VIP Treatment

Just like the sci-fi TV-Series Sliders, each week I feel like I’m thrust through an inter-dimensional portal, right into a brand new world that I never new existed. Only, instead of having a remote control timer that thrusts me into different dimensions and circumstances at the end of every episode, I have a kid…and parenthood…that pushes me through that door, instead.

So, where did my portal take me this week?

To a place of such extraordinary VIP Treatment, the likes of which is usually reserved for royalty and/or astronauts? A luxurious world where privacy, space and convenience meet. A world where modesty, companionship and radiation all flow into one. The fascinating world I speak of, is…

The Baby Change Room

How weird, crazy and contradictory? The first thing to raise a curious eyebrow at, is the futuristic self-opening door. It’s like having the convenience of a Doorman at Crown Casino, compressed into a tiny button on the wall. Very convenient if you’re pushing a stroller and don’t have to back your way in to hold the door open. The next thing to hit you, is the SPACE. My god. This is no narrow washroom facility with troughs and cubicles lining the walls, where you sidestep around each other like Riverdancers, trying to hotfoot it to an empty cubicle without brushing up against some unfortunate coming the other way. This is Julie Andrews territory, spinning round on a hilltop singing, “The hills are alive, to the sound of music.”

There’s futuristic escape pods mounted in the wall for you to change your baby into, complete with seat belts. I guess, in case you accidentally hit the eject button or launch them into space. Either that, or you think your baby’s going to strain so hard to push something out, that he’s going to have to be strapped in for his own safety first? And how crazy is this? They have a microwave oven in there!! How long do they think it takes to change your baby? Certainly long enough to maybe heat up a kebab while you’re at it.

There’s even a discreet and private “lounge” area, where you can sit and feed your bub behind the privacy of a curtain. Now, here’s the contradictory part…

The toilet has a “his-n-hers” kind of feature, that’s really a “biguns-n-littluns” kind of deal. One big adult size toilet beside a smaller kiddy size toilet. So, it seems kind of weird and contradictory to me that if you have to pop a boob out to feed your baby, then you’d better pull a curtain across in front of you for modesty. But if you have to take a sh*t, then…modesty and privacy go out the window!! You have to do it together, no curtain, no nothing between you. Just a wink and a smile is all you can afford by way of modesty for you, my friend.

But still, I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s even a machine that dispenses “nappy kits” complete with a nappy, nappy wipe and disposable bag in case you’ve run out of your own. And some change rooms even have a play area in there for the kids! So, I think the VIP stands for Very Important Parent, if the washroom facilities are anything to go by.

What a place. What kind of world will my kid spin me into next episode? I can hardly wait to find out.

Until then…hand me that toilet roll son, spare me a square if you’re done?

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Explosive Stuff

Fifteen weeks of morning sickness, a cesarian birth, baby up chuck and spraying urinations, when it comes to secretions, it’s not often I get shocked.

But when it comes to “pooh”, Christopher Robin never saw anything quite like this.

Somebody call Triple “Oh-Ohh-Ohhh!”

The first “Oh” is when you open the nappy. The second “Ohh” comes when you see just how runny it is. The third “Ohhh!”…is when you realize the nappy contains only about one third of its natural contents and the other two thirds is distributed up inside his little body suit.

“For the love of god!!!”

Did our son just poop himself or did an A-Bomb just go off in his B-Bom? Holy smokes! It’s pretty clear the Jaws-of-Life are no match for removing his little clothes without incident and the nappy wipes chose to commit suicide, rather than tackle that kind of cleanup.

There’s only one course of action left open to take. We gotta take our little bloke out…

And hose that sucker down!

Or at the very least, get that kid in the shower…STAT!

How does that even happen? He hasn’t been alive long enough to even eat the amount that erupted from Vesuvius. Now I know how the dinosaurs died, trapped beneath a flash-flood mudslide of cosmic proportions. I’m surprised he even has any bones left. Wow!

I haven’t seen that much relief since “Band Aid” or when they finally cancelled Baywatch. If its taught me anything at all, I’ve learned to never underestimate my son, in any capacity.

And if we ever go missing, contact the nearest archeologist and be sure to dig for our fossilized remains beneath the biggest pile of you know what, this suburb has ever seen.

20120823-221103.jpg

Going, going…Gone.

Our son’s first week at home has been nothing, if not, eventful. And thanks to my own childhood boot camp Boy Scout training (bar that one embarrassing incident at Brownies), we were pretty much setup and definitely came prepared. But the one thing we weren’t prepared for, was…

The Zombie Apocolypse

I mean, we always knew it was going to happen. People have waved placards about it. There was even that documentary on the subject that Simon Pegg “You’ve got RED on you”, made with his cricket bat. And, low, we did heed the warning signs, but like Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries when hearing the statistics that one-in-one “reality-tv weddings” end in divorce, we too said…

“That won’t happen to us”.

But low…it did happen. Hypnotized by a tiny invader, he infiltrated our defenses and we’ve both been bitten.

Now, the wee small hours of the morning see our soulless lifeless bodies limply staggering, inch-by-inch, eyes hanging out of our heads. Our mournful moans and grunts echo hauntingly through the house, guided purely by muscle memory, changing nappies, mixing formula, expressing milk in a syringe, boiling utensils…all in a semi-conscious state. The sleep deprived Walking Dead. The children that Boris Karloff forgot.

We may never sleep again.

Resistance is futile…

“Join us…join us…”

20120718-134559.jpg