January 28th, 2012
November 17th, 2010
The poop is now green. It used to be yellow, but now it is green. That is all.
October 26th, 2010
Well, folks – we did it. Our little son Quinlan was born last month, after a long labour, a few swearwords, and a gigantic needle in the spine.
When I say “we did it”, I really mean “my wife did it”, because compared to the mammoth 24 hours of bodily torture she endured, I really did very little except stay awake for the entire period, murmur encouraging words, and occasionally offer her a sip of apple juice.
We were well prepared for having kids – after almost 8 years of marriage we’d well and truly given ourselves enough time to enjoy each others’ company, travel the world, and do all the stuff you’re apparently forbidden from doing after having children. As for childbirth, we’d read all the books, gone to all the ante-natal classes, met the midwives, prepared the nursery, and given ourselves plenty of breathing space. So, going into labour, we felt pretty confident that we had a handle on things.
Unfortunately our little boy had other plans – although the host uterus was quite persistent, Quinlan had moved into a slightly posterior position and despite our best coaxing, screaming, huffing and puffing, we couldn’t get the little bugger out.
I’ll spare you the details, but it was a marathon, a harrowing experience, and an emotional rollercoaster ride. The low point of the evening was when wifey, flailing around in a spasm of pain, grabbed my genitals and squeezed like she had never squeezed before. I was less than impressed and leapt backwards, at which point she promptly fell out of bed with a whimper.
After bravely enduring 16 hours, Trish finally called for the epidural (Giant Spine Needle What Makes Everything Better ™). Being 2 o’clock in the morning, Mr. Anaesthetist was home, fast asleep in bed, and unfortunately we had to wait for another two hours before the needle was actually given. WTF, my friends, WTF indeed.
From there, it was pretty smooth sailing, and wifey was no longer in contraction hell. That was a huge relief for me, as it’s very difficult to watch somebody you love scream for help without being able to actually help.
Fast forward to 11am, and we had ourselves a screamingly healthy baby boy. The moment he appeared was awe inspiring – after such a long wait, and such a difficult ordeal, there was suddenly a miniature human dangling in front of me. It’s one of those rare, wonderful moments when the world stops, your mouth drops open, and your body goes numb.
Four weeks down the track, and everything is going swimmingly. The first couple of weeks felt like Christmas, with family popping in, presents exchanging hands, and of course that exciting moment when we brought our “new toy” home for the first time. The boy didn’t really do much in the first few weeks except eat, poop, and sleep.
Parenting a newborn doesn’t seem quite as difficult as everybody makes out. Sleep deprivation is not an issue unless you’re not willing to sleep during the day. Newborns sleep for 16 hours a day, and if you can’t squeeze your 8 hours in there somewhere, you’re obviously not prioritising it. Granted, the sleep interruption is not ideal – and I’m lucky enough to have a wife who lets me sleep when I have to work the next day.
‘Nuff said about all that. So it’s all been an exciting adventure and certainly a new chapter in our lives. Make sure you stay tuned because I WILL BE BLOGGING EVERY SINGLE THING MY CHILD DOES FROM NOW ON INCLUDING THE COLOUR OF THEIR POOP. And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter because THERE I WILL ALSO BE TWEETING THE COLOUR OF THE POOP.
September 18th, 2010
* Please note, the above is not a valid mathematical equation, and also may be quite incorrect. We may not be friends in the strictest sense of the word, but I’d still share my bed with you. Wait, I didn’t mean bed, I meant to say I’d share a drink with you. We could share a drink, couldn’t we? Even if we shared a casual acknowledgement from across the room, like a nod, or a tip of the hat? Then maybe our eyes would lock for a split-second too long. One of us would flush with embarrassment, and the other would give a devilish smile while they crunched their ice. Eventually we’d give up the pretense and the boldest one would casually saunter over to the other, saying something witty and charming and roguish and brazen. But whatever.
May 19th, 2010
I was recently inspired to write and record another song.
Strictly demo quality. Enjoyment will depend on whether you enjoy lo-fi folk and/or general silliness.
April 6th, 2010
I’m not sure if it’s my impending fatherhood, or my recent watching of many episodes of Mad Men, but I’ve been recently obsessed with Scotch, and more specifically with the consumption of Scotch, and its purest form, that delicious and delightful drink, Scotch on the Rocks.
While the wife was trying on bras in a maternity shop yesterday, I was in the bottle shop next door, scratching my patchy stubble and staring at bottles of Scotch and wondering what they tasted like. Yes, rather than the usual indulgence of peeking through curtains for a glimpse of skin (that’s normal, right?), I was tenderly touching bottles and reading labels like they were poetry.
I am curious about the drink, its origins, and my own reasons for drinking the bloating and burp-inducing beer on most occasions instead of something more refined and delicious. There is a culture here that equates the consumption of beer with manliness, so much so that at the age of eleven I stole a beer from Dad’s fridge and forced myself to drink it alone with my dinner, despite the protests of my palate and my very small stomach. The beer ruined my dinner and was pointed at and cursed, set aside and earmarked to be poured down the sink later and the evidence destroyed.
Of course, that’s not to say that beer is bad, or undelicious, it’s just that my eleven-year old self preferred to eat that horrid plastic cheese folded into squares, and drink chocolate milk rather than drink something bitter. I’m guessing that’s the grand thing about acquired tastes like oysters, and beers, and chili, and olives, and sushi and all those lovely adult things, that the young ones will leave you alone long enough to enjoy it, and all you need to do to get rid of them is offer them a taste.
So certain things have become clear to me; that blue cheese is strangely delicious, and that good wine is equally delicious if you can afford it, and that the two together are quite the pair if you’ve got the brass razoos to rub between your bony fingers. A good book is also delicious if I can force myself to read it instead of watching Seinfeld, and Scotch on the Rocks is refined and delicious and it beckons to me from the cupboard on certain nights when the mood is good in the lounge room.
March 24th, 2010
Sometimes, blogging is about getting things off your chest. I might even say this blog is my therapist. (Note: this word can also be read as the rapist). So, in summary, sometimes blogging provides you with therapy, and sometimes it rapes you.
Remember how I used to live in a shed? Remember? Well, after we moved out of the shed, we rented it to a little man. The man agreed to give me $90 a week in exchange for sitting in the shed and smoking cigarettes or whatever he does in there. This agreement worked quite well for a few years, until the little man stopped giving me $90 a week.
So now I have a headache, and a little man that owes me money, in fact, quite a bit of money. If he doesn’t pay me by Monday we’re going to serve him an eviction notice. Ouch!
Stupid non rent-paying tenant! Why must you torment me?!!!!1
March 14th, 2010
Good news, internet: my wife is pregnant! I do not know what I am doing, or what I did right, but I will be a Dad in approximately six months time.
P.S. you owe me a bottle of Scotch.
March 9th, 2010
I decided to spend my allowance this week on pants that are made of gold foil. They crinkle and crackle when I walk, and they attract exactly the kind of attention that I want on the dance floor.
In other news, last month I went here and rented an apartment with all my boyfriends. We drank whiskey and played poker and pointed and laughed at farts. It’s true, farts are funny! Don’t try to deny it.
Then, we went here on a camping trip with family. There was less laughing at farts but more reading and walking and swimming. I drank lots of delicious coffee and bought a flat cap, which is sometimes incorrectly referred to as a derby cap.
INTERESTING FACT - derby caps taste almost exactly the same as flat caps.
Thus concludes today’s web log. Tune in next week for an interpretive dance of today’s web log, animated using pieces of string and toenail clippings.
February 17th, 2010
In the future, Chinese soldiers will ride into battle on invisible chairs and destroy us. I’m stocking up on tins of baked beans.