Parked in!

Last Saturday we had someone park over our driveway so that it was next to impossible to get in and out. We were lucky that when BWM came home she was able to get in because the vehicle on one side pulled out at the time. This allowed us access when we needed it. We were a little bit lucky even though it was frustrating.

A friend also posted a picture on Facebook recently of being parked in at a shopping centre. She had to wait 20 minutes while someone dropped their child off. As someone who runs her own business, which relies on punctuality with her clients, you can imagine how frustrated she was.

Quite naturally all incidents come in threes. On Thursday H and I went to Babyroo at Balmain. The carpark there is a complete mess at the momemt as they are renovating the Woolworths store. This is the only place where you can get free parking for more than 30 minutes. Naturally I had a cruise past to see if there was a spot amongst the dongas and worksite equipment.

There is also a forklift on the site and every time H sees it he yells “DIGGER!” at the top of his voice. Not only did we get to see the ‘digger’, we also bagged a parking spot. Great score! We toddled off to Babyroo and because we had a two hours free spot we enjoyed a coffee and did a couple of jobs that needed to be done. Feeling pretty good about myself I even splashed out on some flowers for BWM (I also like having flowers around the house but as a bloke I don’t tell people that).

Things were going great until we got back to the car. I had carried H in one arm and the flowers in the other so he couldn’t pull any out of the bouquet or take a bite out of them, as he is sometimes wont to do. All was good except for the large demolition truck that had parked us in. They were attempting to load the old fridges from the supermarket onto the back of the truck using the forklift.

Seeing this I was a little frustrated and placed all the items I had in the car except H. We walked around the side of the truck to see what was going on. Here was where I made the biggest mistake, or should I say bonus, you could possibly imagine.

“DIGGER! DIGGER! CAR! CAR!” H screamed in excitement as he saw them loading the fridges. The poor guy trying to lever the fridge in with his crowbar though someone had run over a child behind such was the vocal noise from H. I now had a battle on my hands as H desperately tried to wriggle his way free so he could see the forklift and the truck better.

After a minute or so of trying the guys trying to load the truck realised that it wasn’t quite fitting. The man who nearly dropped his crowbar in fright came over and asked if we wanted them to move because they had parked us in. Before I could reply H let rip at him again, “DIGGER! DIGGER! DIG! DIG! DIG!”

“Mate, this is the best entertainment he’s had all day,” I replied. “You guys do your work and we’ll watch because it keeps this young bloke happy.”

He moved away to try and reload the fridge obviously perplexed by the reply he’d got. It took the guys three goes and nearly another ten minutes to wedge the fridge onto the back of the truck. They ripped into it with sledgehammers and crowbars and gave the old fridges a good old belting. Eventually they got them wedged in much to the relief of the three workers plus the forklift driver.

However, there was one person who was not happy. H looked at the truck as it drove off and the forklift as it was parked up like someone had ripped away his favourite thing in the whole world. Now that we were no longer parked in I tried to put him in the car. H was not having a bar of it and put himself in a plank position so that he couldn’t be buckled into his seat. Eventually he relented but it cost me my sunglasses as his new toy – I got those back when he had his dinner a couple of hours later!

The third incidence of getting parked in seems to have been the best one. H got entertained like you wouldn’t believe and my upper body and core got as great a work out holding the excited wriggling H as the guys hammering and crowbarring! We will just have to see now where our next car park adventure takes us!

There are times I hate* being a Dad

It was 3.42 on a Friday afternoon as I lay flat on my back in what was the remnants of my man cave surrounded by duplo, cars, balls and other assorted toys. The tv was blaring a song from Play School. I blinked my eyes and above me loomed H with a trail of thick yellow snot oozing from his left nostril and a wooden hammer in his hand.

“This is it.” I thought to myself. The bitter taste of defeat stung the inside of my lips.

“He’s beaten me. I’ve had enough. Where’s BWM? Come home and save me!” I screamed silently to the world.

I needed to move or I was going to wear the hammer in H’s hand. I could see his hand twitching upward and I braced. His hand held still though and he dropped forward putting both his knees into my ribs and flopping on top of me for what turned out to be a sooky-la-la cuddle with his dad. I reached for a tissue and he raised his head but the booger was gone – no doubt somewhere on me.

No longer could I feel defeated. Here was my son at the end of the week exhausted and wanting to cuddle into his dad because he was sick. We’d been to the doctor twice in the week and I hate taking him to the doctor. I’m not sure if H hates it? Although he does scream the house down before turning around and attempting to open the surgery door so he can leave (lucky he’s not quite tall enough yet!). From that point on he’s usually all charm until the doctor goes near to him again. Then the screaming starts anew! Yes, I hate being a Dad who is going to the doctor with his son.

I must admit I truly hate seeing my son sick. He’s had swabs that have said he’s had a flu virus and rhinovirus (a cold) as well as conjunctivitis. His nose has been a constant eruption of snot and his eyes weren’t much better for a couple of days. I know that him getting sick means he is growing his immune system and he’ll be better off for it in the long run. It doesn’t mean I can't hate it.

While I’m on my train of hate here - I really hate seeing my son ignore his food when it’s presented to him. I’m not talking fruit or vegetables. This is a kid who helps himself to the fruit bowl if we accidently leave it within reach and vegetables disappear from his plate and into his mouth as if by magic. No it’s his proteins. He’ll pick away at his chicken nuggets, sausages, fish fingers and such like. I’ve even watched him pull stuffing out of ravioli so he can eat just the plain pasta. I'm a man and I want to see my son eat his meat! I know he’ll get there but I still hate it.

On the subject of hating things – I’m really not a big fan of losing. After a loss I’ve been known to be moody and grumpy for hours, days and weeks at a time. And that’s just after a game of scrabble with BWM! It’s even worse when my rugby teams lose as we did on the weekend (although a couple of them still scraped into the finals I still hate the fact we lost the games. Making it worse too was the one team which won missed out on the finals by not getting a bonus point – that’s definitely something to hate!). Needless to say there will come a time in my son’s life when I’m going to have to teach him how to lose. I won’t hate doing that but I’m definitely not looking forward to it.

Finally though I’ve saved my biggest hate of all for the caboose of the hate train. The one thing that I really, Really, REALLY hate about being a Dad! It’s the fact that I’ve had to break a lifetime habit of leaving the toilet seat up. Quite simply I hate having to put it down all the time!

Now I’ve had my dummy spit I know it really isn’t that bad. If that’s all there is that I dislike about being a dad then in the words of my mate The Dunph (who stole the quote from the Simpsons) “You’re the richest man I know.”

*I originally didn’t want to use ‘hate’ in this blog post. However, the sub-editor in me wanted to get people hooked with the headline so I struck out dislike, aversion, distaste, repugnance, abhorrence, displeasure and all the other synonyms I could find and went with the four letter word.  Isn’t the headline all about getting you to read it anyway!

Back Lessons

 It’s not much fun being a stay at home dad when your back has gone. It’s made this week pretty horrible because I realise how much I do with my son and how much I love doing it. Because of my back injury I sustained on Monday morning I was able to use the week to teach H the valuable lesson, there is no use crying over spilt milk, as well as learning something important myself. How does that all relate you ask? Shall we go ‘back’ in the story?

How did I do my back? Long story short – 5 years ago I put my back out closing the door of the front loader washing machine and since then I’ve had a few times where I’ve tweaked it. Since that moment I’ve always had a fear of doing laundry. How did it happen this time? Did my infant son beat me in a wrestling match? Was I showing him a cool new acrobatic trick? Was I doing laundry? Not directly - I was bending over to help him get off his tricycle. 

Why though was he on his tricycle? It was because we had been at the dry-cleaners (laundry – I told you so!) dropping in some washing for BWM. Now of course going to the dry-cleaners was on the list of jobs to do that day but I had planned to go in the afternoon. That’s why I was taking him off his tricycle in the morning.

Why did we go early? Simply it was because H had done a runner with his bubble maker around the front of the house and fallen over and taken a good chew on the pavement. This had naturally made him upset and amidst all the tears and the bleeding from the mouth on my clothes I needed to find a way to calm him down. That’s why I put him on his tricycle.

Why had he done a runner around the front of the house with his bubble machine? H was doing a runner with his bubble machine because I wouldn’t let him get upset over his morning milk he had just spilt. Actually, he wasn’t getting that upset. In fact I was stopping him from help clean it up! However, H’s way of cleaning up involved climbing onto the bench seat and attempting to lick the milk up which had just been spilt. To distract him while I cleaned up I gave him the bubble machine.

Of course how was the milk spilt you ask? I had turned on the bubble machine.

I never thought about how much physical interaction I have with H. I know that there’s lots of it, but when you can’t do what you usually do, you realise exactly how much there is! When I did my back I was barely able to pick H up for almost two days. It’s a tough ask when you’re infant son comes up to you with his arms outstretched wanting to be picked up and you can’t do it. In fact the best way I could interact with H during this time was simply lie down on the floor and let him use me as a climbing frame!

This week has also made me realise how lucky BWM and I are in having great support around us from friends and family. My timing in injuring myself couldn’t have been worse because BWM was scheduled to head to New Zealand for a few days of work. Our friend Sarah and my father-in-law Paul both came over to help look after H. Georgina and Kate who kept themselves on stand-by 24/7 in case help was needed. BWM’s boss also told her to make sure she looked after me and that she didn’t need to go if I needed her at home (it did take a lot of persuading on my behalf to show her that I was ok and she could go!). I know too that if I had rung others and asked for help then it probably would have been forth coming.

By not crying over the spilt milk I really learnt how lucky I am to live in a community that cares for our family. However, if I could go back, I think I may just let H help clean up as it could have helped avoid me learning this in such a painful way!

Clothes Maketh the Man

Clothes maketh the man. Naked people have

 little or no influence on society.

                                                Mark Twain

Last week H and I helped a friend go shopping for suits, shirts and shoes as he was about to begin a new job as a lawyer. It was an honour to be asked as he said, “I think when you’re in your work attire you’re the most stylish man I know.” Of course flattery will get you everywhere and the three men spent a day out purchasing all the gear to help him look stylish in his new job.

There are of course a number of people who would disagree with my friend and his statement on my dress sense. As a primary school teacher it’s easy to make your socks or tie the hero of the outfit, and I often did. However, a few years ago I had a similar experience where a friend of mine took me suit shopping and I learnt to take more time in my dress and grooming. I didn’t always pull on the loud socks and ties which had a story – I really like putting on a well cut suit, shirt and tie with a great pair of shoes.

It does give a man confidence to dress well and this is something I have wanted to teach my son right from the beginning of this year. This led to me working on my wardrobe for the year as I wouldn’t be able to wear a suit or similar work attire while looking after H. I purchased a few new shirts and a number of pairs of tailored shorts as well as appropriate shoes to go with these outfits (as I read back over this in editing it sounds like a have a little bit of a shoe fetish!). The shorts have been an excellent purchase, as Sydney’s summer has seemed to extend all the way into June.

All the clothes that I purchased at the beginning of the year are starting to show definite signs of wear and tear. The shorts need constant stain removal as a small pair of greasy or dirty hands reaches up to tug, first at the hem and now almost to the waist leaving marks aplenty. In true Murphy’s Law style as well H has on many occasion spilt, sprayed or poured liquids into the perfect position to make it appear as if his father has wet himself. And showing that O’Toole’s law is true and Murphy was an optimist – it’s always happened out in public!

My choice of new shirts has been an interesting one. As the year has progressed a number of shirts seemed to have drifted to the wayside. When I went back and looked at them it was because they were all plain shirts in blocks or lighter shades. Why did they seem to be ones that I wouldn’t choose on a consistent basis? Quite simply I realised as I thought about it more was because they again showed up the marks and stains that only a little person can bring with an unparalleled ease. Check shirts especially have been great, as has the odd paisley or floral number (yes sartorial elegance does still occasionally give way to something that is a conversation starter!). However, as winter has begun to creep upon us finally I am now left to ponder that all my jumpers are plain colours and after just a week they are starting to show the wear of little hands.

H and his dad both seem to like a good pair of boots.

At the same time as I have worked on looking somewhat stylish I have attempted to do the same with H. There are though the practicalities of dressing a small child such as the ease of doing nappy changes at the most inopportune time or place. Most children’s clothes are very good for this but some that are designed to look amazing and have no practical value what so ever! Many of the most practical pieces of clothing are also in horrendous florescent colours which seem to have been left over from the late 80s / early 90s to the extent I am sure I will find something in hyper-colour soon! This has led me to finding the balance between patterns and blocks of colour for H to wear so that he doesn’t look like he’s about to walk onto a construction site. 

Returning to Mark Twain, my clothes have unquestionably been defined by the role that I have chosen to take this year. However, a small person who when things are about to get messy is probably better off naked than clothed has had a very large influence in choosing each sartorial style for the day.

SIx months in and I think I know nothing!

On Friday June 6, it will be six months since I last spent a day in paid employment. Since then I’ve said I’m still working – I’m just not being paid for it. Here I am six months into being a stay at home dad and it has been a tremendous experience for me. For the last couple of days I have wanted to write a funny blog post that really points out that after the six months I am still like our dear friend Sergeant Shultz, “I know nothing!”

However, every time I have tried to write something (this is my fourth attempt now) either the words have failed me or H has interrupted me. For instance at lunchtime today, while H had his day sleep, I tried to get some ideas down. I was thinking especially of what I had dressed him in today. It was a bit cooler and rainy plus he had a runny nose and wet cough. I think what he was wearing (boots, jeans, long sleeve onsie with a t-shirt over the top and hooded cardigan) was actually right for his health and the conditions – that meant I should strike out my paragraph not knowing what to dress him in.

As I continued to ponder H coughing, then sobbing and then screaming disturbed me. Ok, I know that’s not normal so I went in and got him up. He was hacking up his lungs and I put my hand on the back of his neck and then on his stomach. They didn’t seem too hot but I used the thermometer to check anyway and it confirmed he didn’t have a high temperature. Ok I thought, my son is wheezing and coughing, clearly distressed and not well. I could give him some Panadol but he might not hold it down and that will mask a temperature if it spikes and I need to take him to the doctor.

The wheezing was my biggest concern and I thought it would be best to try our local GP who luckily enough had an appointment in 20 minutes. As I went to throw on my shoes after dressing H post sleep I put him down. He collapsed on the floor and continued to cough while giving me his most miserable look. That miserable look suddenly ceased though as he leant forward and threw up all the mucus he had obviously been swallowing. “Ok, good call,” I thought to myself, “We’re on the way to the doctor.” I quickly wiped H down, threw the dirty towel on top of the spew and walked out the door. My child is sick and I don’t know exactly what to do but I know I can get help. I must know more that nothing!

Once we got to the doctor the screaming and coughing continued, H put on a cracker of a show for everyone. However, his temperature had risen to 38.5 so good call on no Panadol to mask something as the doctor could get an indication of where he was at. I managed to get him calm enough for the doctor to listen to his chest for a few seconds by reciting his favourite books to him and playing with a toy car. Again – I must know something here.

As I dressed H to leave the doctors I didn’t put his long sleeve onsie on under his shirt. Why? Because again I know something and as he was running a spiked temperature it was better to keep him cool by removing a layer. I was really thinking at this stage, “I can’t write my blog about being useless and knowing nothing now.”

There I had been wanting to tell everybody about how I had been the comical stereotyped dad who bumbled his way through the first six months when really I was making decisions which were pretty good ones. When BWM came home from work and H was in the bath she looked at me and asked if I was ok after the afternoon that we’d just had. I thought about it and assured myself that yes I did know a thing or two because if I’d had this day three months ago, let alone six months ago, I would be sobbing in the corner calling for the bucket of wine. What that says to me is yes I’ve learnt a thing or two and we’ve got through the day. Here the day ends, not with me sobbing in the corner on the eve of me being six months into the job calling for a bucket of wine but with me writing my self-indulgent blog while sipping from my bucket of wine!