Father’s Day Firsts

Today I feel like I’ve slipped through the Looking Glass and found myself in a topsy-turvy world, where everything is backwards. For 40 odd years I’ve always been the kid, but this year…the tables have turned and the child has now become the father.

Holy Cow! I can’t believe it. My very first…

FATHER’S DAY!!

I gotta be honest. I’m not expecting much. After all, my boy is only 8 weeks old. I mean, what’s he gonna do? Sing and dance for my own enjoyment? Hardly…

As you may have read, being a new dad, I’m pretty used to finding all kinds of surprises when it comes to unwrapping my son and changing his little nappy. Some of which have you cringing like a 40yr old chaperone at a Justin Bieber concert and others have you calling in the clean up crew from the Exxon Valdez. But nothing quite prepared me for the surprise I saw this morning when I opened his little wrap to find…

“BA-HAW-WAW-WAW!!”

Yep…like Ricky Schroder’s emotional plea in The Champ or Halle Berry’s Oscars acceptance speech, I was reduced to a mould of quivering jello.

And after being presented with this very cool Daddy T-shirt…

A whole new appreciation for my own dad and what it’s like to be a dad, welled up inside me.

I felt a sense of duty to start a little Father’s Day tradition of my very own. Something that I hope my son will grow to appreciate and take comfort in, something we can both look forward to spending time doing together as the years roll by. And what better way to begin than combining two of my most favorite things…

Hot Chips and Indiana Jones

Kicking back, enjoying that hot chip goodness (Science fact: Hot chips have been scientifically proven to release endorphins and “lift” your mood), whilst enjoying the adventurous escapades of my son’s namesake can only lead up to one thing…

Good times ahead 🙂

And failing that, he can always sing and dance for my own enjoyment 😉

Happy Father’s Day to me! 🙂

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.

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Have Your Cake And Wear It Too

Today marks our little Indy’s three week anniversary of breathing life on this planet.

And what better way to celebrate this occasion, than with a fantastic congratulatory cake delivered right to our door, from two of our close friends in Sydney.

At least, it would be…if the cake was actually here!!

One of the side-effects of being Adventurers Extraordinaire is that, short of having the local vet implant a microchip under our skin or matching his’n’hers ankle monitors, it’s damn well almost impossible to keep track of all the different addresses we’ve dwelled in over the years. We seem to change addresses more often than John Travolta changes massage therapists.

So, it was no surprise to discover our cake was mistakenly delivered to…

The wrong address…

(And incidentally, we’ve actually moved twice since that place).

So, I jammed into gear and trekked back to our old address only to find…

Nobody home.

Thankfully, I’ve watched a lot of MacGyver. So, I knew how to fashion a note from a magnifying glass, a toothpick and a stick of gum. Thankfully, the lady now living there majored in hieroglyphics, and messaged me this morning informing me of our cake’s arrival. She also mentioned she’d leave it at her front door for me to pick up.

And like a well orchestrated CIA kidnapping raid, I swooped in, threw a calico bag over her head and nabbed our cake!

And how cool is it!! It’s a wonderful Bubcakes “nappy cake”. (Check out their website for other cool baby gifts). A three-tiered cake of nappies, baby wraps, jump suits, singlets, towels, face cloths, shampoo, body wash and teeny tiny socks. What more could a three-week old need?

A wonderfully generous and incredibly practical gift. And although (in this instance),  Indy cannot have his cake and eat it too, ironically, this cake will inevitably end up where cake usually ends up…after you’ve eaten it.

Thanks Uncle Andrew and Uncle Ben xx 🙂

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Getting to Know You

Nothing can quite prepare you for your first encounter with your child. I really didn’t expect to be so attached to him. I kind of expected the feeling would be the same as when I meet other people’s kids…

You know, they’re fun and interesting…now, who’s for Cribbage…anyone?

But I can’t explain the change that occurs when he opens his eyes for the very first time and you lock eyes for…one minute. His tiny deep blue eyes scanning your face, peering deep into your soul. It touches you in a way that doesn’t require Investigative Journalism. Instead, it bonds you for life. Like Superglue and Araldite(I loved their show in Vegas, btw).

And there’s no greater bonding experience between a man and his son, that makes you feel like…the worst dad on the planet, than when you’re changing his little nappy. And as you clear away his troubles, he looks up at you with the purest of love and trust that would melt Wolverine’s Adamantium claws. You turn to reach for a clean nappy…and that’s when the screams begin…you turn back with horror to see little Indy…

Peeing on his own face!

It makes your heart sink, and makes you want to run crying from the room like a school girl. But you have to suck it up “Mary-Ellen” (your nerve, that is…not the pee. Use a cloth for that…and wash your hands afterwards), because you’ve got to rebuild that bridge of trust. The one bonded by Superglue, which apparently can lift a one-tonne sedan with only 7 drops (I saw it on Mythbusters), yet, completely disintegrates under the influence of baby urinego figure?

Chalk that up to DAD MISHAPS #1.

And as for his first bath? Well, he takes to water like Katie Holmes to Scientology. Didn’t take long before he wanted OUT, OUT, OUT!!!

But still, I have to admit that I have grave fears that my wife may now “Indy-ed” be…

In love with another man!

And although it pains me to admit it, but

So am I 🙂

Being a Father

Week 36: Four Weeks and Counting…

With only about four weeks to go until we finally get to look into the eyes of our little schnitzel, I’m starting to look at just what being a dad means, for me.

First of all, it means…I’m scared, excited, nervous and thrilled all at the same time. Similar to the time I lost my virginity or…the time I saw The Goodies live on stage at The Melbourne Arts Centre.

But unlike the time I lost my virginity, I expect the experience of fatherhood to last a whole lot longer than a matter of minutes and not leave me with a deep sense of shame and disappointment. And much like The Goodies, no doubt, my appreciation will get better with age.

But the whole prospect of being a father means several other things too.

Being a father means…

Coasting through life with ‘ease’. Nappies, Quick-eze and responsibilities.

It also means the pressure of extinction…no longer hangs on you.

Plus, being a father means that for once in my marriage…I finally get to be the boss of someone!

But, I’m really glad I waited this long to become a father. When I think back to who I was when I was younger, I can’t believe how immature I was at 39.  Thank god I have the wisdom of my forties to better equip myself for this new undertaking. I think I’m ready to be a dad now. Like a blind man at a cross walk, I feel the signs.

You know you’re ready to be a father when…

Instead of being turned-on by girls in school uniforms, you worry about how much those uniforms are going to cost.

And you know you’re ready to be a dad when you start wrapping your burritos like diapers.

Another sign that you’re ready for fatherhood is when women breastfeed in front of you…and you no longer get an erection.

Or, you inadvertently start driving five miles below the speed limit.

Other signs that you’re ready for dad-dom, is when you suddenly find yourself humming the tune to The Wheels On The Bus, when you catch public transport.

Or, your context for Googling the word Wiggles, is for children’s entertainment…not porn.

And the biggest clue to knowing you’re ready to be a father is when nobody except your wife, seems even remotely interested in you.

Bring it on…I’m ready (I think)!!


School is…OUT!

Had our final Prenatal Childbirth Class today, which means school is…OUT!

And boy…did we learn some lessons.

Topics we covered included different ways of inducing births. Who would have guessed that a crochet needle, could also be used to break somebody’s water? (I will be forever suspicious of Grannies knitting booties in the foyer.)

The side-splitting walkthrough of a cesarian. (Which incidentally, is NOT the thirteenth Zodiac sign), but does include a bleeding goat and an altar.

The complex and amazing subject of breast feeding. (I’m a guy…it’s always about the boobs) 🙂

I’m all for expressing an opinion, but expressing milk?…That’s a whole other matter.

BTW: Did you realise we’re the only mammals on the planet that gives birth to our young and then feeds it milk from a completely different mammal? Although, as far as mammals go, I guess cows were a smarter choice. Imagine if we milked whales! Not only would it be damned near impossible to grip your hands around the teat, but how would you keep the bucket from floating away underneath it? Plus, it’s pretty hard to hold your breath and suckle at the same time.

We also got to try some baby wraps. Very cute, but not quite as delicious as a chicken salad wrap. But both look so good…you could just eat them up!

And probably, the weirdest and most psychologically disturbing topic we covered…

The dreaded nappies!

That is some funky sh*t, right there. An endless stream of pictures of what to expect “inside”, at different stages of development. Nothing of which looked like it ever came out of a human. Maybe something that leaked out of an engine perhaps? I felt like A.A. Milne when he was first devising the different stages of Pooh(Winnie-the-Pooh, that is).

Mind you, I did have to ask which way to aim the pistol for a boy. Another dad suggested that at that size, it probably doesn’t really matter. To which I pointed out, “hey…this is my kid. I might have to wrap it around a couple times,” (if you know what I mean). 

Size always matters.

So, it was an incredibly eye-opening and valuable experience. I feel so much better informed and prepared for our new adventure.

My only concern, is that there’s obviously a problem with overcrowding in the maternity ward. I just hope our little schnitzel doesn’t come early, or he could end up at the bottom of the pack!

If You Build It, He Will Come

Never before has my life had even an inkling of baby stuff in it.

And may I point out, my replica Delorean with flashing lights and sound effects, my remote controlled Dalek, my Superman money box and my miniature Tardis that flashes just before my mobile phone goes off…

Are not baby stuff…okay!!

They are MAN things, in a MAN’s room…

(Okay, maybe the stuffed Daffy Duck plush toy is a little bit…”nyeah?”)

But they’re the representation and culmination of lifelong dreams of a MAN…(this man, in particular). And may I also point out that they are high on a shelf well out the way of fiendish little fingers (yes, my wife can’t reach them)…or little schnitzel chicken fingers, once they arrive.

But now, just like an infestation of termites, the baby stuff creeps its way in slowly but surely.

Monkeys, clothes, nappies, cabinets, wall stickers, bassinets, finger puppets…

But I am inspired by Kevin Costner’s film, Field Of Dreams, and thus I find myself listening to the voices in my head (which sounds remarkably like my wife), to build a containment “field” to rest his little head, for when “he comes”.

It’s all so exciting and real, now that we’re preparing his room. HIS room. HIIIS room. My son will have his OWN room. Who’s son? MY son. I’m having a SON. He will be MY son and he will have HIS OWN room. My SON has a ROOM of his very OWN…

The voices are telling me to “stop, now.” — Damn, she sounds hot.

Hee-hee-hee, I feel so grown up 🙂

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