Saturday 15 May 2010

Stay-Work-At-Home-Laundry-Cook-Driver-Dad...

There's no denying it, I’m a loving and caring husband, and you should know it from reading all my previous blogs.  This notion of men not helping out in the house is nothing more than a myth - at least in our household.  My hands are so well cared for ever since I started to use the Fairy dish-wash soap (the one with built-in moisturizer that pampers your hands and leaves your dishes feeling squeaky clean).  Basically, I'm an all-in-one wonder dad - if you ask me of course.
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Being an at-home-working-dad has given me an insight into the daily tasks required to keep the household going, on top of the traditional duties such as cleaning and cooking and more importantly ALL the kids’ daily rituals and after school activities.  I have no idea how my wife manages or has the energy to go from activity to activity. She has done so for several years now.  On top of that, she's breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, with the exception of when I wake up early (4-5am) to feed the baby.

Despite having two kids already, it’s still not easy to adapt to having a new addition in the family.  So to show my support, I took a few days off work, and worked from home a few days too, to look after the other two hobbits as much as possible.  Mind you, this in itself is a full-time job, because the missus is often stuck in a breastfeeding trance, so most of the day-to-day duties fall upon me too - I know, you feel sorry for me.  I've started to sing "go down Moses...let my people go" and "jump down pick 'o bale of cotton", which my wife doesn't find amusing. I just find it natural to sing these songs.  A man can only take so many strokes of the whip (unless he's into that stuff).

So, for the past 4 weeks, my involvement in the daily routines increased from bringing our daughter to school, to also bringing our son to school.  His school is a 30 minute drive from our house, on the motorway, so it is a fair distance. He goes there 3 times a week and 3 hours per day.  It is too far to go back, so I spent the time in the lovely Malahide village - home of the notorious yummy mummy gang, who have their headquarters in the local Starbucks.  I was sitting there one Wednesday trying to work while our son was in school, when the place was suddenly invaded by buggies, screaming kids and lactating women. Women and kids were all wearing the latest gear, and most of it could pay for our car.

To make the situation more complex and perhaps disturbing was that staff in Starbucks knew them all and started to prepare the various variations of coffee; skinny slim decaf columbian, hot coco made with soy milk and rye scones.  What ever happened to a normal cup of Joe?

My work laptop was being squirted with juice, crumbs, coffee, breast milk and baby pooh.  Not sure I could handle much more of this.  But, just as quickly as they had emerged from their gold plated SUV's, just as quickly did they vanish.

Later in the week, while dropping off our son at school, my daughter and I were waiting in the car for a few minutes, letting the traffic in the cul de sac calm down.  Suddenly, one of these bling-bling SUVs pulled up and parked in the middle of the street. Out jumped a yummy mummy dressed to kill in DKNY, Armani and D&G sun glasses.  She was dropping off her son to school that he was not in the slightest interested in going. He grabbed the nearest pole to resist entering the school. The mother started pulling his legs causing him into a vertical position.  She then attempted to trick him and picked him up to hug him,  while one of the teachers took the kid from behind trying to lift him into school.  As she gently pulled the kid away from the mother, he desperately clung on to his mum's DKNY shirt. All of a sudden the mum's shirt ripped open and revealed her right boob!  The mother "calmly" buttoned her shirt, fixed her sunglasses and pretended as if nothing had happened.  I quickly rolled up the window trying to suppress my laughter, but then my daughter and I looked at each other and we both burst out in hysterical laughter.

Other man duties during my stint off included bringing our daughter to horseback riding, theatre school and gym - all on different days and far from home of course.  It takes almost two hours each event, so I spend time working on my blog or playing with my iPhone.  Funnily enough, I'm most of the time the only husband/man at these events, much to the amazement of the yummy mummies. I can see them stare at me with utter disbelief because I don't "participate" with supporting comments and other gestures to my daughter.  I just let her do her stuff at her own pace and she really loves it.  She's sooooo proud every time and talks for hours about what she did that day.

It's not easy being a "single parent", looking after two maniac hobbits with millions of activities to do.  The car is being seriously tested in regards to mileage and my cleaning skills have improved immensely (BTW, My wife doesn't consider cleaning a woman's job). By the time I get to sit down with my cup of Joe in the sofa, it's almost 20.30. That's when my wife looks at me with begging puppy eyes wondering if I could give her some neck massage.

In bed by 21.30 and up at 04.00.  Blimey, yesterday morning I folded the clothes and prepared pancakes well before 07.30 - I actually had to re-heat the pancakes as the rest of the family didn't come downstairs until 09.00  By then I was already changing to go outside to mow the lawn.

Who cares about expensive gyms, when you can be on the go for 12 hours daily.

Sunday 2 May 2010

There's always one!

Flying home from my dad’s funeral, was relieving as well as painful.  I was leaving my grieving mother behind, but I was also looking forward to see my own family again.  The only hurdle between me and my wife (and of course kids) was a 2 hour plane ride.

I really enjoy traveling, but sometimes time is just crawling by.  Perhaps it’s because I arrive in the airport several hours before take off, but I can’t help it, I hate rushing through the airport.  Being in time, and preferably several hours, is my ideal scenario.  This in deep contrast to my wife, who thrives on adrenaline - the question lurking over us as to whether we’ll make the flight or not.  If you’ve ever tried running across Schipol airport with two kids (under the age of 30 months), aging mother-in-law and wife, then you’ll know stress.  You haven’t fully lived until you’ve done that.

Anyway, killing time in the airport is easy for me.  I have a natural talent for wasting money on souvenirs, primarily for the family, and this becomes more and more with 3 kids.  Also, as a tradition I always have to have a traditional Danish hot dog before leaving Denmark.  It's some weird superstition I've developed over the years, and the onions give you natural air while flying 13km above the surface, forcing you to think of something other than crash landing.  Nothing beats a Danish hotdog (ristet hotdog med det hele).

Having spent almost 3 hours in CPH airport you tend to get somewhat bored, so it was a delight when my flight home started to board.  It's only a 2 hour flight, so not many air-miles.  The amusing thing about these short jumps are that the waiting passengers are desperately trying to get on the plane, despite having a boarding-card and assigned seat.  They huddle around the only check-in person and queuing becomes a thing of the past.  The queue is more like a octopus with 8 arms, and people just squeeze in.

After a 10 minute waddle to check-in, I was dragging my 7 shopping bags through the narrow cabin, looking for my seat and an empty overhead locker.  I managed to bump into all passengers, on both sides of the aisle, until I finally found my seat - I was sitting on row 15, so plenty of upset people starring at me from behind, probably thinking of ways to return the favour of dislocating their elbows.  Thanks to self-service check-in, I was sitting alone and could spread my loot across 3 seats.


It is always amusing to see how people waddle down the aisle, stopping abruptly when they spot their seat and block the rest of the passengers from reaching their seat.  There's always one or two among the passenger who doesn’t understand that they are delaying the boarding of the flight, and possible take-off, by standing there and pressing their luggage into the already full overhead locker.


Having witnessed the remaining passengers find their seat, I unpacked and prepared for the 2 hour crossing.  In front of me were three rather large blokes and as soon as we reached the cruising altitude, 2 of them moved their seats into lying position.  Frantically, I was starring at the greasy hair top of the guy in front of me, praying that he wouldn’t recline too.


I have absolutely no idea why people need to recline their seats for a short flight.  The old smelly fecker in front of me decided to join his mates, probably pretending they were lying on some sun-bed in Fuertaventura.  Then they started to speak loudly and moving wildly in their seats, making my coffee squirt hot coffee on to my lap.  Forced to withhold screaming, I instead dug my nails into the armrests.  I looked to the row next to me, and the elderly lady looked at me as if I was in pain, probably thinking that I was gripping the seat that hard because I was scared of flying.  She gently smiled and said that it'll be ok.  What did she know about my leg being eaten by atomic coffee.


Back to the smelly ogre in front of me, with his Shrek ears.  How do you approach this.  Do you complain to the guys, praying they are not hidden Hells Angel members, tell on them to the steward or do you suffer the pain for 2 hours?   (by the way, the steward freaked me out a bit.  He was a very pleasant and polite man, in a tanned short-sleeved shirt, but as he stretched his arms to close the overhead lockers, he revealed a tattoo under each bicep - some ancient language - was he a member of illuminati or some other sect, or was it just the names of his kids in his native language.)


I have long legs and need legroom, but either of the options were not really appealing.  However, I opted for option 3.


Gently, I tapped the guy on the head, getting some strange oily stuff on my fingers, and kindly asked him to straighten his seat.  He was not amused and stated he had to sleep, whereto I replied that I was working and sitting 2 inches from a 15” HD MAC screen was not pleasant or good for my eyes.  There was absolutely no need to tell him that I was watching CSI - need to know basis.


The remaining 70 minutes of the journey I enjoyed with my seat back (reclined position), watching my favorite TV show, CSI, and getting free refill coffee from my male steward (sorry cabin crew dude).  Who cares about being polite when traveling anyway?


Soon I would see my lovely family again, and being pressed against my wife’s lactating breasts was something to look forward to.  All I had to endure was a 20 minute taxi ride, with an arrogant, complaining and gossip magnet of a taxi driver.


Regards
Your frequent flyer

Saturday 1 May 2010

Every country has them!

You see them no matter where you travel.  They  are not a trade mark for any country, so you can't say that this is only a phenomenon in e.g. England.  When you do get too close, you always try to cross the street or go into the nearest shop.  But why is that?

Actually, I'm not talking about the normal low-life criminals.  They are too easy to spot and are often harmless, unless in groups of 3 and up.

What I'm talking about are the strange group of fat fuckers dressed in hoodies, biker clothes and track suits - but they have absolutely NO connection with e.g. Hells Angels.  Hells Angels are nice people, despite being involved in some minor gang related feuds, but they keep it within they community.

These hooded gorillas are normally walking around thinking they are the dogs bollocks, just because they wear Orange Chopper sweatshirt hoody.  It is not exactly like they are threatening or mean like Senior Teutul, but they think they are so cool.  No criminal organisation would hire them because they are out of shape and lacking verbal skills, other than saying "Fuck You", "What are you looking at?" and "Go Rooney!"

The average age for these dudes is around mid forties, but they like to hang out with younger blokes too, pretending to be young again.  Obviously their midlife crisis.

If you look closely, they are actually very much like a group of chimpansees, and they behave similarly. They stroll around in their enclosure and pretend to be tough, but in reality they are scared of confrontation.  They thrieve on being loud instead, but only as a group.  Sir Attenbourough would be able to make a program about these, together with McIntyre of course, on human behaviours.


That said.  The younger generation in these groups are the ones to be scared of.  They'll act agressively, destroy everything in their path (such as benches, trains, pubs, etc.) and act first by hitting people.  Again, very similar to the animal kingdom, like hyenas.  Stay clear of them if possible, they bite!

Another goup of hoodies that really make me laugh, are the ones that you always see on TV destroying everything to do with capitalism, and thereafter meet n McDonlad's for some food.  They are always covering their faces, so that can only make me wonder if they are proud of what they believe in or not.  They want to change the way government act towards world poverty, but then they destroy cities and expect to get a community house where they can hang out.  One house these weirdos squadded in Copenhagen was an old abonded house - which I don't mind.  But, this particular house was marked to be demolished because is wasn't safe; the interior was covered with asbestos, which we all know is lethal to inhale.  They got really upset when evicted and caused the usual mayhem in the capital.  Then the government gave them a new house, a fully decotared club house, and they quickly destroyed that too.  I guess it was cramping their style.


This group of people reminds me of the noisy black-headed gulls floating in the skys, stealing every food they can find and harrass all costal areas.  They are really annoyingly loud (squawking) and their political agenda is getting boring.


I'm sure that if any hoody reads this blog, they either get really offended or they want me to join their little tea party.  Please be aware and cautious when encountering these hooded individuals - unless you are Harry Brown.  

In all honesty, most of these hoody dressed guys annoy me, but they still have the right dress the way they want.  I'm sure they hate guys dressed with shirt and tie, thinking they are are stuck-up twats.  We live in a free World, but respect your fellow earthlings and don't beat up people just because you think it's fun.