Leave My Crotch Alone

With Mother’s Day looming just around the corner, I was reflecting on my own experiences growing up with my mother (and when you sit in the sun in a tin foil hat and mirrorball sequinned jacket, you can do nothing else but, reflect). And whilst extinguishing the dying embers of a smouldering grass fire in my backyard (should have picked a slightly less sunny day for reflection), a couple of incidents come to mind, like…remember the time I wore that mirrorball jacket and burned down the backyard…

Or…

Remember last week when I was trying on jeans in the change rooms and the sexy young sales assistant half my age, snuck in and grabbed me on the crotch?

Okay, you got me. That didn’t really happen. Well…it did, but it didn’t. I mean, it did actually happen, just not like that…exactly. Imagine the same scenario except…flip the ages around and substitute the sales assistant for…you guessed it…MY MOTHER! Probably the most embarrassing thing a mother could ever do to their son…

Take him shopping…for jeans.

Because you always know the moment is gonna come, when she bursts through the curtain which face it, is the world’s flimsiest attempt at privacy and security (see PVC shower curtain or First Class section on a plane), and not only does she usually pull back the curtain whilst your strides are still around your ankles, but why is it, the very first place they go for is…

“Have you got enough room in the crotch?”

And the reason why there is ALWAYS plenty of room in the crotch when you’re trying on jeans with your mother is because of exactly that…you’re trying on jeans WITH YOUR MOTHER!!! And everything that usually resides in your crotch has retreated so far back up inside yourself, you can hardly stand upright and you are mere inches away from completely disappearing up inside your own body cavity.

Incidentally, that’s not the only time I’ve been grabbed on the crotch in public. I was also grabbed on the crotch in the middle of a nightclub while carrying a beer in both hands…BY A MAN! I should have just punched him right in the face but…I had two beers to finish. It was the most awkward 20 minutes of my life.

And then there was the time the tables were turned and I embarrassed my mother, when I did that horribly politically incorrect, insensitive kind of thing called…being a stoopid teenager (by pretending to be mentally disabled when visiting my aunty in hospital). It’s horrible I know, but I was a teenager and you know, it’s what we did back then. Approaching the hospital I slurred my speech, added a limp and even drooled a little. And like you, right now, she was mortified. So much so, she started slapping me repeatedly to cut it out. Which, to people in the carpark coming out of the hospital, seemed like a terrible mother beating her mentally disabled son. I know, I’m a monster.

But what I reflect upon the most, is the time I got my ass whipped by a bully, a year ahead of me at school. I came home crying, my shirt all torn, my nose bloodied, wearing my underpants wedgie as a hat and before I could even blubber the words out of my mouth, she’d slam dunked me into the car and you couldn’t see us for smoke as the tyres squealed with horror underneath us. She may be small in stature, but you do anything to hurt her kids and by god…she is ready to rumbaaaaaaaaal!

The bully’s parents owned a new motel in town and when my mother kicked through the front doors, it was High Noon at the OK Corral. She tore strips off him, strips off the mother and I was so worked up, I threw up all over their new carpet in their foyer. Word to the wise, don’t mess with us, we’ll come at you with both barrels heaving. I’ve never been so proud and it’s a great secure feeling to know that someone you love so much has got your back like that.

So through it all, through all the embarrassing moments, one thing is definitely clear…I need a different mum (I kid, I kid…monster, I tells ya). No, what is clearly evident is that…you love your kids no matter what and we in turn, love you right back.

Happy Mother’s Day

changeroom

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 confidanteė…

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…

Do Me A Solid?

KNOCK-KNOCK
Who’s there?
My six monks.
My six monks who?
My six monks old baby, that’s who!

Can you believe it? Our little bloke has just notched up half a year on his nappy belt. Which makes me wonder if he’s still considered a baby or is he now a toddler? And what actually is the difference? Sources tell me a toddler is when he starts wearing velvet robes, a cravat, smokes a pipe and sips martinis. (“Sources” is a term used loosely for the voices in my head). And if that’s the case, Hugh Hefner is the luckiest toddler in town.

But it also means some chemical changes are going on. Namely…“fusion”. Now, before you break out the hazmat suits and confuse it with nuclear fusion, (mind you, I’m pretty sure some of his nappy contents would set off a Geiger counter), it’s also the state in which a liquid changes to a solid. (Not to be confused with WA, which is the state in which all your solids revert to liquid…that’s some heat, phew!).

Known to scientists as “solidifying”, known to parents as, “eating” and known to babies as, “remodelling” the kitchen. (See also: “How can I get this tiniest bit of food and spray it all over the walls, ceiling, floor, myself, mummy and daddy…without actually getting any of it in my mouth?”)… Or the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan…but with food.

Which means we now have the incredibly interesting and somewhat amusing task of putting different types of food in front of him and see what he does.

At the end of round one, the judge’s scores are as follows;

Banana – thumbs up.
Armadillo – who are you trying to kid?
Avocado – much easier to get out of its shell.
Sweet potato – big thumbs up.
Unsweet potato – whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?
Broccoli – thumbs down.
Broccolini – thumbs up.
(Maybe because when choosing which foods to eat, broccolini is so much easier to rhyme with “Eanie-Meanie”…)

And at this point, the clear winner by far is…

Apricots

And seeing as they have a laxative affect, it’s smells smiles all round for all of us. And all this mess has brought out my innovative side, where instead of trying to clean up all the food that ends up on the floor, his high chair fits perfectly into his wading pool. All he needs is a quick hosing down after meals. Only problem is, he’s not allowed out of his chair for an hour after eating 😉

That’s the rules…I saw it on Baywatch.

2012 WordPress Review

Wowzers!

Thank heavens for cheeky monkeys. The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 6,500 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 11 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

Loves me some WordPress goodness. Check it out, it’s very cool.

See you next year!!!

2012: A Year in Rear-View

2012…the year we had to have.

Well, we didn’t have to. I mean, some people didn’t want us to have it at all. (At least, not all of it…bloody Mayans). What do they know? Certainly nothing about making calendars, that’s for sure.

Imagine if things had ended on December 21…it would be like watching The Sixth Sense and turning it off with two minutes left to go and thinking…

“Yeah, it was okay but…I didn’t really get it?”

But for us, it was a phenomenal year. Not to mention, it was the best year of Indy’s life(and he only came in at the half way mark, around when Haley Joel Osment tells Bruce Willis, he sees dead people).

Adjusting my rear-view mirror as 2012 disappears over the horizon, I see we had the birth of our beautiful boy, the Swans won the Grand Final, I got Indy got…some gnarly signatures on my his Swans cap, I paid off my car and remain unofficially debt-free, the end of the world didn’t happen (always good to know it’s exactly where you left it, under your pillow, when you wake up in the morning), aliens didn’t invade us (and frankly, how could they? Haven’t you seen Border Security? You can’t even bring rice into the country, let alone some extra-terrestrial beings. Apparently it’s only one terrestrial being per passenger, “extras” will have to be declared, I’m afraid).

We had our first Christmas as a family, Indy had his photo in the Herald Sun…(and not in the Crime Stoppers section), and today…had his first “official gig” in the upcoming Winter Target Catalogue, (assuming they choose his picture above all of the “nowhere-near-as-cute-as-ours” kids photos. But we’re not judgey…we’ll leave that to the Judy’s and Reinholds of the world).

So, next year sees a brand new chapter with me and the lad going Mano-a-Mano, as I officially take up reigns as Stay-at-Home Dad. Which I foresee some potential pitfalls such as…

“Why didn’t you get any groceries?” or “Didn’t you take him in for his checkups?”

To which my reply…

“I couldn’t go out…I’m a Stay-At-Home Dad. I’m only doing what I’m told.”

May not hold up in a court of kick-your-ass-for-being-an-ass.

So, here’s to a spectacular year next year. Welcome 2013let the adventures continue!!

(Incidentally, 13 is my lucky number…and next year, has 20 of them…2013…don’t work it out)

Happy New Year!!!

Santa’s Li’l Helper

Waking up to the sounds of a giggling child, I’m reminded that I really should change my alarm ring tone to something a little more grown-up. And as I hit the snooze and roll over to be greeted by the warm comfort of baby sick down my front, I’m also reminded that I really should shower and change my shirt before coming to bed of an evening.

But amid the fabricated exploits of this morning’s misadventures, I can’t help but feel there’s a certain sense of excited anticipation about this morning that I haven’t experienced since my wedding night, and before that…when I was a kid. If only I could put my finger on exactly what it is…oh, wait. I know what it is. It must be…

Christmas Morning!!

And the reason for my heightened level of excitement, is of course, the fact that this is…

Indy’s First Christmas…

And our first Christmas…as a family.

And although he’s not quite 6 months old, his gung-ho-ho-ho attitude to tear open presents, feign real surprise, stuff anything he can into his gob (Christmas paper, tinsel, boobs, penguins) anything that is, except actual food (still can’t quite manage to master that, quite yet), not to mention allowing himself to be dressed in the shrinky-dink Santa style outfit suitable of the Festive Season, with such vigour and gay abandon, that I’m reminded a third time, about how great Christmas is when you’re a kid.

And everything kind of goes hazy and wobbly as I remember back to when Michael J Fox came downstairs in his APK monogrammed bathrobe on Christmas morn…(wait…wrong flash-back…that was Family Ties!) When I was a kid and my parents would sprinkle naphthalene flakes on the ground and tell us they were dried snow-flakes, scratch marks on the driveway where Santa’s sleigh had landed, asbestos cookies with a glass of milk…ahh, those were the days. And I can only imagine the enormous pleasure of watching us tear our presents open with as much excitement and fervour as Kirsty Alley devouring a Twinkie.

And watching our Li’l Santa spread joy to the faces of our friends, family and work colleagues as they’re engulfed in his broad Christmas smile, I watched his face transform with a sense of awe and wonder as we paraded him through the Christmas light displays of the Christmas Kingdom warehouse (post Christmas), like he was a tiny Christmas elf experiencing his own private Disneyland. That look was enough to melt Frosty’s heart and makes me look forward to all the years ahead of making every Christmas for our boy seem like…

Well…Christmas!

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