Franklyn and Spencer Blog

Doodle Time

My boy loves playing with his wang. Now, I knew that this would come naturally eventually but I guess having previously experienced two girls I simply did not realise how quickly this sort of thing would take to divest. At 6 months old it seems at every opportunity that hand is down there grabbing at the whole package. With no respect for the delicacy normally reserved for that equipment I might add. And whilst at first I was quite encouraging, nay, proud to see my son exercising his God – given masculine right to grab the wang I now catch myself thinking “aw come on mate, give it a rest!” This is particularly apt, of course, when in the brief window where I am simply marvelling at the seeming mockery of physics to see so much poo come out of such a small baby the hand is down there before I have a chance to intervene. I think most parents have experienced this; time slows down and despite us actually delivering a “nnnnooooooooooooo” the child’s hand is soon immersed in the very poo we are changing the nappy for and we too late realise how easy it is to have shite flung about the place. And it does. A well-aimed kick shoves that little foot into the pile of poo in the nappy and that hand that you were worried about has now transferred some poo to the face and sheet you have placed on the change table/bed/car bonnet. You scream inside your head as that’s about all you can do at this stage. If it’s close to bath time (like give or take 7 hours) that’s where he’s heading. And you as well, because of course by now you have baby poo on you too. Ah well, it does happen as they say in the classics. The ones about shit, that is.

Yoga- finding your Inner Peace

In a vain attempt tofindpeace again, a few days after the camping incident  I decided to go to a yoga class run in town with the crèche next door for the kids. True toform, I arrived late, flustered, and full of caffeine. Both kids had managed tofall asleep in the 5m walk from the car to the crèche. Having had them both in the double stroller, which is roughly the size of my late Peugeot, I was then left with the choice of leaving them in the hallway just outside the crèche or waking them up and then having to leave them most likely in tears. I chose the hallway, surely they would be safe here I thought. I arrived late into the class, pushed open the squeaky door under the collective
glare of the class, and tried furiously for 10 minutes to relax, breathe and find my inner calm. I opened my eyes to see a really man trying to break into the class. He opened the door long enough for me to hear Josh wailing in the hall way, so back out the squeaky door I ran to pick him up and get him acquainted with the crèche.

Finally I managed to return back to the yoga class, squeaking once more to continue where I had left off. Clearly I had managed to relax on some level because I then proceeded to fart. Loudly. Not once, not even twice but three times in the next 5 minutes. The Holy Grail of any yoga class, and surely some kind of world record –Myself and a friend did yoga together over about 5 years, and after the 3 or so farts we witnessed OVER FIVE YEARS, we would always leave the class giggling and laughing and saying ‘why did she not acknowledge it? how could she act like it never happened?’ Well, Jode – I can now tell you from first-handexperience that it is because 97% of your brain freezes in shock & you are incapable of acknowledging your own name, let alone laying claim to the explosion that just was. 2% of your remaining brain is saying that perhaps no-one heard it, and the remaining 1% , called the imbecillious I believe, is saying, ok – so maybe everyone did hear it, but perhaps they didn’t know what it was. By this point 10 minutes has passed and to laugh now would make you look like a lunatic, a very slow lunatic. Nope, best to pretend it never happened. Being at the end of a line of 5 people, I didn’t even have the opportunity to look at someone to the left of me and pretend it was them. I completely blame childbirth as clearly any muscles in the vicinity have figured there is no point and moved elsewhere. Fortunately the crèche ladywalked in a few minutes later saying that they could not calm Brooke down,so I got to squeak off in a cover of darkness, and (thankfully) with only the sweet smell of incense burning, never to return again.

Camping anyone?

I have had a taste over the last few weeks on the glamorous life of a solo-parent. After the first week I wrote an email to my friend & explained to her how bonded I was with my children now. How close we were, how intune, how much I understood them, how we laughed & there was no need for discipline. Had I written to her the next day I could have gone on to explain how quickly this was all lost and replaced with endless tears,tantrums, name-calling and finger-pulling. And that was just from me. What could possibly have caused this terrible change? You ask. Simple. A solo camping trip. 

This was by far the most stupid thing I have ever done. And to put that comment in some kind of perspective I once spent the night sleeping alone in an alcove in downtown Barcelona, pickpocket capital of the world, because I never bothered to book any accommodation. Pah, nothing compared to the horrors unleashed on this particular camping weekend.

My husband had been working on the highway a few hundred km south of Broome.There was no phone reception, but one night he managed to steal one of the workers satellite phones (costing a measly $3/minute) and, overcome with emotion,I agreed we would all head down to meet him at Port Smith caravan park, not too far from where he was working. He would get there after work, and although he had to leave again at 5.30am the next morning, we decided it would be worth it. Long story short, Brooke cried for two days straight, Josh for slightly less and for me, slightly more. The topic is still too raw for me to discuss openly, so instead I have compiled a list of my top camping tips:

1.    Throw out all your meat and fruit, butter and bread at the start the camping trip as opposed to the end. This saves valuable space and the need for ice.

2.    Wanting to find out who you truly are? Forget Tibet. Just go campingalone with a 5-month & almost-2 year old. And in the words of the greatman himself (Yoda)…find yourself you may, but like yourself you may not. For the full experience, make sure you have to roll a self-inflating queen sized camping mattress and put it back in it’s original bag. Have your 5-monthold screaming in the corner, and the 2 year old hanging off your back, his hands clenched around your neck while screaming ‘HORSIE’. Also ensure there are10,000 sandflies waiting for you at your destination.

3.    No matter how big your family becomes – stick with your two-man tent. As a result of being laughed out of town the last time we went camping with friends (you know who you are, bastards…) we upgraded to a two-room,fancy pants tent complete with 10 million poles and 20 million one inch pegs. How useful. I must have circled the bloody thing at least 20 times trying to jam one end of each pole in the ground before running around the other sidetrying to ‘pop’ the whole thing up. And all the while my 2 year old was runningfrom one various life-threatening activity to the next. At one point I even caught him drinking from an enormous bucket of water that at worst was laced with some industrial chemical, and at best, rotting fish guts. And here Iam wasting my days trying to avoid additives in his food.

4.    When your partner tells you ‘I will be there by 7pm’, replace it with what you want to hear, such as ‘I will be there at about 5.30pm’. Have a seat from about 5pm, and then wait there smiling and patient for at least an hour, by which time it is pitch black, you are starving, you can’tremember where the toilets are, you need to bath your children, find and cook dinner and then if all goes well, find some place in which to curl up and die.

5.    When your partner does finally arrive, have him/her say ‘I thoughtwe were getting a cabin’ while looking in disgust at the campsite you have wrung from your very soul.

6.    Never take a toilet-training child camping. Or 10 years either sideof it just to be safe. It didn’t matter whether I screamed, bribed or danced around the fire in chicken feathers, there was nothing I could do to makemy 2 year old keep his pants on. And he has the scars down his entire legs from mozzies, sandflies and midgies to prove it.
7.    Leave your pride at home. I was approached the following morning bya grey nomad-ess who offered her & her hubbies assistance in packing awaythe tent…I smiled and said thanks, but I’m fine. What a Loser. The wholetrip ended with me having tricked my 2 year old into the car (i.e. ‘sure you can play inthe car, sweetie. Hop in’ and then shoving him into his car seat andstrapping him down), My 5 month old was the last to get packed away and by this stage she had been laying under a tree, exhausted and asleep and covered in a thin layer of dust. In other circumstances it may have even been quite beautiful.

8.    And my best camping tip of all – stay at a resort. If you have to,watch Man v Wild.

Self Indulgence

Thank goodness nothing has changed since having children. I still visit the beautician once a month, and always make sure that I have a little ‘me-time’ every day – whether it be a little pampering or a some time out.

Pah! Any parent (well, mum) will know what end that came out of…It was just the other day that I started reflecting on just how far I had come in terms of the beauty regime stakes. I visited the doctor earlier this year regarding a suspected cancer spot on my face & was told to come back in a few months. A little while ago my partner asked if I had been back to get it checked out. ‘Don’t need to’ I told him, ‘it’s gone!’. He looked at me a little strangely and then replied ‘what are you talking about? It’s right there in the middle of your face’. I went and had a look in the mirror, and sure enough it was still there. And then it hit me, I actually don’t look in the mirror anymore – there isn’t time.

Makeup has morphed from my best friend and a substance used daily to something I dust off every few months, put on a tiny amount and walk out of the house feeling like a drag queen. What used to be my morning semi-facial routine has been replaced by me drawing beard-bubbles on my two year old boy, and the night-time-face-washing routine has been replaced by the collapse-face-down-in-the-pillow routine. On a recent camping expedition I did not even feel shame as I pushed bleary-eyed past the hoards of women at the basins and brushed my teeth with my Spiderman toothbrush and Snappy Jaws toothpaste (it’s a long story). Actually, now that I think about it, shame seems to have disappeared completely from my vocabulary – perhaps it vanished at the same time that I was last able to have a wee on my own.

Yes, now a days it is all a matter of priority within the family – and in the special category of time, I figure that I rank somewhere at the bottom of the list – above the dogs (in my mind at least). Now before I make an appointment for waxing, I quickly run through the following checklist:

1.       Have your eyebrows joined up with your eyelashes?

2.       Are you unable to put your arms down by your side? Yes? How about after a quick comb?

3.       Can you feel the breeze blowing through the hairs on your legs?

Until the answer is yes to all three questions, then clearly an appointment with the beautician at this point would be nothing more than self-indulgence.

Thank god there is no time to look in the mirror.

Yeah? Well you have the attention span of a two-year old

If someone were to tell me that I had the attention span of a two-year old I
would, of course, be insulted on principle. But having a two-year old
myself, I can’t help but wonder if this is the kind of attention span I
should be striving towards.

Sure if you are giving an instruction like, for example, “no, don’t hit your
sister in a head with that shovel…” then the chances are he has tuned out
before you reach ‘hit’. However, it has become apparent to me that in a
different situation that same child has the power to focus and be as
unrelenting as the proverbial pounding waves. For instance, take a game of
peekaboo. Without fail, whenever I sit down on the lounge (sadly not as
often as I would like), then my son dives behind my back shouting
‘peekaboo’. So lazy has he got, that he doesn’t even bother hiding himself
anymore, he just turns face down on the couch, and a muffled little voice
comes out ‘where are you-ouuuu?’. And, with his knees digging into my back
and fingers clawing in to my legs, I begin the charade ‘oh where can he be,
he was here just a second ago…’etc etc. Once I have convinced him that I
am sufficiently distressed, he will flop over with a big smile and eyes
shining as I exclaim ‘oh my goodness, there he is. He’s been there all
along, what a great trick’.

If only that could be the end of it. Sadly, this game will continue to be
funny for him for an untested length of time. I did try once to find out
just how long this time was. The theory was that if I could just keep going
until he couldn’t stand it anymore, then my beloved couch could again become
a place of dedicated peace. But one hour later (or 57 games to be precise) -
he was giggling as much as he ever was. My sanity had however, disappeared
completely and was showing no signs of returning even as I called to
it…’where are you-ouuu?’

When my girlfriend came to visit earlier this year, her little two year old
was (of course) madly in love with my 4-month old baby girl. ‘Where’s
bubba?’ she would ask. ‘She’s sleeping, sweetie’. ‘Where’s bubba?’ came the
reply. ‘Hmm. Well, she is sleeping’ I began again, but feeling that perhaps
a more detailed explanation was being demanded, I added ‘little babies get
very tired and like to sleep a lot’.

Silence. I breathe a sigh of relief, and then ‘where’s bubba?’

And so it continued. Where’s bubba? On the moon. Where’s bubba? I  ate her.
Where’s bubba? Where’s my foot?

Ah yes, the attention span of a two-year old is I think an enviable thing
indeed. Hear what you want to hear, and block out the rest. Now, who does
that remind you of?

Run, Forrest, Run

My boy’s been diagnosed with this thing called hip dysplasia. Clicky hip.
Fairly common, apparently, but I’d not heard of it. I don’t know if that’s
what Forrest Gump had but when my wife was explaining to me what the
specialist had recommended he wear around his legs to fix it, that image was
conjured up in my mind. I guess it’s a dad reminding himself that if Forrest
Gump can go from wearing those braces to playing college football, so can my
boy (tennis, golf  etc).  Men rationalize real life with movies all the time,
fictional or not. Father & son issues? Use the Skywalker example. Shagging
an older woman?  The Graduate. Someone giving you and your family grief? The
Godfather. Often the shortage of horses heads brings that one in to an early
close.

It’s amazing what is actually ‘fairly common’ once your kid is diagnosed
with it. Febrile convulsions? 1 in 1000 get it. Allergic to gluten? Common
as a cold. Kid’s head fell off? Happens now and then, just stick it back on.
So hip dysplasia was just another one of those. He has to wear this thing
that sticks his legs out like a cowboy all the time. Luckily he hasn’t done
a lot of base jumping and sprint training, so got used to it reasonably
quickly - which is good. I guess when you’re a baby you haven’t experienced a
hell of a lot so you’re still working out what’s normal. I heard once that
these babies caught under a collapsed building all survived coz they just
figured “well, I guess that’s what goes on out here”. So he looks like a
frog awaiting dissection, but is generally pretty relaxed about it. Come to
think of it, I’m pretty relaxed in that position – or need to be pretty
relaxed to get into that position – so not so surprising. And if Forrest
Gump was any indication, he’ll be smashing out of that brace in no time
running 10 second hundreds and kicking goals from 60m out.

The Gruen Effect

Shopping for foodstuffs used to be a laid back affair. You’d yawn and check
what you need from the supermarket, maybe make plans for a dinner on the
Friday night and saunter down with all the time in the world. Most men make
the mistake of doing food shopping when their hungry, hence get to the
checkout with at least 1 roast chicken, a bag of hot dog rolls, 24 savs, a
choc milk that gets drunk on the way around the shop and 3 different types
of frozen pizza. When you have offspring shopping becomes a different
affair. When you go as a family you are merely serving as a child minder
whilst the wife goes about the business of getting things you would have
forgotten. In the trolley. Scream. Out of the trolley. Scream. Back in the
trolley but with shoes off. Happy. Sister grabs hair. Scream. Grab lollies
off shelf when dad not looking. Dad grabs lollies. Scream. People look. Look
back with steely glare. Scream (me, not the kids). You get to the checkout,
handover an amount of money that you used to be able to live off for a month
and get the hell out of there.

But it’s the shopping experience by yourself that is the real challenge. A
list you have, time you don’t. The shopping should take you about 1 hour and
1 minute longer than that means you have left your wife at home with all the
kids and you HATE YOUR FAMILY. So efficiency is important. Nappies can often
trip up new players. If you have signed up for polluting the world with
disposable nappies like most sane people you will know that these are an
expensive item. So when they are on special you buy. It is only when you get
back home and realise you have bought infant size nappies for your three
year old that all of a sudden your technique is criticized. Yeah, but they
were 15% off (no brainer really). Specifics are important. Nipple cream, no
that’s sudocream. Nappy bags – no not that brand they’re no good. Wipes – no
you need to buy the container to use those. Those muesli bars are full of
sugar. We already have baby shampoo – it’s baby oil we needed. No that’s
olive oil. Cotton wool balls, not buds.  However there is one item you can
always purchase despite having no real requirement for it at home and you
certainly won’t see it on a list. Chocolate. Instant gratification, no
preparation required. Do not, however, expect to have any left after it has
been in the house for more than 24 hours. Do not approach woman if remaining
chocolate is still in their possession. Even if there is but 1 little square
left from the 1kg block and she’s already sunk into a post-sugar rush daze
in front of the TV – don’t risk it. You’re already too late and you’ll be
lucky to keep your hand if you try and take any. If you’re lucky, you might
get to sift out some leftover flakes from the wrapper. So remember, no
matter how bad you foul up the shopping – chocolate will mean you succeeded.
Just don’t expect any. See also: Tim Tams, maltesers, choc wedges.

Fun balloons…

Boobs. Bazoongas. Titties. Melons. Breasts. However you say it sounds great. Amazingly functional as these things are, it is simply unanimous in the bloke world that boobs are there for us to ogle, fondle, caress etc, etc. They are one of the first things that a bloke will look at when young and single, and stupid enough to continue looking at when the head and face attached to said boobs is trying to say something. Usually something like “stop staring at my boobs”. Men would go to war over boobs, and die happily in the knowledge that they fought valiantly for what they believed in.

Therefore, it all comes around as a bit of a rude shock when it’s baby time and the little suckers suddenly lay an uncontested claim to your territory (the boobs). They’re in there every waking hour, drawing every last bit of liquid gold from your better half’s nipples and all of a sudden you’re seeing boob morning, noon and night. But not in a fantasy porn “hey why don’t you just come inside and change your shirt” kind of way. No… it’s like parading a bunch of delicious steaks in front of a starving man before throwing them in the bin. Coz in the vein of MC Hammer – you can’t touch this. Unless you’re a weird Japanese businessman, not too many fellas would have gotten too intimate with the jugs o milk close to feeding time. Whilst they sure look fantastic, in a cruel twist of nature they become painful, tender sacs of feeding gel for a ravenous beast and only that. No man may touch them. Even looking at them can be punished by a foot massage. Many men learn only too late, and if not cut off quickly by a tired cranky owner will be subject to the embarrassment known as ‘the squirt” which is, like circumcision, taboo in male circles. So enjoy the orbs of life from afar, gentlemen. Admire their curvy nature and bouncy goodness for they were yours for a short time only, usurped by a newcomer when you least suspected. And the worst thing is, they won’t even appreciate it when you remind them years later. I mean, did you? (eeeewwwwww).

Dora is loco

We all know those types that roll their eyes when you say you’ve got portable DVD players for the kids and they are great on those long trips in the car. And I mean 6 hour drives not this ‘heading down to the coast’ crap you latte-sipping city nancy boys.  I mean hours of magnificent Australian country highway with no overtaking lanes, service station bay maries with shriveled up deep fried crow and petrol at $1.84 a litre. Well DVD players have changed the country drive forever, and those naysayers who think back to their happy childhood and think “Well we didn’t have them and we had a great time playing eye-spy and spotto” I think I can definitely say: you wait. For no one who actually has children would say that. They are nothing short of the most brilliant and ingenious invention since the likes of the internet, the combustion engine and stubbies shorts. In these safe days where children are confined to the rear seat it really is the sure-fire way to ensure a silent and enjoyable trip where test cricket can be listened to in comfort. That is – unless the kids aren’t big on earphones.

If you are in this category then you will not doubt be very familiar with the generic formula of every kids show as there is a 90dB minimum volume required for the story to really be understood. People who wonder why Americans have a stereotype of yelling at people need only watch that LSD fuelled acid flashback – Yo Gabba Gabba or my brood’s absolute favourite: Dora the Explorer.

I mean come on, there’s always a 3 step direction, and that map is so camp he could be voiced by Tim Brooke-Taylor. Every time it’s “HI” or “HOLA”, problem, map, first step, backpack, second step, swiper, third step – recap – celebrate success. Bloody geniuses. And what in the name of God is that squirrel thing. Where does he get the cash to buy all these cars and boats and things – are nuts that much of a commodity? And why don’t they just tell Swiper the Fox to f%^& off!!!

If it’s not in the car it’s at home and there is nothing stranger than coming home to find your wife sitting wide eyed wondering if Benny the Bull is going to be rescued when the kids have actually left the room and are playing somewhere else. I mean, there’s not going to be a twist at the end, is there. It’s not like Scooby Doo where they’re going to whip swiper’s mask off to reveal “why, it’s Diego my cousin – you’ve been behind it the whole time!” “Si, and I would’ve got away with it too if it weren’t for you snooping ninos.” It all seems like such an innocent way to simply distract the kids to let you attend to a few home essentials (like sex. And when I mean sex I mean sleep).  But then one day you look around and see….Dora toybox. Dora and Boots pyjamas. Dora umbrella. Dora lunchbox. Dora scanning electron microscope. Damn you, Dora, you put all my cash into your backpack! Nyum yum yum yum yum yum. Delicioso!!

Adios amigos!!

New Baby

A baby boy. An heir to my throne, kingdom and unfortunately also receding hairline. It’s awesome. This cool dad certainly thinks so, with two girls already chalked up. Thank God for all those ‘special positions’ that we tried out came up with the goods. And the diet and carefully tracked ovulation…..ah bollocks. Come on people, special positions? There’s only one special position when you’ve already got 2 kids and that’s the one where she’s awake. And even that’s a stretch. So no there was not rock music or footy on or upside down swinging from an oak tree outside by the light of a full moon for conception (although I’d have a crack at that last one any time). Just the usual, and turns out it’s like a 50-50 every time.

Statistics – can’t beat em. Once a father of girls has produced a boy (it is, of course, down to our chromosomes after all hence we can claim full responsibility) then he is finally allowed to say “yep – I was really hoping for a boy”. Until then you just have to lie and say “you know what, I love my girls so much I wouldn’t mind another little girl”. Bullshit, of course. Every man wants a little man. Without it there is simply too many clichés that will not come true. You know the ones – father kicks footy in back yard with son. Father ruffles son’s hair when he runs up to dad for a hug. Father scratches groin in front of TV and sees young bloke do the same. Without the boy the dad can only see a lifetime of limited bathroom access and My Little Pony ahead of him. Not that it’s a bad thing, but every bloke will likely look to seek that balance. A father of 4 boys may wish for a girl, but is quite content because he won. That family will forever outnumber the mum and always watch Michael Bay films and openly swear at each other using penis and/or testicle-related insults in the home.

The cool dad looks down and smiles, as his sons hold each other down and fart on each other’s head. On the flip side, however, not having girls also robs every cool dad of that other great moment we live and plan for the moment we start having twinkles in eyes – the bringing on of pain to potential suitors for our daughters. Whether emotional or physical, the sheer knowledge of this power balance of father of girl to teenage dork is legendary as we have lived through it ourselves. Even the nicest dad could have a large cellar under the house, or access to a multitude of empty mine shafts, and no-one can predict how much a dad will do to protect his daughter. My current favourite fantasy along these lines is inviting the young fellow inside for a beer and having an array of carving knives laid out next to a blood spattered apron. Whilst casually carrying out a conversation I cut off a pig’s head with a meat cleaver: “so you’ve been helping my daughter with her algebra..” CHOP “…that’s great.” But I’d have to get hold of a whole pig….but I digress – having a boy is great.

It is simply amazing that I could be so pumped about it, given I am already filling my daughter’s heads with enough bloke-iness (air guitar, Pixar movies, kung fu moves, eating like Cookie monster, watching the footy, the usual stuff) that it’s not like much will change. Although maybe I won’t have to wear those fairy wings so much and dance with Harmony and Rhapsody to start the day. Not that I look bad in fairy wings – it’s the tights that really light up the room anyway. So despite explaining at length to my girls the importance of why Optimus Prime is the ideal role model for young kids, it may be a few more years of fuchsia until us blokes can start to have an influence in the household. Naturally the assault will start with the toilet seat. Mwa ha ha ha…..