Franklyn and Spencer Blog

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 What used to be my morning semi-facial routine has been replaced by me drawing beard-bubbles on my two year old boy, and the night-time-face-washing routine has been replaced by the collapse-face-down-in-the-pillow routine.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…..

Here we go again…

              da bomb

Waiting For Baby…

Currently my wife and I are waiting for the impending arrival of our third child. She is 41 weeks pregnant. “What’s that?” I hear you say, “Isn’t it a 40 week gig?” Sadly yes, hence my current predicament (let’s put her comfort level to the side for one minute and focus on me – the cool dad). There are a couple of things in the Never Say This To A Pregnant Woman Rulebook.

One of which is of course “are you pregnant?” No man should ever say this. Ever. No no – never. Not even if the woman walks in who you know is normally a size 8 waif and looks like she’s swallowed the lid of a webber. Not even if she’s holding her belly and wearing overalls and has a T shirt on that says “I’m Up the Duff”. Not even if she’s just walked into an Obstetrician’s waiting room looking like Fat Bastard’s love child and makes an appointment to get her cervix prodded (or whatever they do there). A man should never say this unless someone else, in both people’s presence, says it first (i.e. a woman. Or a rude child). There is simply too much riding on this despite the seeming low risk. Because the moment you do, it will simply turn out that she has a gland problem and hates herself and her boyfriend just left her and I can’t believe you could say such a thing YOU BASTARD. So just shut the hell up.

This brings me to the next thing not to say, particularly at week 41 in the 40 week gig: “Hey, it’s been 9 months, what’s another week?” Now, as a project engineer I am all about bringing work in on planned schedule. Plan the work, work the plan. This strategic part of project delivery is not appreciated by my wife – clearly blowing out by a week – but that apparently does not mean a casual approach (ie the expression above) necessarily cuts the mustard. I mean, logically, what is the big deal with another week? Like I need to remind all the cool dads out there that logic went out the window at Week 3 of the Plan.

So it appears that one more week of doing the same thing as the last few weeks is a big deal. Don’t even think of rationalizing it with how easy it is to take care of the new baby in that warm cozy uterus instead of the harsh cold world we offer. It is simply delaying inevitability and hence a waste of time. For us dad’s it is a strange time. At work we may have prepared to have that week off anyway, hence feel like an extra amongst our colleagues. We come home with an anticipation that maybe something has happened and the wife forgot to call… no. However what we do come home to is a clean house, good cooking and all the other things that wives and their tales have been crapping on about whatever brings the baby on. And to the doctor that provided medical proof that sex brings labour on – we salute you. You, sir, are a legend. I guess the bottom line is – they’ve got to come out some time. Don’t they?

Men in Charge

It is the natural order of things that females look after the young whilst the males are entrusted to provide for the family in the form of hunting, gathering, quantity surveying, that sort of thing. It is seen in all manner of life – birds, cows, monkeys and even Collingwood supporters. Hence, when I get some time alone with my brood I love it, like any cool dad, but there is also something to be said of that time alone at work in the office, or making adult conversation about the footy whilst getting coffee, that just makes us take a deep breath and go “aaaaaaaaah”. Quiet.

So when my wife took off for a weekend away and left me alone with my two girls I provided the natural cool dad response… “no worries”. In these moments men’s brains actually wander into a fantasy world where the weekend is garnered with opportunities for ‘man-time’. This is a period from a bygone age where weekends for men could mean sitting in their jocks playing playstation, cooking up burgers with 7 different types of meat (5 from a pig) and cramming in a number of movies on the to-watch list. This will of course be no different with children because they will also wish to see their dads enjoying such simple pleasures. Of course in reality, this is not always what happens. 

But hey – a weekend with my girls can’t have been that bad, right? Well, it may have been more bearable had the case of gastro my kids had that week not hit me from about 27 minutes after my wife’s plane took off. As most people are aware, men get worst strains of illness than women (medical fact) and hence the sheer magnitude of the sickness I was made to endure could be compared to that of bubonic plague. It wasn’t long before I was contemplating simply shifting a pillow next to the toilet. Kids I think sense this and come to the conclusion that by jumping on Dad he will recall that he is there for the sole purpose of playing with them. Perhaps a carefully placed hard-sole shoe in the testicles might help jolt the memory, eh dad? Why are you crying dad, etc etc.

Naturally no mortal could endure such hardship alone, hence it was with a heavy heart that I contacted the ever faithful grandparents to come around and enjoy some Nan and Pop time. Now. No, not in an hour or so, now. A few short hours of toilet-free rest was all it took to mentally begin the road to recovery. Of course, one needs to make sure that the non-present wife is updated with tales of pain and suffering to ensure there is a certain level of appreciation in the toils of a mans solo weekend.

All was well that ended well, of course, and the kids survived the weekend. This is when the cool dad must play down the outcome and suggest that it was achieved with relatively no effort. Almost a shame that he must hand back the fun of the home-maker to the wife and head back to the drudgery of working life, after all the kids are the best. But as we close the door on a screaming child who can’t seem to fit both legs into one side of the pants, we remember those simple pleasures at work. Quiet.