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

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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…

The Notso-Fast Weekend Getaway

Easter is synonymous for many things. Eggs, chocolate, rabbits, men with beards, hot cross buns, walking zombies and of course…traffic.

So, with that in mind, we decided to get a head start on the weekend and leave for Oma & Opa’s (a marathon 4.5hr drive interstate), on Thursday afternoon. That way, we hoped to avoid hirsute men of all descriptions and while Mumma packed the bags, I packed the car.

Cramming the last of the contents of a small European nation into our matchbox sized sedan (does he really need more than 1200 changes of clothes?) The “eye-roll” suggests, “yes”, the scowl suggests, “just keep packing and shut the hell up”.

Packing Indy into the car, Mumma asks, “Got everything?”
“I think so.” Good, and as the final clip on Indy’s car seat clicks into place, I have to duck back in the house for a quick pit stop before we leave. Except that…

“Uh, honey? You locked the door.”

“Yeah, you said you had everything. We’re ready to go.”
“I don’t have my keys.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No…they’re still inside, on the bench.”

The second hand on my watch stops. Time stands still. Not a sound is heard. Just complete and utter silence (somewhere in the woods, a tree falls)

Insert raucous LAUGHTER.

Panic-laughter-panic-panic-more laughter.

After unsuccessfully picking the lock with my cricket bat, at 4:23pm, we rang the real estate. They had a spare key, but we had to get there by 5:30pm when they close for the Easter weekend and reopen on Tuesday. Thankfully, Mumma’s sister lives nearby and saw our smoke signal for help. I borrowed her car and drove off for the key, while Mumma pulled Indy out of the car and played with him on a rug in the garage until my return.

We can only imagine what went on in his mind…

“That’s the weirdest car trip I’ve ever had. You buckle me in, we sit in the garage, then you buckle me out. Bloody car-tease. Make up your mind, for god’s sake.”

However, our one hour delay saw us drive passed the aftermath of three major collisions on the freeway, all within a kilometre of each other. If we’d left on time, we might have been right in the thick of it. Maybe a bearded man was keeping an eye on us after all?

Happy Easter, everyone!!

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Syncing of You

I’ve heard that when women spend a lot of time living together that their cycles start to sync, but I never thought the same thing of men.

Until today.

My boy and I are spending so much time together that I suddenly realised, my god…

We’re on the same cycle!

We sleep, we eat…(and poop)…all on the same cycle. Put it down to routine, male bonding or effective time management, but there in lies the dilemma of needing desperately to go at the exact same time you’re changing your son’s nappy. It’s either you or me kid…one of us has to go (though, technically both of us).

So, what’s a dad to do?

Abandon the lad and leap for the latrine, possibly scarring him for life with issues of abandonment and leaving him sprawled on the change table in his own juices, like a half-stuffed turkey at Christmas?

Or grab hold of the change table and drag it with you like a scene from Platoon, dragging fallen comrades to the chopper (leave no man behind), as you back your way into the bathroom to conduct your business?

Or bite down on a block of wood with crossed legs, your body twisting like a pretzel, squinting through tears as you race to address your son’s needs, before rupturing internally or exploding like a frog in a microwave?

It used to be easier when he was younger, but now that he’s commando crawling quicker than Jeff Thompson avoiding A Current Affair cameras, I can’t just pop him on the floor and leave him unattended (there’s never a Matthew Newton available to lie on the floor with him, when you need one). And if he needs changing the same time as you’re “going”, there’s always the risk of him spreading a trail through the house that requires an urgent call to Drytron to shampoo the carpets.

So, short of matching “His” and “His” adult and child diapers, or a tandem toilet bowl built for two, I guess I have to just grin and bare it. Unless there’s a way to unsync our cycles? Anyone out there have Justin Timberlake on speed dial? I need to know how he broke up NSYNC.

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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!!!

No Rock In His Roll

I wouldn’t say I’m fussy or particular (though my wife may have words to the contrary on that), but is it too much to expect to find things…where you left them?

I mean, if I’m using or playing around with something and then I put it down for just a second, expecting to return to it in a jiffy, am I setting the expectation bar, too high, to think it would be in the exact same place I left it?

It’s the kind of thing you’d expect from your surgeon: When I wake up, can you please make sure all my organs are where I left them? It’s what you expect from your mechanic: When I pick up my car, can you please make sure all it’s engine parts are where I left them? It’s even what you’d expect from volunteering to be strapped to a spinning wheel while a blindfolded knife-thrower hurls razor sharp blades at you: When I open my eyes and stop spinning, can you please make sure all my appendages are exactly where I left them? But, is it too much to expect…

From your baby?

I mean, come on! I like being secure in the knowledge that when I lay my boy down to play on his activity mat, or lay him down to bed in his cot, that if I have to get up to turn the kettle on, use the little boys room, or perform open brain surgery…that I expect to quickly return to find him exactly where I left him. But now, it seems as if he’s suddenly obsessed with old TV Westerns like, RAWHIDE. Every time we put him down, he goes straight into the theme song…

ROLLIN’…ROLLIN’…ROLLIN’

Which is fine, except for the fact he’s like Jerry Seinfeld…he can’t go left!

There’s no ROCK in his ROLL.

He can only roll in one direction and can’t rock back to roll the other way, (which coincidentally, is exactly the same as boy band, One Direction). So, we often find him mushed up against his prison bars doing a Braveheart impression, but with a magenta stripe down his William Wallace face. Until he cries out in anguish, “You’ll never take my FREEDO–ouch!”

Scratch that, you did take my freedom. A little help, someone…anyone?

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A Bit Less Than Everything

Well, I guess it was inevitable that this day would come.

For close on ten years, our worlds have revolved around each other. She is the world to me and I am the world to her. Soul mates. The love of each other’s lives and we would tell each other every single day…

“I love you more than ANYTHING.”

And that still holds true.

The birth of our beautiful son only helps to cement those feelings even further…

Buckling our little man into his car seat this morning for a quick Mummy/Bubba visit with Granny, his beaming smile…uh…“beaming” back at us, we kissed and embraced in the garage, our usual fond farewells. My love squeezed me tight and whispered lovingly in my ear…

“I love you more than ANYTHING…except him“.

THE CROWD ROARS!! — As she knocks it out of the ball park!

Translation:

I LOVE YOU…a bit less than everything.

We laughed hysterically.

(But somewhere on a tiny island in my heart…Jeff Probst snubbed my torch out).

Way to make me feel Number Two.

And with a cocked eye-brow and a cheeky wink, she smiles…

“I can’t be disingenuous with you. You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way, that he’s the most important thing in your life?”

And while my mouth said, “No”, my heart said…

“Shit.”

She’s right. The only difference is…I would never actually say that. I prefer to keep my feelings…in writing…on the internet…for all of prosperity…or until the server goes down in the great Skynet Battle against the machines sometime in the distant future.

The fact remains, the scales of balance are tipping in his favour. Tipping? Who am I kidding? The scale has already tipped so far in his direction, it’s doing cartwheels down the hill.

And as I process this further, to say to each other “I love you…a bit less than everything”…from his perspective, means…

“I love you…a little more than nothing”.

And THAT, is so far from the truth…you need the Hubble Space Telescope to see it.