Aussie House Dad

Making Judgments.

2010-12-31T09:18:00.000+10:00

You wouldn’t bloody believe it. We were out at Bubs Baby Shop looking for a booster seat so that James can join us at the dining table for meals since he’s started protesting at his IKEA high chair. It was mid morning and he should’ve been at his best, but hey, he’s a toddler now and they’re prone to going off the boil without warning. Not that there wasn’t warning, he was happily playing at the sample Thomas the Tank table. Moving the trains around, imagining himself to be the new fat controller in town, while Mrs AHD was getting the sales pitch on the numerous options available. We (James & I) were then summonsed to hear the re-interpretation of the pitch in relation to the 3 or so models that passed muster based on fiduciary considerations and functionality, and James was needed to take a position in each of the chair add-ons in a mock meal-time scenario. Well, buggered if he was going to be a party to that activity when there was a train full of coal on the Island of Sodor that needed shunting somewhere else. So, that’s the background to the flip out that ensued. Not quite nuclear. Wouldn’t rate a 9 either. But it was the biggest that we had seen him throw. We tried to cajole him. We knew it would only take a minute to work out which chair would best seat his backside but he wasn’t in an amiable state of mind. There were tears. There was yelling. There was writhing in my arms. There was lots of ‘No, Daddy, No.’ And there were lots of looks in our direction. Judging looks. Looks as if to say, ‘Can’t you control that child of yours.’ Mrs AHD and I did what all good self-effacing parents would do. We beat a hasty retreat for the door and the safety of the car park knowing that we could come again another day, in a month or so's time when they’ve forgotten our faces and someone else’s child has gone berko in between time. In the car on the way home, Mrs AHD and I were recounting the events. Having a bit of a laugh about it. And we both, almost simultaneously mentioned the looks we had been getting. ‘You noticed them too?’ I asked. ‘How could I not?’ she replied. ‘How rude!’ I exclaimed. And that’s the point of this post. Where, if not in Bubs Baby Shop, is it more acceptable for a toddler to go mental and chuck a tantrum? I mean, every parent in that shop should have been empathizing with us, not judging us. And thus we decided, those who had cast a harsh gaze in our direction must have been first-timers who were still only up to purchasing teething rings and jolly jumpers, or worse still, they were the couples with their first on the way and they were shopping for the perfect nursery furniture for their utopian vision of what family life will be like, well, I hope they enjoyed a glimpse of the future... Ouch, now I’m coming across as the one making judgments.

The USB

2010-12-30T22:07:00.001+10:00

I’m finding this return to blogging a bit difficult. I’m not too sure what to write about. And I feel like it’s a struggle finding my voice again. I used to have a stack of story ideas on one side. Each one had a sentence here or a paragraph there that I had jotted down and which I found useful for getting me started. I can’t remember the movie but there was a character that would reach into his pockets and pull out scraps of paper, beer coasters and cigarette packets that had phrases and words and sentences written down to jog the memory. I wasn’t quite that rumpled, I stored my ideas on a USB.

And then I went back to work as a teacher and I wasn’t disciplined enough to develop those ideas that I had started, although I did add to them as I remembered things, and I would take the USB backwards and forwards from home to work, just in case I got the time or the motivation, or whatever it is that gets you doing something.

Then one day I was marking some Power Point presentations that my Grade 5 class had completed as part of an assignment and I thought how much easier it would be if I just saved them to my USB and then I could take them home and mark them at my leisure. And so I handed out my USB and each student was to save their work and pass it on.

I should point out that I had never taught as young as Grade 5 and as my time with this class progressed I found myself revising downwards my expectations of what they should be capable of, to the point that after 2 weeks I decided that there was a need to run some remedial lessons in how to rule up their books and how to cut and paste efficiently.

But anyway, knowing their love of Play Station and Nintendo DS and Atari (ok, that one’s from my generation) and all things compooter-like, I thought I was fairly safe in giving out the USB. I was only asking them to plug it in, save their work, and then pass it on. Well, I think you know where this is heading. I was helping one boy when another approached me with the USB in his hand, then I noticed that there were 2 pieces to the USB. It was broken. How could it be broken? Was there a maximum number of plug ins and pull outs it had that I didn’t know about?

Although I’m sure my facial expression betrayed my disappointment I told the boy that it wasn’t a big problem and we could always get another USB to save the Power Points to etcetera, etcetera. Meanwhile, I was thinking, that’s my freaking USB with all my blog ideas, blah, blah, blah.

So, there you have it. I’m coming to grips with my loss. I’ve been jotting ideas down again. This time I’m saving them to the hard drive of the lap top and if that doesn’t make them safe from accidental annihilation at the hands of an 11 year old, then it will be the scraps of paper, beer coaster method for me too.

It’s The Little Things …

2010-12-30T02:31:00.002+10:00

So, Mrs AussieHouseDad and I have had another little boy, our second. He’s three and half weeks old now and we feel very blessed. He’s in tip top shape for the life that lies ahead of him (touch wood). Now, I’m tempted to tell you about his arrival into our lives but I fear that story might take a bit of writing as it was some day indeed. And since I’ve just returned from the wilderness of working parentdom I think it prudent to just get a few blogs under my belt before I tackle the meaty topics.

So, in the meantime, I figured I might just bounce around as the ideas take me, and to prove I don’t always have to be verbose to the max, I think this might be a short blog about a revelation of mine.

It’s dawned on me, not for the first time, but certainly again most recently with the arrival of another child that our wheelie bin will continue to have the pong of baby shit about it for another good few years yet.

And it’s the nappy bin that’s the source of ‘eau de baby shit’. This bad boy sits away in the corner of the room beside the change table. With its lid on it’s quite benign. But it’s the cumulative effect of 24 hours worth of contributions that multiplies the stink exponentially. And the chore of changing the bin liner on a daily basis is fraught with the greatest danger of all. You see, when you put a single bagged nappy in the bin, the lid is off for a millisecond – still long enough to assault your sense of smell. But when placing a new liner in, the old, full liner must come out and it needs to be tied off, and it is during the tying off that a sudden shot of fetid air can be exhaled from the garbage the bag into your face, particularly if you tie off with vigour.

The advice in this for young players is clear … get someone else to deal with the nappy bin.

It’s these little things about parenthood that you discover as you go along (that you had no way of knowing about before) which are the signposts marking the changes in your life.

From Russia With Love.

2010-12-16T10:52:00.000+10:00

I’ve been feeling guilty. You make all these grand statements and promises about how often you’re going to post, you get people reading your stuff and then you go all quiet for half a year. And you know it’s been a long time since you posted a blog when you can’t remember your login and password and you need the systems administrators help to get you going again... I should feel guilty.

So, where have I been? What have I been doing? Would you believe … visiting … say … Russia. What’s that? You don’t? Well, while it may not be strictly true, it’s not totally a lie either, but I’ll get to all that a little later on.

Ok then, here’s the drum, I was doing the house dad thing and really enjoying it, although with all jobs there are bits that annoy you, but all in all it wasn’t like other jobs because, hey, I was caring for my son. Then one Saturday I was looking through the job ads and I came across one for a 6 month teaching contract, well we’d had Number One Son in daycare 2 days/ week while I did some supply teaching, so this didn’t seem like too much of a stretch, and in some way I wanted to see if I could get another job.

Now, needless to say, I got the job and becoming a contract teacher resulted in an obvious change in our household. No longer could I leisurely get the child fed and watered in the morning. No longer was I able to decide which of the two days this week I would choose as ‘shave day’. And gone were my mid morning showers just in case someone dropped by because being in your pyjamas at eleven is loserish, even if your pj’s are well disguised as daggy home clothes in the form of tracky dacks and beer t-shirt from Thailand.

We had joined the phenomenon that KRudd badged as ‘working families’. Mum, Dad and toddler all needing to be organized and out the door by 7.30 each morning. And basically I couldn’t get my shit together. I’ve never been any good at juggling and I’m buggered if I know how that ‘Julie/Julia’ chick blogged about cooking every day.

So, there you have it, the explanation as to why I haven’t blogged for months. I have been working Monday to Friday out of the home and any activities beyond the basic tasks for survival were too difficult to juggle. I did manage to lose a few kilos by getting back to work and therefore not having a fridge or pantry at arm’s length. But the yard has gone to crap, the blog ideas have built up, and so has the guilt.

But in the mean time much has happened. Most notably, and therefore, THE BIG NEWS, Super Wife and I have brought home our second bundle of joy, another little boy for his big brother to whack in the head (pecking order has already begun to be established). And why the Super Wife moniker, well I think it’s worth noting that in this modern day and age with maternity leave entitlements, there aren’t many women who work on the Friday and the following Thursday are having a baby sans epidural, but hey, that’s all good fodder for another blog at another time.

So, there you have it, a very quick précis of life over the last few months between postings. Hopefully I can turn on some regular writing as I do enjoy doing it and I also enjoy the feedback, but that’s been the double edged sword and source of my guilt.

I’ve re-emerged with enthusiasm. And it seems that since I last accessed my account, the ‘BlogSpot’ mob that provide a forum for my observations have added some extra apps, one being the ‘stats’ option. On closer scrutiny of this feature it would appear that it’s not just me registering hits on my own blog or even my friends and family for that matter. The data capturers tell me that I have registered 629 in the ‘page views all time history’ category. And although that’s not a massive number, I was surprised to see from where I’ve been getting visits. Turns out the communists are big into the aussiehousedad thing, with 8 brave Chinese souls risking all by busting through the great firewall. I’m even bigger in the former Soviet states with a dozen Latvians digging my stylings along with 14 hits from the Ukraine but with 27 hits it is definitely a case of From (or To) Russia with Love.

So in order to avoid a meltdown on my in-built Catholic guiltometer and perhaps more importantly, so I don’t receive a hit of my own from some connected Russian Mafioso, I might just need to become a more organized blogger.

Pinching a Minute

2010-07-01T09:26:00.000+10:00

When James was a 2 sleep a day baby, I used to wait until 10am when I’d put him down for a morning sleep before I’d go about my morning ablutions. Now he doesn’t sleep until after 12pm that routine doesn’t work.

Some days I try and shower before he gets up, admittedly, however that doesn’t happen on most days. Sometimes I wait until he is engrossed in a program on ABC2 and I’ll jump a quick shower. Some days if he seems like he’ll get up to no good I’ll plonk him in his cot and if I leave the bathroom door open and crane my neck I can see him while I shower. Other days if I get the sense that neither option 1 nor option 2 will work I’ll get him in the shower with me, even though he had a bath the night before. Ahhhh, the things we do.

But that routine doesn’t work for another part of our daily ablutions.

I’ve developed a routine, like a lot of men, where I enjoy the peace and quiet that can be achieved when in the smallest room of the house. I am known as a reader in this location too. I know, many find this activity abhorrent, but many don’t, so don’t judge me harshly.

In any event, these days a call of nature requires a degree of subterfuge on my behalf. I’ll set James up with an activity and then I’ll loiter discreetly in the background and when I sense an opportunity I’ll try to quietly disappear while James is occupied.

But, do you know what? It must be like a parent’s sixth sense. You know the one, where quiet children means they’re up to no good and we go to investigate. Well for kids it seems like its same same. The minute I sneak away with weekend magazine folded under my arm, James’ radar goes off, ‘Where’s Daddy?’

I envisage he goes from room to room looking for me. Kitchen – nope. Laundry – nope. Bedroom – nope. And then I hear the shuffle of his feet on the carpet getting closer and closer. “Noooooooooooooo.” I just want a minute to myself. And then he does it. A hand holding some hard plastic or metal toy bang, bang, banging on the toilet door. ‘Daaaaaaaad’ ‘Daaaaaaad’ “Yes, James, in a second.”

I take a moment to re-calibrate where I’m up to in the article, saving it for next time. And as I re-appear, James gives me a look as if to say, ‘Where were you? I missed you terribly’, which is nice, but how I miss the luxury of being able to go to the loo in my own time and on my own terms.

The Great Escaper (or Stair Master)

2010-06-08T09:40:00.001+10:00

From the time that James could free-range around the house Kylee and I were conducting risk assessments.

When researching for this blog I came across a selection of safety audits from our filing system. Typically they revealed the following information.

Item: Power Points
Potential Risk: Death
Remedial Action: Plastic Plugs

Area: Kitchen
Potential Risk: Sickness and/or Death
Remedial Action: Safety Fence and Gate

Location: Stairs
Potential Risk: Broken limbs and/or Death
Remedial Action: Barricade

More telling though is the insight they revealed about the anxiety levels of first time parents. And I’m not going to point the finger but one member of the parenting partnership is an accountant who has tended to overuse excel spreadsheets for organisational purposes in her civilian life. But I digress…

So, on a daily, nay hourly basis, James would test our defences. Kitchen fence, no luck there. Flicking power points, yes, success. Sticking a fork in it … wait a minute … “Hey kid, who gave you that fork?” (tussle occurs) “Thankyou, I’ll take that.” (kid cries). And he would test for weaknesses of the jogger pram that had been placed at the base of the stairs as a barricade.

James would push the pram without luck. Brake on. He would try to scale its heights. No foot holes. He would attempt to tunnel underneath. Ouch, sore head.

Surprisingly, we had discovered a sentry that would watch those stairs vigilantly and would foil any break out attempts. Mr Jogger Pram went about his business without any fuss for months and months.

But like ‘The Great Escapists’, James had been hatching a plan. It only required him to grow a bit and get a bit stronger. Once again, time was on his side, and operation Tom, Dick and Harry was put in place.

I should have been alerted to the little mounds of dirt that were appearing on the grass, but like the Germans I was clueless and I had put those down to the ants. I had just thought it as cute when James was playing with the treadle of the Singer sewing machine table, who knew he was mocking up SS uniforms. And he was whistling all the time too.

Like Steve McQueen, James Garner, Lee Marvin and Co, James waited for the good weather of summer to make his break….

I was sitting at the dining table keeping an ear out for James. There was huffing and puffing and groans of exertion. Nothing really out of the ordinary with that. Then the alarm for all parents went off, the sound of silence.

I turned and out of the corner of my eye I saw James’ feet disappearing around the corner of the return landing. He was half-way up the stairs, the land of milk and honey beckoned. Freedom. I channelled Sgt Schultz, “I know nusssing.” (Sorry, wrong reference point, that one’s a WWII German parody) I composed myself, “HALT … or you will be shot.”

James stopped. He looked back at me and our eyes met. We both realised that a significant event had occurred and that life would change from that moment on.

And, so it did. We kept the jogger pram barricade for a few more weeks after the first breakout, although it did need some reinforcements. The nappy bag was brought in, as were some cushions.

I began keeping watch as time and again James was able to breach the secure perimeter. He demonstrated ingenuity for overcoming my cunning placements of obstacles. Pushing, pulling and climbing were his usual strategies. And all for an opportunity to engage in his natural instinct of seeing what there was to see. Obviously he didn’t know it was just the other side of the mountain.

A parenting decision about this new juncture in the road was needed. Debating lines were set, the argument for the affirmative team was clear, “As, we have a house with stairs, he just has to learn how to use them.” While the negative team argued like a true opposition putting up the scare campaign of, “What if he falls?” It was an emotive topic and both arguments had compelling points to consider, but with an eye to the future, the adjudicator came down on the side of the affirmative.

The crowd, of one (James), gathered at the bottom of the stairs. It was a smaller crowd than the one that gathered in Berlin to watch the Wall come down, but it was no less symbolic. On this day, the barricade that had been preventing the re-unification of toys was removed and access to the upwards and downwards thingies was granted.

Slow, tentative steps were taken at first. Actually, James was quite adept at the going up, but guidance was needed for the coming down part. In true parent-child teaching fashion, child ignored parent who knew best and tried to tackle said problem his own way. The inevitable tumbles (under controlled conditions) occurred, but through trial and error a degree of proficiency was achieved.

Today, James fairly flies up the stairs, likes to try to walk down them with the aid of the balustrade, knows that sliding backwards on his tummy is the ‘careful’ way and is also the quickest method (especially useful if a favourite treat is on offer). He knows that a hasty retreat to the stairs will provide a delay to the inevitable activity he is attempting to avoid. And on the rare occasion that he does take a tumble, James will usually pick himself up, look a bit surprise, hold his hands out and say “I know nusssing.”

The Babymoon

2010-06-07T15:00:00.002+10:00

Let me see, James was born in November, so I suppose this happened in the October before he arrived.

I can’t remember whether I was being a renaissance man or if Kylee had dropped so many hints that I finally twigged to the idea, but in any event I booked a quiet weekend away for us to enjoy each other’s company before our couple status would change forever.

I had seen O’Reilly’s Rainforest Retreat featured on those good weekend programs and thought that it would be a perfect destination. I even booked a picnic lunch hamper from their vineyard on the valley floor to enjoy on the riverbank along the way. (I know ladies, 1, 2, 3 … altogether now …. ‘awwww, how romantic’)

We hadn’t coined the phrase ‘Babymoon’ (a derivative of the honeymoon concept) at this stage. That happened when we received a text message from friends enquiring as to our whereabouts. When we told them what we were up to, they enlightened us to this new concept. And since we liked the term, we’ve been running with it ever since.

So, here we were, enjoying a lovely spring day in the Gold Coast hinterland. The sun was out, the birds were singing, we had just enjoyed a delicious lunch of gourmet deli delights and we were about 30k’s from our idyllic mountain destination.

Did I say mountain destination? Ah yes, that’s right, 30 kilometres up a winding, single lane strip of tar, almost no room for on-coming traffic, side of the mountain, goat track. I’ve recently seen an episode of Top Gear where they drive through the Andes and the roadside is prone to giving way here and there and slipping into the canyon hundreds of metres below. Well this was not dissimilar.

And have I told you about Kylee’s neuroses before. I seem to recall describing Kylee’s impersonation of Marge Simpson to my Homer-like bluster. Well this was another of those situations where Kylee was uneasy with the circumstances and thus approached the experience as would Chicken Little.

On we went, higher and higher, windier and windier. We would speed up to 50km/h on the straight sections and then another corner would halve our speed. And as we travelled we encountered more and more on-coming traffic that was heading down the mountain. Thus we deduced there were a lot of day trippers who go for lunch. Well, that would be ok, if like us they were travelling in sensible little 4 cylinder sedans, but they were even more sensible, they had travelled in bus groups so they could enjoy a wine or a beer. At least keeping to the left side meant we would only fall off the mountain second in the event of a mischief.

The fact that I am recounting this tale clearly indicates that we made it to our destination but not without much sucking in of air through clenched teeth.
As I had calculated our arrival time by distance to be travelled and not by windiness of the road, we were now cutting phase 2 of the Babymoon, an afternoon of pampering for Kylee in the day spa, very fine indeed. (Cue more sucking of air through clenched teeth, but not by me.)

You know, it’s funny when you think about it. The types of conversations we get ourselves involved in. Even though I was acting under instructions I still found myself learning far too much about day spa treatment than I would ever have anticipated I would need to know.

“Did you book me a massage?”
‘Yes.’
“What type?”
‘I don’t know? A back massage.’
“Did you tell them I’m pregnant?”
‘No.’
“Well, how are they going to give me a back massage?”
‘I, don’t know, maybe they have a table with the tummy cut out so your belly can hang through.’
“Oh don’t be so ridiculous.”
‘Look, I’m sure when you waddle through the door they’ll be able to adapt a procedure for you.’
WHACK

And even though I received that whack, they did adapt a procedure and Kylee duly came out some hours later feeling quite pampered and relaxed, but not altogether happy with me. (Note to self, waddle is not a suitable adjective to describe a pregnant woman’s walk.)

We were enjoying the serenity now. No traffic noise. No hustle and bustle. Just the relaxation that nature and a good view will bring. We were enjoying the vista across the valley from our balcony as the sun began to set.

“What’s that cement with ‘H’ painted on it down there?”
‘Where?’
“Down there, in front.”
‘Oh, that’d be a helipad for emergencies.’

And that’s all it took to set the little rattle off.

“Oh my, what if I go into labour?”
‘You won’t.’
“People go into labour early you know.”
‘I know that, but you’ll be alright.’
“I could.”
'But we know, your mother was late with all her pregnancies and daughter’s closely follow their mothers.’ (I was making this bit up, I don’t know if that’s true, but said with confidence it seemed to placate.)
“Hmmm, I don’t know if that sounds right.”
‘Anyway, the helipad is a good thing, at least we know we can get you down the mountain if you do go into labour. I should imagine there would be an extra cost if we need to ring reception asking for some hot water and extra towels.’ (Ben laughs at his own joke.)
“Bennnnn.”
(Why do I do that to myself?)

And so it came to pass that we had a lovely time away. We tossed around baby names, I had a bottle of wine (less half a glass) with dinner, Kylee did not go into unexpected early labour and I learned that should we go on another Babymoon then I won’t be booking a place that requires the use of a sure footed donkey as our transportation.

Bonjour, bienvenue.

2010-06-07T14:57:00.001+10:00

I’ve been away for a while, haven’t I? I won’t worry about checking the dates but it has been more than a month, maybe even close to two. I feel neglectful. And when I’m told by family and friends that I haven’t blogged for a while I feel guilty too.

I enjoy remembering the little things and writing about them and I worry that I might forget a precious moment. I think that’s why I feel some guilt. Couple that with the fact that I know people have been tuning in on a semi-regular basis, I have been feeling as though I was a neglecting a friendship.

That’s why I’ve affixed a title to this blog that has a bit of whimsy. Hopefully it will mask my sheepishness as I return to chronicling life since the arrival of James.

There is another issue too. It’s not a big problem. I’ve got stacks of one sentence ideas in my draft folder and I don’t know where to start. I can’t really remember what happened first so tackling them chronologically won’t really work.

I hope you will be able to follow events as I go back and forth with memories of the last 18 months or so.

Stream of Consciousness

2010-04-20T08:07:00.002+10:00

I've been beating myself up for a few days now. I've become a blogger and with that comes a certain amount of discipline to, get this, actually blog. I know, a massive surprise isn't it.

The situation where I hadn't blogged for a while crystalised last night when Kylee casually said to me, 'you haven't posted anything in a while.'

"What the ..."

You see, Kylee is an infrequent reader of my stuff and for her to notice, well, it clearly has been a while.

It's not like I've been doing nothing in between posts. I'm quite meticulous when it comes to jotting down ideas for posts, in fact I have several folders that I use in my writing process. I start with an idea, a few words or a phrase. I then write a paragraph or two, leave it for a period, come back and draft some more, polish it a bit until I post my blog. I just haven't been very good at steps 2, 3 and 4 of late.

I was reminiscing the other day, back to the early months of being at home with James when his day was predominantly filled with sleeping and I toyed with the idea of doing some further study because I had all this time on my hands. These days I have a one sleep a day boy who has a great skill at devolving the good order of the house.

So, here I am today, blogging away out of obligation, realising that I need to use the time after James goes to sleep at night more wisely, otherwise there will be no drafting process and the words that are read will be as they are today, unedited, straight from thought to page in this great stream of consciousness.

End result, more random, babbling, meandering writing than usual.

Westfield Chermside and Frank Bloody Lowy

2010-03-28T10:42:00.000+10:00

I’ve never really been in a minority before, I mean white middle class male in western culture, you don’t get much more dominant paradigm than that.

And being of conservative liberal political stock I’ve never been against a business venture from maximising its fiscal position with entrepreneurial spirit. Maybe then it’s the fact that I’m a little ’l’ liberal with a social conscience, not a neo-Liberal, that my current world view has shifted.

“What’s he on about?”

Well, on a regular basis I find that the position of ‘parent to young child’ and the concept of ‘free market imperatives’ collide and when this collision occurs, it is us ‘parents to young children’ that are thrust into a minority, put up or piss off position.

“Hurry up man, you’re speaking in riddles.”

Ok then, so this is the issue as I see it. Kiosks. They’re the bloody problem. A modern day scourge I tell you. Bloody kiosks popping up everywhere. I can’t stand them and my biggest gripe is with Westfield at Chermside, probably happening at Westfields everywhere so I blame Frank Bloody Lowy. Because their kiosks aren’t those little fruit cart ones, they’re huge, multi-roomed even.

“Good Lord, that’s a bit of a rant. You’re still not making sense.”

Alright then, let me set the scene. Young(ish) dad, beautiful wife and robust toddler venture to mega-mall to run errands. Young(ish) dad parks car, beautiful wife places toddler into pram. No problem so far. Young(ish) dad wheels pram to automatic sliding doors and enters mega-mall. Problems commence. The procession around mega-mall requires stop, start, stop, start as the masses of humanity walk around, in front of and between this family.

Dad thinks to himself, there aren’t that many people here, why all the bottlenecks on the thoroughfares. Ah, bloody, pissing kiosks. They’re everywhere on the concourses now. Once upon a time it used to be just the key cutting guy, now you can get a mixed berry frappe, a massage, assorted trinketry, mobile phone accessories, hell, these days you can even get your teeth whitened in front of the multitudes.

So, well done Frank Bloody Lowy and Westfield Chermside. You’ve seen that under used space in front of shops, the space that people used to walk along, and you’ve plonked kiosks there. Well done, you’ve just made some more money.

And what else used to inhabit this space? Ah, that’s right. Chairs. Chairs? What a useless, out-dated, antiquated, old-fashioned idea. Chairs in a shopping mall, how ridiculous? People don’t come here to sit, they come here to shop. And spend their money … at the bloody, pissing kiosks.

Well guess what, people, namely parents with kids and prams do use chairs. A good place to sit, they are. You know, to rest for a bit, feed the young toddler, wait for the missus while she tries on a new outfit. Because you know what happens these days? Young(ish) dads find themselves standing in the walkway between the boutique and the crazy popcorn kiosk, bottlenecking the space for those walking past.

This young(ish) dad has tried following his beautiful wife into said boutique but a) it’s a women’s shop and 2) the pram often doesn’t fit between the racks. (Another problem identified.)

So the end result is the pram pusher is constantly apologising because there isn’t enough space for parent and pram. And older people complain and mutter that no wonder kids turn out so bad these days when their parents are so selfish. And the teenagers who are scoping out the mall in their four abreast packs aren’t too keen to give way, in fact they don’t even really know the road rules and are prone to keeping both left and right.

These days when I’m shopping at the mega-mall and I’m part of the minority that is ‘parents with prams’ I’m able to exchange a knowing nod with other members of this group and because we know the difficulties attached with pram pushing there is invariably the courtesy of space given.

And since I often need to have a bit of a sit, well as much as it pains me, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em and now toddler James has the whitest brightest teeth you’ll ever see and his dad has rested feet.

Terrible Twos

2010-03-17T10:25:00.001+10:00

Before I was a dad, back when I had less of an idea than I do now, I used to think that the ‘terrible two’s’ actually commenced when a child reached the age of 2. Crazy, I know.

So, through the first 12 months I have been cruising along thinking to myself that all of the ups and downs we have experienced are good prep for the ‘terrible two’s’. I have also been contenting myself with the belief that we were still a ways off that marker, you know, James is 15 months, take that from 24 … we are still 9 months off him becoming a monster.

What’s that I hear? I think it might be the sound of parents down through the eons of human existence laughing out loud. I know, I know, again I’m guilty of being naïve, but give me a break, James is our first and I’m kinda learning on the run.

Courtesy of the clinical trials that James has been running and the observations that he has allowed me to make, I have acquired new knowledge in this subject area. So this is what I now know. Just as babies learn to walk gradually, or just as speech requires a progressive development, so too does their understanding of how to crack a wobbly.

“It is through a series of incremental, yet precise developmental stages through which the subject is able to suitably adapt their behaviour in order to finally exhibit the complete ambit of traits that are associated with the ‘terrible two’s’.”

Well, that’s how it would look if I were writing some scientific tome on the subject. So, what does all this mumbo jumbo mean? It means that my 15 month old toddler is becoming, how should we put it … disagreeable. My mother on the other hand would probably describe it as him developing a sense of independence.

In order to support my hypothesis I’m aware that you require some evidence of James’ change in behaviour.

James has always been a terrific eater. He has been happy to ingest all food prepared for him and consequently he has grown very well indeed and has been near the top of the class in the weight for age category. (That’s the proud parent coming out in me). Lately, however, he has not been such a good eater, spitting food out, throwing it on the floor, pursing his lips, turning his head away, waving his arms and generally saying ‘no thankyou’.

I had been prepared to put that behaviour into the ‘fickle eater’ category but when coupled with other new characteristics you will see a pattern emerging.

As previously recorded in an earlier blog, James has learnt the word association of ‘ta’ as a request for whatever the object is that is in his line of sight. As we know, there are some things that 15 month olds should not be allowed to handle, scissors, hydrochloric acid, dynamite … James, unfortunately doesn’t understand this and no matter how gently the negative position is put him, it can suddenly and inexplicably result in tears, bottom lip quivering and shrieks that make you consider giving him that acid just to stop the noise.

In the past there have been all sorts of things that James has mildly object to, but of late, his objections have become louder, more forceful and sustained. Previously I would put these responses down to a tired baby who needed a sleep. These days I know it’s just a toddler who is frustrated that he cannot communicate what he wants. But all the same it can drive you mental.

So, with this epiphany realised by myself, my question for the experts is this: By its name, i.e. ‘terrible two’s’, I was lead to believe that this stage lasts for the period between their 2nd and 3rd birthday. Since this is clearly not the case, as it has commenced prior to James’ 2nd birthday, for how many years will my son exhibit symptoms of terrible two-ism?

Signed: Confuddled Aussie House Dad

Nelson

2010-03-10T17:34:00.001+10:00

There was a time when I barely saw daylight on a Saturday or Sunday, certainly I wasn’t familiar with mornings on those days of the week. These days I really look forward to family time on weekends and I hate wasting this precious time.

Sometimes it’s just errand running, maybe a trip to Bunnings and a sausage, if I’m lucky, other times it’s a day trip to some destination of child and parent interest.

So last Sunday was a fairly ordinary sort of weekend day. We bundled into the car bound for Officeworks, a shredder was apparently necessary for our household to operate. Silly me, I had been under the misapprehension for all these years that you could dispose of paper by way of ripping it to pieces, but apparently clever identity burglars are able to jigsaw your rubbish back together and bish, bam, boom, you’re stuffed.

After purchasing the cheapest option and with the world again spinning correctly on its axis, I suggested that we check out the children’s adventure playground we had been told about in a well to do suburb of Brisbane.

I have come to realise that there is a hierarchy in children’s adventure playgrounds, with some offering far superior methods for kids to break bones compared to the boring old swing and slippery dip parks of my own youth. Soft fall matting I laugh at you.

Ok then, that’s the back story to this particular blog.

So, we’re checking out this new park, there is full scale adventuring going down. We were playing on the swings, on the fort, down the slippery dip, having laughs, engaging in problem solving, generating grunts of exertion. All good signs.

And while James was toddling from equipment piece to equipment piece I happened to notice a kid and his mother being dropped off by one of those European 4WD, then the dad drove off, probably to run his own shredder errand.

Anyway, James, Kylee and I continued our playing. Mum and Dad each holding one of James’ hands to steady him as he defied death and walked up the slippery dip. We steadied him as he walked across the wobbly bridge and then caught him as he was about to slip into the abyss between the webbed funnel contraption.

And so, as our time in the park was nearing an end, James decided that he would have a go on one last piece of equipment. It was one of those springy rocker thingies. Mounting it from the head on direction caused some difficulties of the slipping and bumping variety and at the moment James let out a cry of frustration the aforementioned European 4WD kid raced by with his mum close behind. Hearing James’ cry, Nelson, as I will now call him, gave his impression of his namesake from ‘The Simpson’s’ as he let out a ‘Ha ha’.

Our response was automatic.

Kylee and I spun around and as we did so, we met the eye of Nelson, who had turned on instinct to continue to soak up the enjoyment of the situation. Unfortunately for Nelson, he discovered that Kylee and I had morphed into parental defence machines.

It happened in some sort of Matrix style slow motion, but as our eyes met, daggers were shot at Nelson in unison. The eye daggers cut the air as they tumbled end over end towards their target. And Nelson was momentarily paralysed…. Fffffftttt … Fffffftttt…. Both daggers hit their mark square in the chest.

I’m sure that Nelson wasn’t unfamiliar with the look of derision that he experienced when he saw Kylee and my response. He just seemed to be one of those kids. Proud I am to say that Nelson was shut down and castigated in one stroke.

I realised where Nelson was running as he passed us by. The European 4WD had returned and as he now shuffled to the family car, Nelson continued looking back in our direction with a look of disappointment that somehow we had ruined his fun. And although surprised by my own response I couldn’t help but feeling good.

What’s In A Name? (Number 2.)

2010-03-04T08:21:00.000+10:00

From my teaching days I can inform the class that a noun is a naming word. In the case of the original ‘What’s In a Name’ blog, James’ name is a proper noun. This blog, however, is about a common noun and the name it is to be given.

James has discovered something and it gets his attention every time it’s exposed. It’s the thing that separates the boys from the girls. That’s right folks, James is aware that he is a boy and this is now a source of curiosity to him.

At every nappy change James’ hand shoots south. As he sits in the bath, invariably, one hand holds his toothbrush, the other is below the water line. And Kylee and I are now in the process of discouraging this behaviour.

‘James, don’t touch yourself’ I heard myself saying. ‘Don’t touch yourself’. Hmmm, that’s a bit abstract for a toddler. What is ‘yourself’?

We have been learning the names for things, so it seems time to introduce a new noun.

If I might quote from the genius of Ivan Reitman’s ‘Kindergarten Cop’ on the subject, “Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina”. So, ‘penis’ would be the anatomically correct term. Thanks Ivan.

I know a lot of parents take the view that children should be taught the correct names for anatomy. They also tend to be the type of parent that have their kids call them by their first name. That’s all a bit too lentils, tie dye and new age for me.

I’m a bit uncomfortable with the use of the word ‘penis’, so I fall into the second camp that seeks out an alternative name.

We worked with ‘willy’, but I like the name William and if we were to ever have another boy I’d hate for his older brother to tease him because of the word association between name and nether region.

Kylee and I convened a special meeting on the subject. What were the other options? We needed a name that we would both use for consistency. I put forward ‘tool’ and ‘member’. Too low brow apparently. ‘Sausage’? No. ‘Todger’? Too Benny Hill. This was becoming problematic.

The answer however was staring us right in the face (so to speak). ‘Doodle’. Not to vulgar. Socially acceptable if needed to be used in public. So, doodle it is.

Bath time now gives rise to conversation along the lines of, ‘James, hands off your doodle.’ ‘Good boy, well done.’

Hey Kid, Don’t Mess With the Cat!

2010-02-25T17:53:00.000+10:00

Before we had James, in fact before we were remotely ready to consider a child, we decided to share our life with a cat. We trundled off to our local vet who runs a cat adoption program and that’s where we were introduced to a ginger domestic long hair (cat version of a ‘bitsa’) that we were to name Keith.

So Keith had the run of the house for a good number of years before James came along. Such was his ownership of the facilities that Kylee and I often wondered whether we owned him or whether he was just gracing us with his presence.

When we brought Baby James home from the hospital we wondered how Keith would go with the new addition to the house. After all, in his mind, Keith was higher in the pecking order.

To the most part Keith wasn’t too interested in the new kid. Occasionally he would sniff at the little human in the bouncer as he walked by, even rarer he would lick the foot of the human as it dangled in the air. But to the most part life hadn’t changed too much for Keith.

That of course was never going to last forever.

As Baby James aged and his awareness of his surroundings developed, he came to realise that he not only shared the house with Kylee and me (the people who comforted him with food in the night) but there was another member of the house. From his seated positions on the lounge room floor Baby James would watch as Keith meandered from one sleeping location to another.

Sometimes as sign of his superiority (based upon his ability to move), Keith would swish his tail in Baby James’ face as he cruised past. However, sometimes as a portent of future exchanges, Keith would linger a little too long in Baby James sphere of influence and would come away from the meeting with a little less fluff on his tail.

As Baby James became mobile, we would often discover him setting a course in Keith’s direction. We still had little to worry about, as Keith not only possessed speed, and nimbleness, he was also blessed with the ability to put vertical distance between himself and his pursuer. He would look down with a yawn at Baby James on the floor as he lounged across the top of the sofa, safe in the knowledge that he could be on Everest, such was the logistical impossibility of Baby James scaling the 3 feet between them.

It would be interesting to read Keith’s blog (if he could type) to get his view of the period when Baby James learnt to pull himself to stand with the assistance of the furniture. For it was this great leap for mankind that put Keith’s safety on shakey ground.

Baby James now had legs. He could cruise around the lounge much quicker than his crawling allowed. And cats being cats, Keith was more interested to find his favourite snooze place. So, Baby James often surprised Keith with an ambush. He would slink around from the blind side and before Keith knew it, Baby James had a handful of tail as his trophy.

Now, Keith is certainly no Horse (for those who need a reminder or a point of reference, Horse is the tough cat from the Footrot Flats comics) but he wasn’t going to let a surprise attack go unchallenged. So, inevitably as an emboldened Baby James headed back for more fur samples, he often found his second foray was met with a swipe of claws across his hand. Which would then result in quick succession with the dropping of Baby James’ bottom lip, a tear (or tears) appearing in his eyes, a search for Daddy, followed up with a loud cry once Daddy was spotted in order for comforting first aid kisses to be administered. Stat.

As I type this account of Baby James and Keith’s fledgling relationship it occurs to me that you, the reader, might be thinking that I’m a bad parent for sitting back and watching these exchanges take place. Allow me to clarify. Keith was often removed before a situation could escalate. Fights between siblings are inevitable. Baby James was often informed of the possible consequences. And I was often home alone and in the kitchen preparing dinner when the events referred to happened. And anyways, things that happen to us should be turned into positive learning opportunities.

The learning for Baby James would seem obvious.

To the most part Baby James adheres to the Victorian maxim of look but don’t touch (clearly we neglected to inform him that children should be seen and not heard) when it comes to Keith. He has even taken to extending gestures of goodwill to Keith in order to ‘BFF’ the relationship.

These days James will put forward his own food and drink as peace offerings. But, occasionally he forgets that he is dealing with a wild animal and the ginger ninja strikes with speed and accuracy as a reminder to James of the previously learned life lesson. And it’s left to me to put it in human language … Hey Kid, Don’t Mess With the Cat!

As The Days Go By

2010-02-23T10:37:00.001+10:00

Summer is almost over. The last game of cricket is on TV tonight. It’s a Twenty20 game starting at 6.30pm so James will only get to see half an hour, should be long enough to reserve TV rights though.

That kinda shows where my head is, at the moment. Christmas and New Year are becoming distant memories and I’m getting back into the routine of life.

James has been going to daycare on Fridays, but I’m yet to pick up a supply day. Mostly my own fault since I’ve only let one school (my old one) know that I’m available. That’s by design though. I haven’t been in a class for 18 months and I’d like to get the groove again in a place I know. Its gotta help to know the kids, the layout, the timetable, the staff, where the toilets are …

Kylee came home yesterday telling me about a big win she’d had at work during the day. I feel guilty now but I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. I’d had a nothing sort of day. My biggest achievement was hanging a swing in the mango tree and pushing James for five or so minutes. Oh, and I did get annoyed when I discovered a tissue was left in the dark wash, if that’s an achievement.

I’m taking James to his swimming lessons these days. I’m finding it similar to my Gymboree experience. He loves being in the water but it's hit and miss how he’ll take to the formal stuff. I hope it’s a stage but I’m beginning to wonder if he’s got ADD. Probably not but you do wonder.

James is communicating with us more and more. Sometimes he’s just mimicking but other times there are cognitive processes going on.

He’s learnt how to ask for things, ‘ta’ being the appropriate word. It gets re-pronounced as ‘da’ but we know what he means. Only thing is James seems to think that if he sees something and wants it, then ‘Da’ is the magic word … always. So, there it is for James, ‘Source of Frustration # 80632’.

He’ll see a knife on the bench. ‘da’. ‘Da, Da, Da, DA, DA, DA, DAAAAAAAAAAA.’ And then comes the adult explanation. ‘No, James, it’s sharp. Little boys don’t hold knives.’ A look is shared like he understands, then, ‘DA, DA, DA’ … you get the drift.

So I’m getting it more and more now. The life of a toddler is full of daily frustrations. I can’t wait until he can help me peel disintegrated tissue off a dark blue table cloth. Arrghhhh.

Rocket Man

2010-02-12T17:41:00.000+10:00

As I sit here preparing to write this post it’s dawning on me how long ago these events occurred. We’re talking about Baby James when he really was a fragile little baby. I hardly even remember that time when his head needed supporting and his movements seemed like they were in slow-motion and he needed burping after each feed. That’s a world away to where he is now, a robust, fast-moving, eat-anything machine.

So these are my recollections around 12 months after the event.

As with all parents, and I’m sure it’s doubly so with first-timers, Kylee and I observed Baby James in great detail. We watched him in our arms, we watched him in the arms of others, while he slept, and I would smell him all the time. We were taking in his being with us. It was fantastic. I was both amazed and proud, its clichéd because it’s true. Anyway, as it was, we started noticing something, his soft head was developing a flat spot.

We had read about this phenomenon and had followed the advice of the books. We had routinely switched the end of the cot Baby James was facing, apparently this will cause the infant child to turn towards the door. He didn’t though, he had a definite preferred side to sleep on. So as we noticed the development we would ask our friends if it was normal. Of course it is they’d tell us, followed by their own experiences of their child with a slight flat spot which sorted itself out as they grew older. So we continued using our book-smarts to address the flat spot issue.

And then we went to the paediatrician for Baby James’ six week check up. Doctor examined his patient, checked his hips, did some other poking and prodding and then announced at the end that Baby James had a flat spot on his left side. Yes we know, we told him, like this was news to us, the helicopter parents from hell. Hurry up and be the second opinion to the suburban medical advice that we’ve already received and tell us that it’ll sort itself out is what I was thinking. But he didn’t say this. Instead, we were referred to a physiotherapist who specialised in infants as the doctor was concerned that the favouring of one side to the other might also result in the shortening of Baby James’ neck muscles.

This is where we met Wendy our physio. She was fantastic, and as a new mum herself, she approached her patient with the same care that she would her own. It’s funny because you would obviously prefer not to have to need a health professional for your eight week old child but I really enjoyed appointments at the physio. At our first appointment, Wendy enjoyed Baby James’ smiles. At our next appointment she commented on his sitting ability. At subsequent appointments she marvelled at his rolling and then worming ability. All the time I felt proud that I was somehow a catalyst in these events.

Anyway, our physio advice at appointment one was to continue what we were doing but to also place a wedge under Baby James’ hip and shoulder while he slept in order to roll him off his favoured side and we would monitor his flat spot for a month. If there was little or no improvement we would be referred to an orthotist who specialised in remedial helmets for such conditions. When we were being shown the type of helmet that Baby James might possibly need, both Kylee and I went, ‘oh, we’ve seen other babies at the shops wearing those. That’s what they’re for?’

We left this appointment and we tried to be optimistic that the flat spot would right itself. We tried to be positive about the remedial helmet if it was required. But speaking for myself I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about the potential prospect. Again I can only speak for moi, but I guess there was an element of wanting your child to be ‘normal’, whatever that is.

Well, as the month did pass Kylee and I would often discuss whether improvement was happening. We were often subjected to the trick of the eye, one angle we believed that we could see a change and from a different angle the flat spot looked the same. Baby James’ condition certainly wasn’t helped by his lack of hair as his shiny bald scone had nothing to hide its bumps and quirks.

In the end we decided against worrying and whatever would be would be. As it turned out we did take Baby James to the orthotist, her name was Bianca and like Wendy the Physio, she took great interest in her patients.

It was during our time at the orthotists that we came to learn that the medical term for Baby James’ condition was plagiocephaly. We further learnt that this condition has become more common in recent years as one of the pieces of advice for parents from the SIDS movement has been to place babies on their backs while they sleep.

So Baby James was to receive a helmet. The fitting process involved plaster of Paris being applied to his melon, not the easiest of tasks when involving a squirming, unwilling participant. From there a mould was made and I was given a pattern book to choose a design from. I choose the gender appropriate blue with trucks, planes and randomly a ‘no dogs’ logo. And there we were, set for the next 8-12 weeks depending on how Baby James’ cranium responded to manipulation.

Kylee and I joked amongst ourselves about Baby James new headwear. At times he looked as though he was about to hop on his motorbike, other clothes made him look as though he was about to jump in the ring for a sparring session, but my favourite look was when we dressed him in his wondersuit. Baby James came across as looking like an astronaut; our little Rocket Man. And I would mangle the lyrics to Elton John’s song, singing with appropriate falsetto but tunelessly;

‘Oh, its gonna make everything be alright, cos you’re a Rocket Man.’

Baby James wore his helmet 23 hours a day for what turned out to be around three months. We took him to the shops in it and I remember furniture shopping one time when the assistant (a woman in her 50’s) came over and told us she thought the helmet was a great idea and that her grandson could use one too to stop him from bashing his head as he ran under the dining table. We had to explain the exact purpose to her, but to be fair I’m sure Baby James’ gained an undeserved confidence around hard surfaces as he avoided the bruises that would have come his way as we often heard a clunk that signified contact between helmet and house.

Mostly though people went about their business and if there was a comment it was mostly how cute Baby James looked in his headgear. Occasionally there was the odd question from mothers who had babies with the same plagiocephaly condition who were seeking information. And only once was my ire raised when some stupid Gen Y girls laughed at what they considered to be a comical look, fortunately for them they were faster moving in the crowd than I was with the pram and by the time I saw them again the heat had left me and the moment of their insensitivity had also passed.

With fortnightly trips to the orthotist improvement was discernable and Bianca was happy with his progress, as were we. At the ten week appointment it was decided that one more week would do the job, this turned out to be … hmmm …. what’s the opposite of a false start? A false end? A phantom something or other? Well, whatever it’s called, with a little bit of disappointment at having our eager anticipation dashed, we ended up having an extra week as it turned out.

Now, the end result is a much improved noggin for Baby James. Not quite perfect, but then who has a perfect nut, no-one in my family that’s for sure and that’s his gene pool. And now that he’s getting a fuller head of fair hair, nature is helping him disguise his uniquity (made that word up just now) and hopefully Baby James will have my hair genes and no-one will ever be the wiser.

‘Oh, its gonna make everything be alright, cos you’re a Rocket Man.’

Three Is Not A Crowd.

2010-02-02T17:32:00.000+10:00

Hi again. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? About 2 weeks by my calculations. Well, that’s the length of time that I was away with Kylee. She had a conference in Hawaii and thanks to the great deal that Hawaiian Airlines gave us I was able to bum along with her.

So, did James come along for the ride too? I have to be careful how I answer this as I don’t wish to give the impression that we were giddy school children making a dash for the gate on the last day of school and the freedom that it represented just because we were embarking on an overseas holiday to a tropical locale and we were to be childless. But, yippee, we were going to Hawaii and thoughts of nappy changing, feeding and sleep routines were to be replaced by surfing lessons, swim-up bars and Mai Tais at sunset.

I suppose most new parents would have automatically planned their overseas trip with child in mind. I mean, that’s fairly normal I guess. In fact, while we were on our jaunt, more than once we spied young couples with their young babies going about their tourist business. Us, on the other hand, well we had a precedent to follow, for you see Kylee’s parents had left her in the care of her grandparents when she was a one year old as they too had ventured to the U.S of A. And, family traditions are important to uphold and continue.

Now, I really shouldn’t be so flippant because we did have numerous conversations as to whether we should bring James or leave him with our families. As we prepared to jet off, we were able to thank our parents as we appreciated the opportunity to holiday as a couple and hoped that this would give them an opportunity to have some one on one time with James and to develop another version of their relationship with him.

Many was the time while we were away that we were asked about our family structure and whether we had children and each time it brought James’ absence front and centre to my mind. And after answering that we had a one year old and explaining where he was I found myself wondering how he was going. And at night, Kylee or I would ask the other, what do you think he’s doing, or, how do you think he’s going? Or we would entertain each other by reminding ourselves of his funny little habits, being careful to keep it light hearted lest we get misty eyed as we were missing him.

On our arrival at Waikiki we had some troubles getting our mobile phones to make a call back to Australia, which probably wasn’t a bad thing as I didn’t want to be ringing every 5 minutes like an anxious parent. As it was, my parents looked after James for the first week and we rang them a couple of times for updates. ‘All is well’ and ‘He is a delightful little boy’ were the themes of the responses we received. Well, I’m a teacher and I know how to write a report that doesn’t go out on a limb too, but to be fair, we were hardly going to get any negatives were we?

We continued our semi-regular check-ins after the hand over with Kylee’s parents and we even started receiving photos via text and email. The first one that was texted was a curiosity to us. James looked different somehow … older perhaps … a different expression on his face. I hadn’t figured on this development, but I realised then that we were missing stuff. I hadn’t been in this position before, I had never missed anything, I’m the House Dad after all, I’m with James every day, he and I are buddies. He’s my side-kick, my protégé, I’m his dad. So, what was this funny feeling I was having, maybe a twinge of jealousy or something in that area of human emotion.

I started doing some maths. Two weeks away. James is a bit over a year old, let’s call it fifty weeks for ease of doing the calculations, that’d give us 4%, give or take of his life to-date that we were to be absent for. A lot could happen in that time you know. And it did too…

We’ve returned to a boy who is definitely older, not just in the chronological sense, he’s more grown up too. James’ babblings are sounding more like language now. He interacts with more understanding now, as phrases like ‘come here’ or ‘sit down’ are resonating. He finds humour with the clinking of glass and sippy-cup teamed the word ‘cheers’ that Poppy has taught him. There is now cheesiness to some of his smiles as he plays up his facial expressions for our reactions. James has gained even greater confidence in his negotiating of steps and ‘heights’ in general. And he’s even quicker across the ground now, than ever before.

And after experiencing ‘Hawaiian’ time whereby delays caused us to have an unexpected night in Sydney both going and coming, we’re back home now and glad to be. Kylee and I had a relaxing time on our break, but we were certainly ready to get home because its not just Kylee and me any more, its Kylee, me and James.

Time Management and Other New Year’s Resolutions

2010-01-13T15:27:00.000+10:00

Ok, ok, I know. We’re almost mid-way through January. New Year is becoming a distant memory. Hell, if I listen to Kylee the year is half over. So here I am posting blog Number 2 for the year. I’ve actually been having a lot of problems with this post, trashing draft after draft. Apparently great literature takes time to craft. Don’t be misguided by that last statement, as I fear that it is closer to doggerel minus the verse.

So, why all the trouble writing this post?

Well, I started writing ages and ages ago about how much time I seemed to have in my day. I was new to house-dadding, still had a Monday to Friday 9 to 5 work mindset and I didn’t really know what my role was. Sure there was this baby that needed looking after, but that was fairly straight forward, eat, sleep, change nappies, nurse in arms or place in bouncer, all could be relied upon to facilitate contentment. Then there was some cleaning and I was managing to stay on top of that (it actually takes months of staying at home before you notice dust settling, scuff marks, sloshes, spills, et al, etcetera, etcetera). So, there I was sitting one day when this Rolling Stones song popped into my head;

Yes time, time, time is on my side, yes it is
Time, time, time is on my side, yes it is
Oh, time, time, time is on my side, yes it is
I said, time, time, time is on my side, yes it is
Oh, time, time, time is on my side
Yeah, time, time, time is on my side

I have an inkling that I’m not the first person who’s found themselves in my situation, thinking they have all this spare time and then leaping to the next obvious connection, ‘I should do some study, post-grad, or maybe something totally different. You know, treat this time as a hiatus.’ So there I was trawling through university web-sites looking for courses that might be of interest and then I remember something… I wasn’t a very good student in the first place. ‘Very poor time management skills’ would be the comment on my report card. I would always get assignments in late and needing to throw myself at the mercy of lecturers to accept my offerings. I even tried doing deals, “can you mark my assignment and no matter what its actual grade, I’ll take either a pass or fail.”

I decided I could do without that type of stress again so I didn’t enrol to study.

Anyway, that’s a synopsis of what Version 1.0 of this post was going to be about. Version 2.0 had my mind ticking over about the ethereal nature of ‘Time’. To most in society it’s a concrete concept. A concept that will result in chaos unless it is heeded and adhered to. To me, however, it has become more abstract.

The other day when I was tapping away at the keyboard on this subject I wrote, ‘Today is Thursday 7th of January 2010. I have to tell myself these things as I often lose track of time.’

And it’s true to. Over Christmas I had no idea of the date or the day. I didn’t have the usual markers to help me out. Kylee wasn’t at work, so I couldn’t tell if it was somewhere in between Monday or Friday. Gymboree was on a break so I didn’t know if it was Thursday. I was lost… Not that it bothered me, but it drove Kylee mad.

“How can you live like that?’
Shoulders shrugged “I don’t know? I just can.”
I pulled out the white board marker and tried to sit My Sweet down to further explain, “Time and its various denominations sometimes seem irrelevant when you’re the stay at home person.” I announced with authority, however, seeing her eyes glaze over, I felt it necessary to get her back onside.
“Don’t get me wrong, I count down until 7pm when its time for James to be in bed and I look forward to Fridays and the weekend help you provide. And I’ve never missed the immunisation days at the library.” Not entirely true, but since they jab kids there on the same day every week, it’s not like missing a ‘real’ appointment.
With the feeling that she was back with me, I ploughed on.
“For me, time has new units of measurement. From time to time I find it necessary to utilise the traditional hours, minutes and seconds approach, but I also have a new, creative system for measuring time. For example, if James becomes clumsy, tripping over his feet and comes up whingeing, its time for his morning or afternoon sleep. If I look in the mirror and see light stubble, it’s been around 3 days since I shaved.”
Kylee appeared unconvinced. More examples would be required to add substance to my new world view. I decided to head into safer territory.
“Ok, look at this way. If, say, I only vacuumed on a Monday, well that wouldn’t work, would it? So, traditional time does not dictate when I vacuum, however, ‘messy time’ does. Things just get done, when they need doing.” I saw a nod of agreement. I had Kylee where I wanted her. She was about to agree that ‘laissez faire’ house keeping was a good idea. That a ‘just-in-time’ approach could work. But, I am male after all and I tried to over-reach with a confidence that wasn’t backed with ability.
With earnestness I continued, “And take for example the sheets on our bed. They’re not ‘dirty’ dirty after only a week. With my approach to time I get a feeling … a sixth sense if you will … an instinct … its intuition that lets me know when its been an appropriate length of time between changes …..” Cut off I was.
“And what is this instinct, intuition, sixth sense if you will …” dripping with sarcasm “… is it when the pillow case sticks to your head when you get up in the morning or when you hear a cracking noise as you turn down the sheets at night?”
Point taken, another situation where my time-keeping ability had been challenged and had been found wanting.

And although Version 2.0 was coming along ok and could have been a post on its own, it wasn’t quite right. I was sitting down, trying to write a post for the beginning of the year. One that would excuse my tardiness for weeks without posting, particularly as I had started this blogging with lofty ambitions.

So, here I am writing Version 3.0 Since it’s the beginning of the year perhaps it’s appropriate for me to make a few New Year’s resolutions. First of all, I resolve not to use bad language around James, although he can’t talk, he will soon and I don’t want his first words to be ‘dead shit’. Secondly, I resolve to limit the amount of time that the TV is on during the day. And thirdly, I resolve to have better time management and be more organised for the sake of Kylee’s peace of mind and James’ well-being and as it pertains to this blogging thing, well rather than posting every other day as was my ambitious but fool-hardy goal, perhaps if I can manage one or two a week, then I will have done well.

Happy New Year

2010-01-11T12:52:00.000+10:00

Well it’s a new year now. Officially we are now eleven days into 2010. I haven’t exactly come out of the blocks flying with my blogging. Quite sluggish really. Can I put it down to all that left over pudding, ham and festiveness?

So much has happened over the last few weeks in the busy life of a house dad. Beginning with Christmas, where once again James was more interested in the wrapping than the actual present until he had time to investigate the whirring noises and flashing lights that could be produced.

We hosted as many of my family who could make it for Christmas this year. An excellent idea if I do say so myself. Kylee and I could dispense with packing for eighteen different contingencies and instead had the relatively simple task of catering a lunch for 8 adults and 5 children. The winner on the day was definitely James.

He had his pick of cousins to play with. There were boy games with Aiden, a few years older but happy to have a shadow, who could pass on his worldly knowledge. Switching to Lauryn, he had a big sister who ensured James played by the rules. And when tired of this Alanna, who is closest in age, was more or less a peer. Last but not least, Ethan, a two month old, gave James an insight into the world of babies as he took up a squat pose and watched him in his rocker.

James was certainly up for interactions with other children. Kylee and I had seen this at a pre-Christmas BBQ where he was able to hold his own and play with the other kids. And what a relief too. To have a child that you can now put on the ground, pat him on the bottom and coax him off to play instead of feeling the need to keep him on your lap because he seems too young to be able to interact ‘sensibly’.

There was more still. A few days away for New Year’s with other couples and their young children meant more opportunities for play with kindred spirits. I don’t know what it is about James but again he became the attention of a young girl who had the desire to mother James and ensure that he was ok. This scenario of course gave way to adult comments of boyfriend, girlfriend and impending marriage.

And so onwards and upwards it is for James in the socialising stakes. A phone call prior to Christmas announced that his name had come to the top of the queue and he now had a place in day care, if we so desired. I leaped at the opportunity, while Kylee acknowledged that she could see the benefits for James (and me). The big day came last Friday (I’ll hold back on some of the details, as it might be the subject of a future blog, who am I kidding, of course it will) and when Kylee and I arrived to pick up our son, we were met with the oft spoken words of a carer, ‘James, yes James, he’s around here somewhere’. And that somewhere was outside covered in chalk, investigating a new world that wasn’t his usual domain. And when he spied us from a distance, he smiled and toddled over to us. There was no great hurry, just a swagger and a smile that said ‘I’ve had a good day’.

And as we turned and looked over our shoulders while stopped at the lights on the drive home, both Kylee and I could see a new grown up boy in his seat. Ah, I think 2010 is going to be a good year for Kylee, me and Toddler James.

Transforming into a ‘Proper Dad’

2009-12-23T10:49:00.001+10:00

So this is what its like to be a dad. Pride swelling your chest every time your progeny makes a ‘dada’ noise. Casting a watchful eye over your child as they potter around outside while you’re gardening. Offering or responding to knowing nods with other dads at the park or the pool or at the shops. I can check them all.

What else have I done now that I’m a member of the ‘Dads Club’? Hmmmm.

Well, I decisively initiated a democratic house voting structure, which James and I put to good use while still in hospital, thus enabling us to bond over a game of one-day cricket. (Baby James clearly indicated that he wished to cast his vote along gender lines in order to break the deadlock between Kylee and me).

Wisely or unwisely (time will decide which), I can also tick the following from the list:
 Encouraged son to pull finger (much to suffering wife’s horror but son’s amusement)
 Initiated wrestling as the arbitrary activity to relieve any period of boredom
 Allowed son to lick the top of a ‘brown’ bottle (of course it was empty)
 Bought son a sausage in bread from Bunnings (I got to eat most of it, therefore win/win)
 Brought out old CD’s and started playing them more frequently to expose son to good music (i.e. my taste in music)
 Timed outings to coincide with ABC Grandstand’s cricket coverage (son appears to find Kerry O’Keefe amusing too)
 Mentored son in the sweet art of raspberry blowing

I have another list too. It contains a number of activities and behaviours that I am yet to engage in, but as a dad I am entitled to exercise an option that allows me to:
o Wear budgie smugglers to ANY beach or public pool
o Assume the roll of the ‘fun’ parent (requiring Kylee to take on the role of the parent who says ‘No’)
o Wear t-shirts with ‘witty’ slogans such as Chief Jackson’s ‘Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 40’
o Grow a moustache outside of the month of Movember
o Rely upon hyperbole for humorous effect, while using the excuse of ‘never let the truth get in the way of a good story’ when challenged (actually, I might have done this one already)
o Teach (by showing) how to apply finger locks or knuckle holds

I had cause to consider these lists of things that dads are allowed to do the other day. (By the way, I’m sure they’re acknowledged under international treaty and soon to be ratified in a UN Convention on Dad-hood.) Anyway, I was sitting at the library with 15 or so other parents waiting for our children to receive their vaccination when I realised that I had my t-shirt on inside out. I considered all of the errands that I had done prior to this moment. My brain, Homer-like, went ‘Oops’, then my shoulders shrugged in ‘Oh well’ fashion, brain followed with ‘maybe you could change it here’ … slight delay … ‘probably not’ … this was clearly a stroke of good fortune for those present. I looked down at the squirming bundle in my arms, had a chuckle to myself as I suggested to James that he might like to strap himself in, as I can see myself, either consciously or not, causing no end of embarrassing episodes (particularly through his teenage years) for him to suffer.

These moments though will be formative in his development, as they were in my own, for you see, I wasn’t worried by appearing in public with my shirt on inside out. Hell no, it could have been on back to front too for all I cared, because do you know what? I didn’t give it another thought until Kylee arrived home and almost immediately observed, ‘your shirt’s on inside out’. ‘Were you like that all day?’ ‘Oh my goodness, did you go out like that?’ ‘Oh, James, how embarrassing for you.’

This resulted in my sniggering, followed by the ticking of another one off the list.

Right or Left Handed

2009-12-21T19:04:00.000+10:00

We’ve been making observations about Baby James since the day he was born. Was he a good sleeper? Not so much. Has he become a good sleeper? Thankfully, yes. Is he a good eater? Definitely. What colour are his eyes? Blue. Is he going to be a ginger? As it’s turned out, no, he’s kind of blondey haired with a tinge of brown. Who does he look like? Well, my mum said he had a resemblance to me in the early days, but comparing photos of Kylee as a one year old, James is a dead ringer for her.

We’ve made observations of James’ temperament. We’ve compared his development to other children of the same age. Marvelled at the seemingly early arrival of teeth and of walking. We are waiting for the imminent arrival of speech as he practices his chatter with regularity. We have noted his mind ticking over as he considers which of the many toy options available he will select for play time. He was playing with a calculator the other morning, which to my accountant wife was a sign that he will follow in the family trade.

Baby James has been poked and prodded from a medical perspective, weighed and measured too. Kylee and I have called to one another to decide whether red marks on his body were normal. We’ve watched his reaction as we’ve tried him on new foods. We have at times observed the crap out of our son, in fact we have made observations of that too.

So apart from taking him to a clairvoyant to predict his future, which we seem to now be doing, what else on the developmental level is there left for us to observe? Ah yes, is it to be Right-handed James or Left-handed James?

Throughout the first 12 months he has tried to trick me on this question. Disguising his preference as he explores the world of dexterity. One day he’ll be awkwardly holding food in his right hand, the next day its his left, both days he prefers to use his palm instead of any dainty or delicate finger use as he manages to mash the item of food into the vicinity of his mouth with about an 82% success rate. The remaining food that doesn’t make its way into Messy James’ mouth is then applied in face mask fashion resulting in a baby-like complexion for Handsome James.

So, anyway, the question as to which hand would be favoured remained … until yesterday.

We were playing a game where I would throw a spongey ball against the wall, Laughing James would giggle while retrieving the ball and would throw it to my general direction. We were playing this game for a while when observation mode kicked in. I did a count back, was it four, five or six in a row, yes, definitely five in a row. Five in a row where he trotted after the ball, picked it up and threw it to me with his left hand. Ok, that could be a coincidence, I mean I remember one ANZAC Day when I was on a roll with the tails call, five in a row of those before I did my dosh. Better test this observation. So again and again and again, three more left handed throws before Jimmy James got bored of this game and he ventured off to find some other shiny object to amuse himself.

So a lefty he’ll be. I had noticed a favouring towards this hand but as far as I’m concerned the clinical trials appear conclusive. And now as I write I’ve been considering this prospect too. Not a bad thing to be a left hander, apart from the fact that he’ll be constantly bumping elbows with his neighbour at school and his bookwork will be abysmal, but from a sporting aspect, it certainly seems a good thing.

Now I never played cricket for Australia … not good enough and a right-hander to boot, but there has been a proliferation of great left-handers to wear the baggy green. Allan Border, Mark Taylor, Adam Gilchrist, Matthew Hayden, Justin Langer and the first of the great all-rounders, Allan Davidson. Internationally there’s been Brian Lara, David Gower, Saurav Ganguly and Sir Garfield Sobers. I mean its such a factor, even the NY Times on-line examined this phenomenon in their article Cricket: The importance of being left-handed (http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/02/sports/02iht-CRICKET.1.6952894.html) Hell, I’ll bet even Don Bradman tried the southpaw stance as he knocked his golf ball against the water tank.

So, there it is, if James is a lefty as I suspect he is, I’ll have to help chart his course to the national team. Firstly, our sessions in the nets will focus on knowing where his off-stump is so he can leave the good ones. Nextly, we’ll concentrate on taking advantage of the lbw law by having a go at anything that doesn’t pitch in line with his leg stump. Both areas are the bread and butter for a left handed batsman. We might even get out the video camera for some post-net session analysis …. Uh oh, looks like Sir James Bradman well continue to be under the microscope.

Marks on the Wall

2009-12-14T09:14:00.001+10:00

A baby’s growth is both incremental and relative. Often times over the last 12 months I have looked at James and thought, wow, you are so small. I’ve tossed him in the air and thought, you are so light. And it’s taken a visit from someone who hasn’t seen him for a month or so to comment on how he’s grown before I can see it, and I’ll go, oh yeah, so he has.

I visited my sister the other day. She has a new-born, 6 weeks old and he’s so small. I’ve noticed this before, the extreme comparison of my son to other freshly hatched kidlings. But, how do you notice something that’s under your nose everyday and grows so slowly? It’s like grass … or hair … or fingernails, it’s only when they reach a certain point you notice it and you go, something needs to be done about that.

And so it is with Tall James. When did he get so big? I didn’t notice it until the other day. He discovered his tippy-toes. And a new world of fun opened up to him. A world in which his parental fun-stoppers had previously denied him access. Suddenly he has become able to reach for things, which until now, were stored safely out of reach.

The other day I was in the kitchen when I noticed this development, I cast an eye out into the lounge/dining room to check on a quiet James and I noticed across the top of the dining table a hand was furtively searching for … what? I don’t know and neither did James. All he knew was that this was a place where goodies were stored. And so his hand, extended above his eye level and resembling Thing from The Addams Family searched for stuff, success came in the form of the computer mouse.

So in the week or two since Crafty James revealed his new talent there have been some notable consequences of his achievement. The base camp altitude for objects d’art and objects d’clutter have either risen or been relocated to central positions, i.e. the higher the better and if that’s not possible, away from the edge of the table or bench will have to suffice.

Hitherto perfectly safe and secure items such as the cords behind the CD player are now items of interest and curiosity and are subsequently pulled and yanked until the whole system comes crashing down. We have a 3 foot high Christmas tree, yet it is only 6 inches from touching the ceiling, such is its elevated status this year.

Even thought we have the red medical book that keeps a record of his weight and length progression, they’re just numbers and when kept in a table they don’t mean a lot. I mean, they’re not relative to anything. You need to be able to compare the development to something. I guess that’s why parents create those measuring marks on the door jamb in the kitchen. Personally I can’t stand them, dirty markings, scratched into the gloss with the name of the child and the date or they’re age written down. And as the family expands so the markings become compressed with more information and there might be 3mm difference between one recording to another which requires a steady hand to squeeze the new information in.

Now James’ has decided on his own unique scale and key to record his growth. It requires a set of dirty hands and his biggest stretch, with the resulting marks left behind on the wall, cupboard, fridge etc etc recording his development. And his proud as punch parents are able to marvel at the cleverness of their son. “Look honey” I say, “James can leave dirty marks just below the light switch, last month they were only on the window sill.” And My Sweet replies, “They grow up right under your nose.”

Toys

2009-12-12T06:50:00.000+10:00

I’ve just been cleaning up while Sleepy James has his morning nap. It’s a process that to an outside observer must look like I’m working in the rice paddies, but instead of bending over to plant I’m bending down reaching for the next toy. Bend over, pick up, toss in toy basket, move on, repeat process. And when I find myself on my hands and knees looking under furniture, I wonder aloud as to the origins of all of James’ toys. And every time I’ve picked something up and tossed it into the toy basket James’ Sesame Street guitar has sprung to life, punching out a tune and offering me the opportunity to ‘Jam with Elmo, Jam with Elmo’.

So, where did they all come from? Maybe they’ve multiplied like those asexual single celled organisms I remember from biology, undergoing cell division so you start with one, then two, four, eight, sixteen … and so on and so forth. Or perhaps and more likely they’ve come, mostly from China, via aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, colleagues and clients. One thing’s for sure, we certainly didn’t buy them all.

Toys, toys and more toys. Soft ones, plastic ones, noisy ones, multi-pieced ones. James has so many toys I’m sure there are many that exist in his bedroom that he’s never actually seen before. And there’s more. We have toys in the house that will randomly start up through the night as though they’re possessed and when that happens they can scare the living crap out of you. And then there are toys with sharp edges that hurt like buggery when you step on them in the dark of night as you venture to the bathroom.

And Baby James is only one year old, and we only have one child, and a cat, Keith, who also has toys.

So how do you manage them all? Well, we’ve created a toy bank, taking some out of circulation and periodically returning others. A strategy I know a lot of parents do to minimise the amount of potential mess and to maximise the life of a toy so that everything old seems new again.

I remember my mum used to get annoyed with my Uncle Jim and his choice of presents. He loved gadgets and come birthdays and Christmas we were certain to receive presents that required batteries. This would haunt mum, as no sooner as their car had turned the corner, the batteries would run out and so it would be, endless purchases of Duracels. Even the environmentally friendly idea of re-chargeable batteries didn’t work. We were little kids and little kids lose their teeth and they’re stuck in your mouth, so invariably we would lose the expensive rechargeable batteries too.

And so there it is, toys, often useful for teaching while occupying a child’s time and also allowing for exploration, yet sometimes the bane of a parent’s existence. So a big thankyou to all who have contributed to James’ toy bank, the thought is appreciated, the result sometimes is not. And finally back to the guitar, non-offensive it may be most of the time as it lies silently under the lounge, but when Noisy James has it in his hands and it springs to life over and over and over again and its just about driven me bonkers, well Elmo, all I can think is watch out because if I get my hands on you, when I jam something it’s going to make you wince a little.

Stage No. 10285

2009-12-11T14:09:00.001+10:00

I feel a blog is more than due. I’ve been quite distracted with all the end of year/preparing for Christmas going-ons. Unfortunately this will be a very quick one, not a token blog, but one to make up for my neglectfulness (if that’s a word).

I also thought a blog was due so that you can see that I didn’t jump off a bridge, my last sombre effort resulted in some sage advice from thoughtful readers. Thankyou.

Ok then, so as you know, Go Go James turned the big one (or is it, the big 1) recently, and with that came a series of changes for the big fella. The most notable change seems to have been in relation to the substitution of formula milk for other goodies in his daily nourishment intake. We are currently persevering with the introduction of cow’s milk into his diet, but he doesn’t seem to like the taste either cold or warm. Slowly, slowly on that one. Anyway, an upshot of taking away a few of his formula bottles seems to be a signal for Grown-Up James to move into a new stage. The ‘I know you think a sleep is good for me, but I’m 1 now and I’ll sleep when I feel like it’ stage.

Until recently Jimmy James and I had come to a good understanding, up for 3 or so hours, then down for a sleep for an hour and a half, and since I’m a man who loves a routine, this was perfect. The delivery of a bottle by Dad was the sign for James that we were enacting ‘the routine’. I don’t know what’s in it beyond ‘healthy stuff’ but there seemed to be a magical sleep inducing response too. By the end of the bottle I would find myself cradling a baby who was so relaxed and so close to sleep, it was like he was baby-drunk.

But now … it just seems that yoghurt, fruit, sandwiches, whatever, doesn’t have the same effect at delivering Young James to the land of nod. He’s tired, I know he’s tired, he becomes clumsy, tripping over the crumbs he’s left on the carpet, he becomes frustrated and whiney, so I put him down … and then he sparks up. I hear him chatting away and then he’ll cry for a bit, then a bit of silence, and when I think he may have dropped off … he hasn’t. The cycle continues, chatter, crying, silence, chatter, crying … you get the drift.

So, there you have it. Kids. Just when you think you’re getting the hang of them, they go and change. And as parents we have to become philosophical and say to ourselves, “ah well, its just a stage”, because when we get so used to that new stage and we come to refer to it as ‘the routine’, they’ll go and change in some way … again.

Still Get the Blues

2009-12-02T09:28:00.001+10:00

I wasn’t a very good house dad last week.

If you’d just happened to drop by, not that anyone ever does, but that’s another story or maybe it contributes to this one. In any event, if you had just dropped in, you’d have probably found the house in a complete state. I wasn’t picking up after Messy James at the regular intervals usually required. I wasn’t diligently washing and hanging and folding. I wasn’t really interested in making cook-book meals, luckily we had a few frozen left-over offerings. Non-essential errands were not being run and in reality I was probably only administering the essentials for life. And as you may have noticed, I was even neglecting my blog

So, what was the problem? I guess you could say that I was a bit blue, a bit depressed even.

Everyone gets the blues from time to time. I used to around report writing time and I would suffer from BIG TIME BLUES at the end of the Christmas holidays, when the back to school ads would appear during my summer sports viewing and they would taunt me in their reminder of what was awaiting us teachers. Perversely, I’m sure those same ads would give rise to the totally opposite emotion to at-home-parents, but alas, I still have a few years until I can experience the other side of that particular coin.

I’ve given it some thought and have concluded that in my line of work, getting the blues is probably a luxury that only us at-home-parents of one child can afford. Any more than one and obviously you need to step up to the plate more. I think having older children might make you snap out of it quicker too, I’m sure they’d be able to more easily read your mood. So, I was fortunate that Young James being only a year old allowed me to indulge myself and with the usual playing and feeding and nappy changing and smiling and talking, he seemed to be oblivious to my melancholy.

So what was the cause of my blues? Well, I’m a creature of habit and routine (anal some might even say) and the weekend before my routine was broken. Kylee and I had a fantastic few days away in Melbourne while my parents were caring for James. Kylee and I enjoyed each others company as we discovered Melbourne together. We caught up with dear friends, enjoyed good food and found our way into funky little bars that sold $17 cocktails. Now, don’t get me wrong, we missed our son, even discussing how soon was too soon to ring home to check on him, but at the same time the weekend was the complete opposite to every other normal day for the previous year. We slept in, we stayed up late, and we weren’t listening out for phantom cries. We were enjoying some time-out.

And, so there you have it, the cause of my blues, like a Sunday afternoon after you’ve had a great Saturday night out and the reality of the next day being Monday strikes you down … HARD … and all you feel like doing is lying on the lounge and watching TV to take your mind away from real world realities. My Sunday afternoon just lasted for a week.

I understand that weekends away are to be enjoyed as a break and of course if that was a usual life, then you would be searching for an alternative from that …working might even appear attractive. The break away gave My Sweet and me a chance to focus on each other and even when I was being dragged from clothes shop to clothes shop I was enjoying just being in her company. I wasn’t sharing Kylee with the routine of life, with work, with tiredness, with chores and as bad as this might sound, with James either.

Another thing, I’ve always been a person who appreciates the company of friends and when I’m in their company, I’ve been known to talk … and talk … and talk. The weekend away provided me with that company and I think that returning to a house of less conversation has been difficult.

So, the big question, have I snapped out of my funk? And the answer is; I think so. At least I’ve returned to the routine of life this week and not neglecting my blog is a good sign too.

Television

2009-11-30T14:01:00.001+10:00

Television, the drug of the Nation
Breeding ignorance and feeding radiation
(Drug of a Nation, Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy)

I love TV. I have watched hours, millions of hours of it in my life. Reality TV, all the news I can get and of course, sport, sport and more sport …which reminds me, Day 1 of the 1st test against the Windies has been on for half an hour and I’ve been neglecting my obsession. (Quick score check – Australia 1 for 9, Watson the early man out, do you want my opinion on who should be at the top of order and omg, Channel 9 have a new technology toy, a heartbeat monitor to go with snicko et al – you get the picture) I’m sure I’m not alone in my hobby. I have actually shunned payTV because I do believe that you can get too much of a good thing.

I sometimes wonder whether I would have achieved differently had I harnessed the time I have dedicated to TV and applied it in a different pursuit. Definitely, I’m sure.

Skip forward to the next generation. Baby James seems to enjoy television too. Enjoy? No there is a better word, not quite love, but he’s fascinated by it. The movement, the colour, the changes in volume when something exciting happens, the music, it gets his attention all the time. Uh oh, is this a problem? Mmmmm, I’m not too sure how comfortable I am with this.

We’ve kept his hands off the remote control (that’s for daddy) and so there is an eagerness to get his hands on ‘the power’ whenever it’s left in his reach. He knows what it does, and when we have left it lying in a careless location, he’ll grab it, quick as a flash and he’ll press all of the buttons until the ‘magic’ happens. I’m often alerted to what he’s up to when I hear the clicking noise that our TV makes when its thinking about starting up or sometimes the volume suddenly increases, and I’ll think to myself, what’s going on here, oh, it’s the baby.

I’ve been mindful of the television factor since way back when. I had said to myself that I didn’t want to allow it to be a babysitter for Handsome James, but I had also said that as it’s a feature of a modern household, I didn’t believe that it should be quarantined. So, in the early days I didn’t believe that it would be harmful if Baby James had some exposure to TV. It intrigued him and I was controlling his viewing habits. And it suited me to plonk him down and let him be entertained by Iggle Piggle and his friends from In The Night Garden (Never seen it? Man, I’ve got mates from uni who loved the hooch and this program would have been right up their alley, maybe not the 9.00am edition, but certainly the repeat on ABC2 at Midday). It became part of James’ routine, In the Night Garden from 9.00am until 9.30am, while I stacked the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and picked up toys, then when the announcer told us it was time for bed, well, then it was a bottle and morning nap time. It seemed to work well.

I guess the morning TV routine started when he was about 3 or 4 months of age. Our Baby James was a star sitter, he possessed a good sized base as his platform and he was happy where he was put. As he has grown, he has learned about spatial awareness, and so too his understanding has also developed of TV’s relationship in HIS space. From the time he could pull himself to standing position and then walk his way around the lounge furniture, he has gravitated towards the ubiquitous TV. The cabinet places the TV at an almost perfect height for James. As he stands in front of the flickering rectangle he is able to take in and absorb the movement he sees in front of him. Trouble is, from my perspective, he resembles the kid from the Poltergeist who is in a zombie trance in front of the ‘snow’ on the box. That, I guess is the worry. It’s also a worry to me that James can be pottering away with his toys and if I use the remote to turn the TV on, that soft clicking noise that signifies ‘action’ will cause him to prick up his ears and he will turn his attention TV-ward.

Lately, it’s been the case that we cannot give James either his breakfast or dinner with the TV news as an accompaniment for ourselves. I thought kids hated the news, not so, maybe it’s the fact that what we watch is only masquerading as news and James is actually only tuning in to find out what’s been happening in the lives of Britney Speers, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton et al. In any event, feeding and TV do not go together as one seems to distract the other and attempting a ‘clean’ feed is nigh on impossible when the food recipients mouth is at 45 degrees to the spoon.

I’m sure all parents find it difficult to judge the appropriate amount of TV exposure that their children should have in order to create a good balance. I’ve come to conclusion that it’s off most of the time, unless it suits me … let’s hope James enjoys cricket.

Evolution.

2009-11-30T12:23:00.001+10:00

As with all things, the theory of evolution can be applied. And so it will be with this blog. I have previously intimated that when writing on a semi-regular basis it can be a bit monotonous using the same reference terminology, and if it’s monotonous for me as a writer, well, I feel for the reader. So, I have moved on from only referring to my patient wife as ‘My Sweet’ and I feel liberated for doing so. It's now Baby James' term to receive the treatment.

I’ve decided that as cute as it is to refer to him as Baby James and as much as I like the James Taylor ‘Sweet Baby James’ reference, its time to evolve. Henceforth I will mix it up a bit. I’ve decided to draw a line in the sand now that he’s a one year old, so, any pre-one stories he will still be Baby James, but post one, the stuff that’s happening now, he’ll be James, Jimmy James, Handsome James, Messy James, Noisy James, or whatever other adjective best describes the moment in time I’m capturing.

So, that’s all for this post. More to come very, very soon.

Who is My Sweet?

2009-11-26T23:20:00.001+10:00

I started this writing caper in order to keep a record of my observations of Baby James. I had started to amass too many memories that were beginning to mesh together … he was growing and doing more stuff. I wanted a written record of events like his learning to roll, the fact that he could only roll in one direction and he would get stuck against things like the couch and walls and he would squawk his displeasure at being stuck, so I would turn him 180 degrees and he would roll contentedly in the opposite direction until he met another structural object. So I started jotting words, phrases and paragraphs with the intention of expanding at a later date.

Even though I had thought of blogging my record, I was more likely to use the old pen and paper method to journal, and then I came across a blog that is written by an old school chum (http://armagnacd.blogspot.com) and I was inspired to use this medium, rather than proceeding with my usual Luddite-like rejection of technology.

So I got onto the blogspot website and registered some details, ever mindful of the kind of information that I was putting out into the public sphere of the www, you know security and all that, I didn’t want to be a victim of identity theft, card scammers and Nigerians, who are crafty people or so I’m told by email. So, I’m Ben, no surname, from Brisbane, with a son named James, whose birth date has since been revealed. And I’m married too, her name is … My Sweet.

Referring to my beautiful wife as ‘My Sweet’ seemed to have a two-fold benefit. Firstly, it was a lovely reference that would gain me brownie points. Secondly, it was an anonymous reference that would keep her need for a safe environment satisfied. But over time I have discovered that this moniker is a difficult reference to maintain blog after blog. I have needed a new reference for My Sweet and given some of the people who are reading these posts know who I’m referring to anyway, and given those who don’t know us are still investing their time reading our stories, well, it seems an appropriate time to reveal a little bit more about ourselves. So, the name of my beautiful darling wife, the mother of our son, Baby James, is … Kylee.

Phew, I’m glad that’s out. Now I can move into a new world of blogging. I may however need to change the locks on the house, shut down my Facebook account and cease internet banking (which I don’t actually do anyway, remember my Luddite reference previously).

What’s in a Name?

2009-11-19T20:29:00.001+10:00

So, I’ve told you about the entry of our son James into the world and in that I wrote about how he was named. What I didn’t tell you at that stage was the undertaking that was given to My Sweet. In the umming and ahhhing process leading up to James’ arrival we had enjoyed the game that most expecting parents play, the one where you’re sitting in bed at the end of the day and you’re imaging what your life will be like when the new edition appears. And in that imagining is the ‘Name Game’. Our version of this game usually involved myself throwing up alternatives and My Sweet taking the role of the trap shooter, knocking them down with clinical precision. I set up some big targets to be sure, throwing out Hector, Manuel and Theo to test if she was really listening. Bang …. Bang …. Bang …. She was.

This game was played periodically over the months of My Sweet’s pregnancy. At times the name game was enjoyable, it brought us closer together as we wrote names on to a ‘possibles’ list or crossed them out, but at other times it felt like the impasse was akin to some of the Cold War negotiations between East and West. Thank goodness we had learned that we were having a boy because on occasion there were no acceptable boy names on the table; imagine if we were doing it for a girl too.

Eventually we worked our way down to a final two, James and Patrick. Both names had appeal as they were the sort of strong traditional names that we were looking for, both names featured in our family histories and both were solid names for a man. I was for James and My Sweet was for Patrick, in the end My Sweet, while holding our newly arrived and much anticipated cargo gave us James … with one condition. He was to be James, not Jim or Jimmy. And so I, with a great deal of difficulty and even with a contemplation to cross my fingers, agreed.

I had a chuckle when Father-in-law was introduced to his grandson and being old school he immediately referred to him as Jimmy. On occasion, I too have given it a bit of the old Jim or Jimmy, bumping my way through the annoyance that such reference creates, aware that I am treading a dangerous line close to breaking my promise. Jimmy James seems a more acceptable nickname, but from time to time I have to be careful not to catch the displeasure that this creates in the form of a good old ‘tisk tisk, that’s not his name’.

I know one thing though. And I can say it without needing to refer to any of the fine print relating to the condition laid down. If any of James’ friends choose to call him Jimmy, well I had nothing to do with it, and I might even secretly support it too.

But, I have made a promise and even though I’m not too sure about the hierarchy of promises, I’m fairly sure that the circumstances in which I gave mine would certainly rank with ‘On my mother’s life …’ or ‘so help me god …’. So there it is, we have a son named James and I am bound to my promise.

Post Script.

Since blogging and facebooking my experiences as a proud father, I have received comments suggesting that I cannot keep referring to James as ‘Baby James’ since he won’t always be a baby. I can see the logic in that. I can also see the formation of a nickname, like the reference to Baby John Burgess (a personal hero of mine) or Sweet Baby James from James Taylor’s song. So, I’m contemplating dropping the ‘Baby’ reference or replacing it with ‘Handsome’ because that he is…. What do you think?

Another Side To The Story

2009-11-18T22:09:00.001+10:00

Righto, so I’ve written a couple of blogs about myself and some of the mental hurdles I’ve had to leap in this house dadding business and I’ve got one or two more sitting around in draft form for a later date. But, instead of discussing new parenthood from that angle, I thought I might write a bit with My Sweet in mind.

What do I mean? Well, over the last 12 months I’ve been asked almost as an opening conversation starter when catching up with friends the “how’re you going?” question, or a version of it. This is great, it gives me a chance to talk about myself and even if they’re only being polite, I still have a forum in which I can debrief. If things have been good, I say so, if things are not so good, I say so too.

It’s dawned on me though, that people rarely ask My Sweet the same question. Well, that’s not quite right, they do ask her, but instead of it being “how are you going”, it becomes “how is Ben going”, I am, as a house dad, still a bit of novelty within society. Working mums, however, are everywhere. And, as I write this I actually can see why parenting full stop, can be tough. I guess those of us who are newest to parenting are still finding the transition tough, and the longer you do it, the easier it becomes because you create new routines.

And I think that’s my point, people can see the massive routine change that has occurred in my life but they don’t see the new challenges My Sweet has to overcome, and they’re present for all working parents too, but I’ll focus on My Sweet.

My Sweet, my beautiful wife has become the ‘go-to’ person in our house each morning. This came about from the early days when Baby James would wake through the night and I would take that bullet, she in turn tends to him when he wakes. She changes him, feeds him and enjoys his playful company while getting herself ready for work too. This task has become more difficult as our son has become more mobile and he is now proficient at interrupting both the showering and stocking processes.

As My Sweet hops in the car for her drive into the city, Baby James and I wave her goodbye from the drive and Baby James gives her his best smiles for her to take on the trip. I am sure this is small consolation. I would wager My Sweet would prefer to spend each day with her son having fun. I am reminded of a story My Sweet relayed about a woman she works with whose husband house dads, some days this colleague of My Sweet would arrive home to discover not a single chore had been completed and her husband and the kids were still in their pyjamas, well, you can only imagine the sort of fun that was had on those days.

And so the day goes on. Some times I get a phone call to see how we’re doing. And sometimes I get cross because the phone has woken Baby James or I get cross because he has been difficult. And I should have been more thoughtful.

And when My Sweet arrives home and I see the car in the drive, I have begun to switch off as take-over is about to happen. I don’t exactly take up a position on the couch, but heading into the kitchen to make dinner is usually the better of the two options at this time of the day, for even though I have gotten much better at timing Baby James’ sleeps so that My Sweet doesn’t walk in to find a hysterical child, the fun times at the end of the day are not as lengthy as those in the middle.

So, a bit of play time, a bit of a catch up and then it’s quickly dinner time for Baby James, either with us or by himself depending on the meals I’ve made. After dinner My Sweet baths Baby James, again a task that has become more difficult as he has become more able to stand and squirm. The second to last task involving Baby James is one that we both dread. Drying and dressing is a two part process that Baby James has objected to since his first bath in the hospital. It is made all the more unpleasant as he is by this stage quite tired and therefore in no mood for being contorted into his wonder suit. So, My Sweet usually tackles this task by herself and I can often hear the objections that Baby James is making while I’m downstairs. If they’re really loud I’ll provide a second pair of hands and some distracting singing.

From there its bottle time for Baby James and then bed. This process, at least, is pleasant, a quiet and appreciative baby snuggling into your arms as he readies himself for sleep. It is at this time that My Sweet reappears at the bottom of the stairs looking for her opportunity to relax.

As you can see, when all things are considered, I get to enjoy the best time with Baby James and My Sweet is left to steal moments here and there in between some of the tougher baby rearing jobs. And after she has read this, I hope I can be excused as I don’t ask My Sweet how she’s handling the juggle of mothering and working often enough, but hopefully I’ve shown that I understand that she has a tough gig too, equally as hard as those mental challenges I’ve had to hurdle and that in essence is the partnership needed when parenting.

A First Birthday

2009-11-17T20:47:00.000+10:00

Oops. I’ve just noticed that it has been toooo many days since I last added a blog. And here it is, not that long ago, that I was patting myself on the back for being organised and writing regularly. I know it’s been a while by the number of people who’ve told me so, which is of course a good thing for me, it means that people find my writing interesting … or useful as my brother-in-law revealed when he told me he had had a read one night when he couldn’t sleep, so if you know any insomniacs, feel free to pass on the web address.

In any event, I haven’t been resting on laurels, I’ve been gathering idea, upon idea, upon idea and am now trying to work out if I’m to write and post random events or should I try to apply some organisation. I like the idea of being organised … I’m just not so good at applying it, but we’ll see. And apologies in advance, I think this will be another long one.

So … you last read about the day that Baby James arrived into this world, well, My Sweet and I celebrated his 1st birthday last Friday.

Like all first events, there was even umming and ahhhing about the correct way to approach this one too. It was sure to include all of our love and hopes for our son’s future, that of course was a given. So what decisions needed discussion. Well, in my childhood I think I had maybe two or three birthday parties … I can actually only really remember one. The norm for me was usually a smaller family affair, still involving cake and presents and for some reason I remember apple cider too. And that experience of course has framed my world view. The opposite experience seems to have been the case for My Sweet. Lucky for us we are both Catholics, not just because we can both confess our angry thoughts.

I’m not all “bah humbug” when it comes to celebrating events. I’m just more comfortable with the smaller rather than the larger scale. I’ve heard of 1st birthdays with a hundred or more guests that turn into a giant booze-up, if that’s what you want and that works for you, great. It just doesn’t work for me. Now, I wasn’t up against anything of that magnitude. In actual fact, My Sweet and I were able to agree on most things. I did, however, put the kibosh on a jumping castle and I think lolly bags too, but I might debate that point, I just think My Sweet forgot to make them up.

We decided to ask My Sweet’s parents if they would mind hosting Baby James’ party, a request with multi-faceted benefits. Mother-in-law and Father-in-law are hugely involved in My Sweet’s life and are great supporters of us (as are my parents too) and they are also doting Grandparents to their 1st grandson. So, benefit number one was that we were able to give them an opportunity to be actively involved in an event with a great deal of symbolism.

Such a location seemed best when considering travel and accommodation arrangements. As our agreed guest list was pared down to only include direct family, even if we only considered My Sweet’s side, as my siblings are scattered, there would still be seven people needing to travel the three hours to our house and they couldn’t be expected to drive home after, so we would be opening the storage cupboard under the stairs to find an extra room. So, here’s benefit number two, general travel would be cut down (and I wouldn’t have bucket loads of washing to do too). So the major part of the plan was in place and the finer details came together too.

Now, it seems that in modern times the concept of the Bucks Night has turned into a Bucks Weekend - well that’s become my experience – so too was Baby James turning his birthday into a weekend of festivities. He had started the day with birthday presents from us, wrapped in tissue paper and with a ready-made bow on top, it seemed that we had given him two presents in one as he laughed his way through the ripping process. My Sweet organised for a long weekend on the Friday and the four of us (we had been visited by My Sweet’s Nan) drove out to my in-laws. Upon arrival it was present giving part two, same experience as the morning, two presents in one with the box providing lots of entertainment.

The rest of the day was a usual routine for Baby James, but while he was having his afternoon sleep, together with My Sweet and her parents a bottle of French bubbles was enjoyed and Baby James was toasted at precisely 2.36pm or maybe it was 2.39pm as we couldn’t quite synchronise watches.

Skip forward to the Sunday which was party day (planned to enable my parents to make it more easily). Some fretting by My Sweet that not enough was happening to get ready for the arrival of our guests was soon alleviated by a) pretending to look busy, b) light hearted humourous jibes and c) actually doing as requested. We were soon ready, but Baby James wasn’t. He had woken from his morning nap with a temperature and as much as he tried to be his usual convivial self, he couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for those who had gathered in his honour. With the exception being his enjoyment for revealing the surprises wrapped within the colourful paper that he was being given. Seems we’ve found someone who enjoys a present.

He gave My Sweet some shy smiles in appreciation for her efforts at themeing an ‘In The Night Garden’ birthday but I don’t think he even tasted the cake his aunt had produced with Iggle Piggle emblazoned in the icing on top. The old adage of not working with animals and children eh? We enjoyed the BBQ and Baby James seemed to enjoy the singing of ‘Happy Birthday to him’ but for the most part he was uncharacteristically attaching himself to either myself or his mother in koala fashion.

As late afternoon arrived people began making a move to their usual lives and we organised ourselves for our trip home. People were thanked and the car was packed and we hit the road. Baby James fell promptly to sleep and My Sweet and I discussed the success of the day, family, friends, presents for a one year old, cake, singing, party hats, balloons and blow horn thingies. So in the words of Goldilocks (and me) James’ party wasn’t too big and it wasn’t too small, it was just right.

The Arrival of Baby James.

2009-11-10T11:25:00.002+10:00

A year of firsts is set to continue with Baby James approaching his 1st birthday (3 more sleeps) and it’s got me thinking about this time 12 months ago. In actual fact our bundle of joy was scheduled on the calendar to arrive this very day, but like all good things we were forced to wait. The waiting game was pleasant enough, lazy days in the shade with cool breezes and healthy salads, and after debating the pros and cons of it, My Sweet and I also had developed a contingency plan, we would accept some medical intervention if Mother Nature didn’t kicked in by herself … she would be given an extra 3 days.

And so it was on the morning of the third day that we rose early (sounds kind of biblical) and readied ourselves for the adventure of a lifetime that was about to occur. We had received advice against answering the phone in the morning as it would likely be the hospital trying to bump you until another day. Not likely we had said, we were ready ... today WOULD be the day. In fact, the phone did ring, but who was on the other end of the line we will never know.

I had been nervous about this day for the full 9 months, we men are now duty bound to be by our wives side at the birth and I was afraid of the unknown. I had seen footage of births on TV, in movies, soap operas, documentaries, at baby school and even in an educational film in Year 10 Science. I had heard of labour’s lasting ten, twelve, 16 hours, longer even. I didn’t know how I would go seeing My Sweet in pain with our child, that was my fear.

The reality was nothing like my imagination.

On our arrival, we completed the relevant documentation, were greeted by our midwives and shown to our birthing suite. Our lovely, relaxed doctor arrived shortly thereafter, he had already brought new life into the world and it was only 7.30am. My Sweet was induced and then for the majority of the morning she sat comfortably propped up on the bed, hooked up to monitors and tubes.

Again, we had discussed the various options available to us to assist in the birthing process and we had decided that our birth plan would include the use of an epidural. My Sweet now laughs at a communication breakdown that occurred at this point. We had advised the midwives of our birth plan and they had been quizzing My Sweet about her contractions and not knowing what she was supposed to be feeling, she confirmed that they had commenced. The anaesthetist was notified and she attended to apply her skills. Looking back, My Sweet thinks that she felt two, possibly three contractions and on the pain scale, they didn’t really rate.

So, we had a pleasant day, talking to one another, discussing name options, reading the paper, drinking coffee and all the while relying upon the machine’s graph paper to spike which indicated another contraction. The experts kept telling us how well things were progressing and speculating as to which side of one o’clock we would see our son. Well, we had to wait a little longer than that, but, as the clock ticked closer to the E.T.A. I became more fidgety. Then Dr Doug appeared with his sleeves rolled up, he’d been busy elsewhere and he was about to become busy with us. (Hopefully I get around to writing a separate blog about Dr Doug, but if I don’t, he is a most relaxed professional, with his own brand of charisma inspiring confidence.) An examination was conducted and confirmation of imminent birth.

This next part is written from a male’s perspective, so please, no letters if I upset anyone.

From the time we took up battle stations, to the time Baby James arrived seemed to go very quickly. There was some huffing and puffing, there were some facial contortions and there was a sweaty brow … and that was just me. I felt inept, unhelpful and clumsy. My Sweet however, was brilliant; she focussed away from me and concentrated on Dr Doug’s instructions. As the action increased I was called into the fray to lend assistance. Now, I’m not saying I delivered my son. No siree, I’m certainly not suggesting that at all. I guess the best description of my involvement is to use a cricket analogy. Say, Dr Doug is the wicket keeper, I took up a position somewhere between gully and point, close to the action but not too close and certainly not relegated to the boundary.

Baby James was born into this world at 2.36pm on Thursday 13th November 2008. I have never witnessed anything more amazing, I have never seen My Sweet looking more beautiful and I have never felt as proud as I did at that moment in time. I’m even getting a bit misty eyed as I write about it now, but I do tend towards the emotional side, you should have seen me at the end of The Green Mile or Max and Mary.

We had brought a son into the world. We knew that he was a boy. We didn’t however have a name. Both James and Patrick were equal on our list. I leant towards favouring James and I think My Sweet was leaning towards Patrick as her favourite. In the instant that I saw him, I loved him and it wouldn’t matter to me what he was named, it was My Sweet who decided, he would be James Patrick and I was prouder still. My Sweet had given me the privilege to name our son and I love her for that too.

After, the weighing of Baby James, other medical checks and the lovely skin to skin experience we were brought to the ward where we would spend the next few nights. We were at the new Mater Mother’s Hospital in Brisbane with its modern facilities and thoughtful appointments, including a day bed for us dads to sleep on at night and meals accompanied with a glass of wine were enjoyed.

On our last night in hospital a seasonal storm cell descended on Brisbane, exploding over the north-western suburb of The Gap. It caused great devastation only a handful of kilometres from where we were nestled. In fact, as our room overlooked an internal protected courtyard, our view was merely of a dark, rainy sky, we were blissfully unaware of the trouble without, we were secure inside, perhaps an appropriate metaphor. I hope so.

We checked into the hospital as a couple and left as a family. Absolutely Amazing.

Changes

2009-11-05T08:42:00.001+10:00

It has been said that having children will change your life. Well whoever came up with that little chestnut was a master of the bleeding obvious. Of course, we all know that the arrival of a little bundle of joy is going to alter your experience and understanding of the world, we’re just a little unsure as to how. And as David Bowie sang,

Ch-ch-Changes
Pretty soon you're gonna get a little older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

I remember in the first few weeks after My Sweet and I brought Baby James home. We were both on leave from work, me permanently, and the whole baby thing seemed like a piece of cake. Our son seemed to sleep all the time, nappy changes weren’t too horrendous and as he was being bottle fed, we could both take a hit for the team when it came to middle of the night feeds. In fact, one of my strongest memories from the time is when My Sweet and I were sitting on our front verandah, both reading the paper, drinking coffee and enjoying the early summer weather and as Baby James stirred we quibbled over who’s turn it was to attend, not as it is at times now, but instead we were debating in order to be the one to have a turn with the new play thing.

So there it is, confirmation from another new parent that life has changed. That, I’m sure maintains a 100% strike rate for that particular survey. Again, Bowie sings,

Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

(Although, I think the ‘different man’ in this chorus was a reference to his own sexual confusion or transvestism or something of that nature, but nevertheless, taken at face value, I think the lyric is appropriate for the change facing a house dad.) Anyway …

So, here’s a list of changes that have either already happened or that I’m working on. In no particular order, I…
- Walk lightly around the house when Baby James is asleep, trying to avoid the loose floor boards that squeak incredibly loudly, or so my brain tells me.
- Refer to My Sweet as ‘Mum’.
- Use a firm grip and open the door to Baby James’ room slowly to minimise noise when checking if he’s still asleep.
- Am trying to become a patient person, remembering expressions my own mum uses like, ‘there’s more than a dozen ways to cook a chook’ or ‘what’ll it matter in 10 years time’.
- Stopped smoking. Well, technically I did that before Baby James arrived. But I did it for the thought of him and for My Sweet and the rest of my family as well as myself. (Wouldn’t mind a bunger from time to time though)
- Share meals with Baby James, moving on from scrambled eggs, baked beans on toast are pretty good at the moment.
- Sing nursery rhymes and kiddy songs all the time and if I can’t remember one of those to help ‘soothe the savage beast’ that is Baby James at dressing for bed time, then a few lines of any Beatles tune will do.
- Am trying to stop using bad language (little ears you know).
- Used to find myself standing in the nursery looking down on Baby James checking that he was breathing.
- Now find myself standing in the nursery looking down on Baby James and I smile.
- Look forward to being able to bowl to Baby James in the nets and kick a footy with him.

So, there you have it, some of my changes. I could’ve added heaps more to the list, but I think you get the drift. I’m betting too, that if you’re a new parent, or an old parent for that matter, that you’ve found yourself doing some of the things on the list too and that life is not as recognisable to you as it once was.

Is There a More Enjoyable Sound?

2009-11-03T09:41:00.002+10:00

Baby James had a bad night last night. It wasn’t a case of continual crying or anything like that. I think he just had one of those nights where he could’t find a comfortable sleeping position. I know this because his cot is on the other side of the very thin wall to our bed and I could hear him … all night.

He was moving around at 11pm, needed settling at midnight, given his dummy at 1am and after continuing to rattle the sides of the cot with his arms, legs and I’m sure the odd clunk signalled he was also using his head, I gave Baby James a bottle at 2am. And that wasn’t the end of Baby James’ efforts to give me an insight into the life of an insomniac.

I’m a bit tired this morning and I’m possibly not the best person to be an advocate on behalf of babies. Well, that’s the position I could take if I only had last night to refer to. But it’s not and I think it’s in Baby James’ and my best interests to talk about the one thing he does that always brings a smile to my face. And that one thing is laugh. There is no sound more enjoyable to hear than that of your own baby’s laugh. When Baby James laughs, it’s infectious and I laugh too.

He squeals with delight when I play hide and seek with him. I will crawl around on the floor getting Baby James’ attention and then I’ll slink around a corner or hide behind a piece of furniture. And when I sense he’s near, I’ll pounce. And Baby James’ eyes light up and his mouth forms an open smile and he’ll laugh … hard … and loud … and I’ll laugh … and if My Sweet is at home, she’ll come and see what ‘her boys’ are doing, and even though she might shake her head at us … she’ll laugh too. After I’ve pounced, I’ll sometimes tackle Baby James and hold him to my chest and as I roll on the floor with him I can feel his laugh and I can hear it close to my ear.

If I make the bed with Baby James around I can guarantee he’ll become excited. Since he has shown how much he enjoys the parachute at Gymboree I have improvised with the bed sheets. And now, he associates bed-making with fun and games. So I’ll scoop him up and put him in the middle of our bed and I’ll flap the sheet up and down, on his head or in his lap … does he LOL (that’s a reference for the Gen Y readers), you bet.

I am also becoming the master of silly voices, faces and noises, and the word ‘splodge’ said with different emphasis usually proves to be a winner. Other guaranteed winners for generating laughs from Baby James include the obligatory fatherly activity of tossing baby into the air and catching him (an interesting side-note from My Sweet pertains to the alleged fact that fathers are usually the first to drop their children, hmmm, I wonder why, perhaps it’s because we tend to be the ones who encourage risk-taking behaviour). Running the bath is usually met with excitement. I’ve also noticed random laughs emanating from within Baby James now that he has started to walk, goodness knows what he’s seen that has produced a laugh or maybe it just feels funny. And since I’ve mentioned funny feelings, rubbing Baby James’ tummy or tickling him beneath his chin or on the back of his neck often produces shrieks too.

So, when Baby James is not quite at his best I remind myself that it’s just a stage and when I find myself becoming frustrated I try to remember all the times he brings happiness to my world, because I know once he’s had a good sleep and re-charged his batteries, he’ll be ready to smile and play and laugh with me again.

Another Lesson Learned the Hard Way

2009-11-02T15:23:00.000+10:00

I learned a valuable lesson on the weekend. It’s a lesson My Sweet learned the week before. It’s also a lesson that explains why some friends of ours have gone into a socialising cocoon since becoming parents. The lesson: Alcohol, late nights and young children do not mix.

Some weeks ago we heard from some uni friends of ours to tell us that they were going to be in town and it would be good if we could catch-up. As I had been meaning to get a few of our mutual friends together for some time I welcomed this as the opportunity for such an occasion. I had described it as a BBQ but it was soon being referred to as a ‘party’. In the background, deep in my sub-conscious, there were some alarm bells ringing but alas they were too faint and they were soon drowned out by all the other peripheral noise associated with getting organised for the event.

So, Saturday rolled around and our guests duly arrived with their children in tow and plates under their arms and eskies in hand. It became clear early on that we had all combined to over cater by a factor of at least 50%, again another alarm bell should have sounded. I know I should have been worried when a big bottle of rum and a bottle of port were placed on the kitchen bench, but I honestly didn’t think they’d be touched. How wrong I was. Friends in their mid thirties who’ve know each other since their teens or early twenties often think they’re back ‘in the day’ when re-telling old tales. Now, My Sweet was wary of the signs, as I said, she learned the lesson I was about to learn the weekend before when she was incapacitated for a day following a long-lunching session with her work colleagues.

The night went well, there were many laughs, we ate and drank in style, had some good laughs, the kids seemed to mix and play well and there were only a few ‘tales being told’ and that was just the adults. The last of the guests departed around midnight and inside I went. My next mistake was to turn on the TV and discover Australia playing England in the league, I’ll only watch to half-time I thought and so I continued to be festive … by myself.

And then the pain began.

Baby James was clearly unaware that our/my sleeping pattern had changed the night before. Had he been aware, I’m sure he wouldn’t have woken up so early and if he had, well then I’m sure he would have been happy to play quietly for an hour or three. But no, he wasn’t aware of this fact. And so it transpired that through the day, each time Baby James had a sleep, so did I.

But it was more than just the sleep issue. Baby James decided that my ‘day after’, would be the day that he might try out just how whiney he could be. I might be exaggerating a little, but it seemed at times as though nothing My Sweet or I did would satisfy our little man … he knew, didn’t he? How could he know? Perhaps it was the fact that I was lying prone on the lounge unable to move, I was a captive audience.

And so it came to pass that I suffered through my hangover with a new aspect to include, because the jobs that a baby requires you to complete on their behalf do not go away. I still had to change the nappy of a twisting, turning, grisly baby. I still had to bath a boy who does not want to sit down when I attempt to brush his teeth and I was, for the day, unable to recall a single line from any of his Gymboree tunes that seem to placate him while going through the dressing ritual.

It was quite a painful day to endure, complete with little sympathy from My Sweet as I had made the poor call of ‘encouraging’ her to take Baby James to his swimming lesson when she was in a self-inflicted state the week before.

So, it’s now the day after the day after and with a clearer mind I believe that instead of ‘OcSober’ I think I might proclaim ‘SobVember’. And as for any festive invitations that come our way, well, we might just well become the couple who avoid socialising now that we have a child.

Peanut Butter, Strawberry Jam and Cow’s Milk

2009-10-31T08:49:00.000+10:00

Today’s breakfast with Baby James went better than yesterday’s. We reverted to the reliable old staple of Weet Bix. So why was yesterday’s breakfast so bad? Well, it wasn’t too bad, in fact it wasn’t at all what you are probably imaging. Let me provide some background for you, My Sweet has a psychological aversion to any foods that are staring down the barrel of their best before date and her ‘cautiousness’ with food has carried over to Baby James, which is probably just as well as I literally have a ‘suck it and see approach’.

I should probably take a more responsible approach to the substances that Baby James ingests, i.e. there are any number of books and magazines and probably a DVD or two lying around the house that would tell me what foods he should ‘experience’ and when. But if I’m to be honest, I’m not that interested in those types of books and I find that kind of reading tedious. Lucky for us My Sweet is the opposite to me, or maybe she just understands that if the knowledge void is to be filled in our house, then it’s up to her.

So it has come to pass that over time I have suggested all types of new foods for Baby James to try and on occasion my suggestion has been met with pursed lips, a furrowed brow and a shake of the head, I guess that’s a ‘No’ then. I am then provided with the explanation which is usually something like, ‘He has to wait until he’s 12 months old’. Ah, the magical 12 month mark where Baby James will automatically and instantaneously, on the very day of his birth, acquire his super hero defence shield that will protect him from the nasties that lurk in strawberries and cow’s milk.

And that’s kind of the back story.

So, a couple of nights ago when My Sweet suggested that Baby James might be ready for peanut butter I sat bolt upright in my chair and looked her squarely, reminded her that Baby James was still 2 weeks shy of being dipped in the River Styx like Achilles, and I asked her was she sure. My Sweet then revealed that some recent research had led her to the belief that near enough was good enough. I liked her thinking.

I awoke early, giddy with excitement, it was like Christmas Day … then again I may be exaggerating. In all likelihood I probably rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes, grumbling about not enough sleep but that’s not the point. Down in the kitchen I put the toast down and readied myself with the breakfast spreads from the pantry, jam for my sweet and instead of vegemite for Baby James and myself, today I had the peanut butter out.

In the background, Karl Stefanovic was bleating on about something (probably still drunk from the Logies) and Baby James was playing with his toys. Both were blissfully unaware of the momentous occasion that was being organised. My Sweet, having showered, appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Uh oh’, her lips were pursed and her brow was furrowed. ‘Too late’ I said. I was ready to push Baby James through this new rite of passage, I’d been given the green light and was determined.

My Sweet gave her best Marge Simpson impersonation when she said, ‘I’m not too sure about this Ben.’ I responded Homer-like with ‘The boy’ll be all right, you’ll see.’ I was trying to exude confidence, but in fact, how could I possibly know. Anyway, Baby James was put in his high chair and given his first taste of peanut butter on toast. Well, all was going well, two bites in, no adverse reaction. Then a small cough … a splutter …his eyes started to water a little … another cough – bigger this time … My Sweet looked at me anxiously, ‘Is he alright’ she questioned. ‘Of course he is’ was my outwardly confident reply, while inside I’m thinking ‘Shit, shit, shit …don’t be allergic to the damn stuff … she’ll never trust me again.’ A few more coughs, I did start to worry, was I going to be needed to perform some sort of emergency procedure. While this was happening I found that I had moved from my chair and was now at Baby James’ side seeing what I could see, at which time he stopped coughing and he was now looking at me to see what this new game was that I was playing, unaware that his biting off of more than he could swallow had almost resulted in him being consigned to a bland puree until he was school age.

After the kerfuffle, after My Sweet recommenced her own breathing and after I again located my confident exterior, Baby James proceeded to eat his piece of peanut butter toast that had been cut into three soldiers. He proceeded to tell us he was finished breakfast by throwing the pieces that were unappealing to him on the floor. And he required the usual remedial attention in the shape of a wet washer to clean his face, hands and the top of his high chair. By this time it was 7.30am and Georgie Gardner was interrupting Karl to give us a news update. A fairly normal start to the day.

How Did I Get Here?

2009-10-30T09:16:00.001+10:00

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
Wife
And you may ask yourself, well...how did I get here?

(1st verse of “Once in a lifetime” by David Byrne and Talking Heads)

I suspect that all first-time parents, mothers and fathers, have thoughts similar to the ‘how did I get here’ line. Parenthood full stop messes with your head, challenges your world view. House parent and in my case, House Dad, can be altogether bizarre. Bizarre in the fact it’s so important to get right but you don’t have to do any training to do it. Then again, maybe we’ve been training our whole life-time.

So, how did I get here?

In some respects there wasn’t a deal of conversation about our decision, in others there was a lot. My Sweet and I both valued the arrangement that if possible, it would be our preference for our new-born to have one of us at home full-time. The sums were done and the numbers crunched, a job completed by My Sweet as she is the one with experience with numbers. And it was revealed that if I controlled my exuberance towards turning our home into the Taj Mahal, then it would indeed by fiscally possible for one of us to stay at home full-time. The decision as to which one of us it would be was an economic one and as My Sweet brings home more of the coin than I do, well, I could do the math on that one.

In actual fact, it wasn’t really a news flash. The number crunching had occurred some time ago, so, I knew it was the plan … we knew it was the plan … our families and friends knew it was the plan. Now, we men, by and large, are simple folk and I am a good example of that. So, when the trigger was pulled, so to speak, and My Sweet and I discovered that we were to be parents, well, I began having some doubts about the plan. A bit too late I know. So, as the timer counted down and there was no way to reverse the process that nature had taken responsibility for, well inside I began to fret.

Most of the time I was able to use logical, rational thought to override any sub-conscious fears, and when that didn’t work, I did the male thing of busying myself and burying my head in the sand. And everybody we discussed the plan with were always supportive. We and in particular I, received positive affirmations for our family choice each time it was raised. We were told how common this parenting method had become. Everyone seemed to know of someone who had taken the role of ‘house dad’ or one of its various derivatives, i.e. ‘house husband’, ‘stay at home dad’ etc … etc …, and that helped my uneasiness.

I had readied myself to the idea, or so I had thought. In the final weeks I found myself full of optimism and positivity for the challenge ahead. Mates had congratulated me on finding ‘the loophole’, the key to the gates behind which was fun times ahead, they had wished ‘if only’, but then I too found myself wishing ‘if only’, but my ‘if only’ also included the asterisk of ‘if only someone else was going to join me on this journey.’

And then on a Thursday afternoon last November, IT happened. I WAS joined by someone for this journey. I hadn’t figured on it until just now, but I’ve actually had TWO people with me on this journey, My Sweet and Baby James. I shouldn’t take either of them for granted. They’ve been with me every step of the way. When I’ve felt melancholy I’ve had Baby James to make me laugh and smile as he does his monkey impression or as he follows me around and he burbles conversation which I understand perfectly. My Sweet has been strong for me too, provided a shoulder for me to lean on, has been patient with me and most of all has understood the huge mental adjustment involved.

So, how did I get here? Good fortune got me here and I am thankful for that.

Trip, Trip to Gymboree

2009-10-29T10:49:00.000+10:00

Ok, it’s 10am so let’s do an inventory,
- Kitchen tidied, check
- Washing on, check
- Toys picked up, check
- Baby James down for his morning sleep, check (except I can hear him singing away from his room)
- Kettle boiled, check

It could almost be a perpetual start to this blog. That’s the routine thing that I’ve come to trust but which can wear you down in a ‘groundhog day’ sense. But today is Gymboree day.

(By the way I was going to write about how it was that I became the House Dad, but I think Gymboree will be a far more enjoyable topic. I have already started trying to write about the ‘How I became the House Dad’ and it has a bit of a glum feel to it, which isn’t the emotion I want to convey because I’m not in a ‘wo is me’ situation, though there are a few challenges to discuss.)

Anyway, today Baby James and I go to Gymboree. It’s my only real concession to a strange world that is dominated by women. I couldn’t bring myself to going to a ‘Mother’s Group’. I’m extremely prejudiced on the subject. I have a mindset that thinks they’re like an ultra extreme organisation that will take no prisoners on the subjects of breast-feeding, smacking, home-births or lamington recipes. So I’ve absented myself.

Instead Baby James and I go to Gymboree. I guess it’s like most playgroups that charge a session fee, it is fairly structured with an exciting (Baby James’ description) use of primary colours, soft fall mats, song and movement, bubbles, parachutes and puppets. The group leader (Gail) is a legend for her creative ideas and enthusiasm and when she sings, well Baby James’ attention goes to her instantly.

We’ve been going since Baby James was about 4 months old, once a week for an hour. He’s moved from Stage 1, through Stage 2 and he is now in Stage 3. Oh I am such a competitive dad, believing that I have the cleverest son as he goes up the grades in quick succession. I frequently come home and tell My Sweet of all the things that Baby James can do that others can’t. Yes, it is a pissing competition and I can piss a fair way.

On their promotional brochure, Gymboree suggest that in the early stages, activities are designed for socialising babies. Well, James hasn’t quite grasped this concept yet. What he has grasped, frequently, are other babies. He doesn’t understand ‘gentle’ when he’s investigating the facial features of his peers and having been on the receiving end of some of his pulls, pinches and scratches, I can tell you, they hurt. So I’m always vigilant to my anti-social son’s actions.

Another thing, Baby James does not understand the concept of sharing. I know that it’s a concept that can create existential intellectual debate, i.e. ‘is the concept of sharing actually just another way to exercise power over another?’, ‘with whom do we have an obligation to share?’, ‘why can’t there be enough for everyone to have one, so there is no need to share?’ So, again, I’m on the lookout for situations that might be turned into ‘learning opportunities’ since we don’t want the other parents (mostly mothers) talking about Baby James or worse still Baby James’ dad.

Lucky for me Gymboree has boxes and boxes of balls. They’re different sizes, shapes, colours and textures. And Baby James loves balls. When Group Leader Gail announces that the focus of today’s session will be, say … climbing, Baby James goes, Ok, so where are those balls again. And that for me is a lucky thing because any amount of anti-social stuff can be stopped via the distraction of a ball.

So, It’s now 10.30 and we have to be going by 11am and I can hear Baby James still singing. He hasn’t had any sleep yet. Gymboree might not go so well today. I hope the humble ball is ready to weave its magic spell.

Wanted: Accurate Job Title

2009-10-28T10:05:00.003+10:00

Ok, this blogging thing is going well so far. It’s been 2 days since I became a blogger and this is now my second blog. I am officially on target with my goal, pat on the back for me.

It’s mid morning, Baby James has been asleep for nearly an hour, I’m showered and fed, I’ve vacuumed, tidied, made a bed for a guest who’s staying tonight, checked Facebook a couple of times (more thoughts on that subject later) and while doing all of that I’ve been thinking about what I’ll blog about today.

I have a need to start from the beginning. Not the Stephen Hawking version of the beginning but my version. How did I become a House Dad? (Should I keep capitalising that term? I’ll give some more thought to that later.)

Well, the question of how I became a House Dad has two elements to the answer. First of all, what were the considerations that My Sweet and I pondered about before we decided that I would stay at home full-time to care for the now-named Baby James? Secondly, what was the process of deliberation that I went through before I settled on the term House Dad as the moniker to describe my new role?

I think I will answer Question Number 2 first.

So, here I am, the House Dad. How did I choose that descriptor? Well I did consider ‘house husband’ but that seemed too PC, too the reverse of ‘house wife’, plus, too many syllables. And for that same reason ‘stay at home dad’ got the flick. A couple of people have tried to tag me with ‘Mr Mum’ or should that be ‘Mr Mom’ after that excellent piece of cinematography starring Michael (I’m Batman) Keaton. Well, for the record, I hate that term and it really PISSES me off, so without needing to consider it for long, that option went to the round file too. I have written on Baby James’ kindy application form in the space allocated for ‘Father’s Occupation’, the title, ‘At Home Parent’, but like ‘stay at home dad’, it’s too long.

I tend to over-think almost everything (I’ve just now wondered whether ‘over-think’ should be hyphenated or not, so what does that tell you about me?) So, as you can gather, I put a bit of thought into what should have been a fairly easy choice. I gave thought to the minutest piece of meaning that could be derived or interpreted from my chosen role title, but, essentially I was looking for a job title and description that wouldn’t emasculate me, that wasn’t an attempt to talk up my job (as I think the term domestic engineer does), one which in mind would be a gender equivalent to ‘house wife’. And so, I chose House Dad.

Now, as for the process that gave rise to me actually being the House Dad, well, that will have to wait for tomorrow.

A Blog is Born.

2009-10-26T15:05:00.001+10:00

I have a sense that this 1st blog is actually 12 months overdue. That Baby James is 3 weeks off his first birthday tells me this.

My strong need for symmetry and order and things in their place would have had me blogging from James’ birth, maybe even earlier as I finished working as a middle school teacher a month or so before he arrived in the world. However, the ‘yin’ that is my need for order and routine is balanced with its own ‘yang’, i.e. that I procrastinate like a champion and that I don’t always hit my targets.

But, that was the old me. I have turned over a new leaf. Started afresh.

I’ve been a House Dad for a year now and all in all I’ve enjoyed this new occupation. But in that sentence lies the downside. I’ve viewed this new role as a job and not so much as a vocation or something else on a deeper spiritual plane, you know what I mean, ‘the role of the primary carer is the most fulfilling and rewarding of any role as you guide a new born …’. I don’t always regard what I do like that. There has been a certain ‘maleness’ that comes out in me where I think about what I’ll do after I’ve stayed at home with the kids, but then I realise that that might be years … 4, 5, 6 … longer even depending on how many My Sweet and I have.

I’m writing this as Baby James potters around me and he’s just tottered up to my leg with his water bottle to see what I’m doing. He needs a nappy change so I’ll attend to that and then I’ll return…

… I’m back. Changing nappies has never been a favourite task but from time to time its not too bad. The worst is when he goes through a ‘stage’, (I now call any change of behaviour in Baby James a stage and that way I don’t get too hung up on trying to explain why he does strange things) like when he decided to investigate the area inside his nappy while I was changing him. There’s only so much you can control with your own 2 hands, one holding both legs and the other cleaning and changing, so if his two hands suddenly appear on the scene it can get messy, but hey, that was just a stage. Lately he’s taken to twisting in all directions while said nappy change is happening, again that adds a messy dimension to the experience.

But I’ve digressed, although not in a bad way. Actually its not a bad segue. I think one of the reasons I’m blogging is to give an outlet to the thoughts that go through my head on a daily basis. I frequently find myself talking to myself in my mind, thinking of things that I need to do as the domestic engineer, making mental notes to self of things to tell My Sweet when she returns home from a day at the office or coming up with solutions that I think might solve any number of local, state or international problem (I am a man after all and solutions are what we do).

So that’s it, my current life in a nutshell. Now, what’s the plan? Well, I hope to blog nearly every day. I’ve got a list of memories from Baby James’ first eleven months that I don’t want to forget and in fact I have this nostalgic streak, so I guess I’m going to record these memories for him and me and if you find them interesting, well for you too. What else? Well, I’ve always liked the idea of writing a journal and I suppose that’s exactly what a blog is, so, this is going to be a journal about the life of a bloke who’s at home raising his son and the fun and games that go with.