistening tears. He didn’t move a muscle and I could finish cleaning him up without a fuss.

And, I felt…ashamed and terrible.

Memories of me running into the middle of an argument between my parents and yelling out, “STOP IT!”, came suddenly flowing in.

And I can only imagine how he must have felt. The one man he relies on for laughs and tickles, for story book voices, for songs in the bath and whispers in his ears, suddenly went BOOM!

I cuddled him tight and apologised profusely. He seemed to accept it, but I feel like I dug a hole in my heart. I know he forgives me, but can I forgive myself?

Hopefully…

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Bub Tooth Time Machine

As a kid growing up, I was obsessed with two things. Collecting bread tags…and time travel. (Uh…forget I mentioned the first thing)…

Wide-eyed and tousled hair (yes, I did have hair once and I assure you, it was quite tousled), I disappeared into TV shows like Time Tunnel, Doctor Who, Quantum Leap, Sliders, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, Star Trek, Planet of the Apes, Ready Steady Cook (again, forget that last one). I built my own play TARDIS in the backyard and fantasised about travelling through time and space.

Then came the movies; The Time Machine, The Philidelphia Experiment, Timecop, Time Bandits, Terminator and Terminator 2, DejaVu, Austin Powers, The Time Traveller’s Wife, Hot Tub Time Machine and of course Back to the Future, just to name a few. All fuel for the Mr.Fusion that is, the Delorean of my mind, flitting backwards and forwards in time and space trying to figure out the hows and the whys.

And I have my own theories on what’s possible and what isn’t, but don’t get me started on that, I already alluded to the existence of temporal displacement in an earlier blog, (Mumma’s already dropped off at the very first mention of the words, time travel).

And there’s been a myriad of vehicles, devices and methods that people have used to get there. Elegant Santa sleigh-esque Time Machines, Deloreans, trains, boats, spinning psychedelic discs, plasma balls, phone boxes, hot tubs. You name it, they’ve tried it. But…

Who’d have thought the power to travel backwards in time, is located within…

One solitary, little…baby tooth.

For, just as things were progressing quite nicely in the “sleeping through the night” department, the emergence of that little tooth has transported us all back to 1928. Back when Indy was waking up every few hours and Mumma and I would look at each other, me in my high pants zoot suit and handlebar moustache, she in her flapper fashion bodice and feathered headdress, thinking…

“Haven’t we already done this?”

But alas, it seems we’re destined to relive the past, at least until we can find a way to get back to the future. But I’m guessing, we’ll need a lot more teeth to make that journey happen.

Until then, we’ll rely on our faithful friends, Panadol and amber neck beads, to get us through the night. Mumma can take the Panadol and I’ll try the beads, they seem to help Indy sleep, maybe they’ll work for me?

“Great Scott, Doc. This is really heavy”.

Relax folks, it's all relative

Relax folks, it’s all relative…

Spreading My Seed

Well, today was probably the manliest Dad-thing I’ve managed to accomplish since the creation of my son. And coincidentally, both things involved the spreading of seed.

For months now, the lawn in our backyard has been dying a slow and agonising death, much like the Hollywood career of Lindsay Lohan. But unlike “Lilo”, there’s a pretty good chance of recovery if I’ve done my homework, properly.

After spending the day gittin’ down’n dirty with ma hoes (yo), I got all up in my backyard’s face, woz all over dat sh*t and got to the biznez of whipin’ that lawnz ass, foshizzel.

In other words, I dug up the yard, fertilised the ground, chucked a bit of topsoil around the place and sprinkled in the new lawn seed. Nothing makes a dad feel more like a real man, than using the word “topsoil” in any given context. And I wear the blister on my thumb, like a stinging badge of honor.

So, now I’m keeping my blistered fingers crossed that I’ve done enough to get the lawn bowl rolling. Now it’s up to the universe. With regular watering, hopefully, in a few weeks time, Indy will have a luxurious lawn to run his crawling fingers through, as opposed to the sparse ghastly comb over of a yard we had previously.

Can you dig it?

I know that you can.

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