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…

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The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

When was the last time you saw a baby in a pram on the escalator stairs of a multi-level shopping centre? Never? Me either. Yet, there’s babies in prams on every level. How did they get there? WHAT’S GOING ON???

I have a couple theories. Maybe the shop owners on the upper levels live their entire lives trapped on their particular level. Kind of like Tom Hanks in that airport movie or Carrie-Anne’s Poltergeist trapped in its dimension and unable to move on into the light. As generations pass, they meet and interbreed with other shop owners on their floor, have babies and the cycle continues. Which explains why there are always food courts, supermarkets and bathroom facilities on every level.

Or perhaps multi-level shopping centres are located on mysterious ley lines that criss-cross the earth and have access to inter dimensional wormholes that enable parents with prams to mysteriously travel between floors, completely undetected. Or prams somehow have the ability to materialize from floor-to-floor somewhat akin to the blue Police Box TARDIS from Doctor Who?

Believe it or not, the real answer is not that far removed from those theories.

There’s a secret about shopping centres I wasn’t aware of until I became a dad. A secret nobody talks about. And I don’t mean Fight Club. Mind you, if you find yourself in Myers during a stocktake sale or anywhere near the red light special in NQR, it may be a different story.

There is in fact, a mysterious silver TARDIS box that acts like a Stargate wormhole, transporting you through time and space between floors. The secret box I speak of, is…

The Secret…Shopping Centre Elevator

And I don’t mean the one you catch from the car park. I mean, there’s another secret interfloor network of elevators throughout the entire centre, that people without prams have no idea about. A hidden world off the beaten track, beyond the looking glass, existing only in your peripheral vision.

Sneaky hidden corridors that leave you wondering if you’re Don Adams sneaking into the underground headquarters of CONTROL…or trying to get to K-mart on Level 2.

Specifically made for people with prams. Who knew? I certainly didn’t. But somehow, my wife seemed to be psychically drawn to their locations as if she’d always known about them. And there’s this weird knowing nod, that other parents give you when you join them in the elevator. The same type of nod that bald nightclub bouncers and security guards give to other bald men when entering the premises. The kind of nod that says, “Yeah, I get it. You’re cool.”

It’s like being part of an elitist club with a strict “babies only” policy. And god help any man without a pram who thumbs a ride because he’s too lazy to use the escalator. I sure hope you’re wearing kevlar, cause you’re about to get stabbed. Hell hath no fury like an elevator full of territorial mums. What exactly is the collective noun for an elevator of mothers? Oh, that’s right. It’s called, “I’ll catch the next one”…if you’re smart. (Ha, Get Smart. Get it?) 🙂

But it’s a weird insight into a secret world I never knew existed. And as my journey into fatherhood continues, I’m constantly reminded of the various opportunities that will no doubt present themselves. And where one door closes, another one opens. And maybe, just maybe…that door leads to yet another mysterious as yet untouched world for me to discover.

I think Scully & Mulder said it best…the truth is out there.

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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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