Married to be divorced...

...just to get our newborn registered!  That's exactly what we almost had to do.

As you might have read in some earlier blogs, my beautiful wife gave birth to an almost as beautiful daughter five weeks ago. When that happens you need to get the child registered.  That's fairly standard across the World. It will allow you to apply for a passport - obviously and it also helps if you want to get child benefit.

I still think it is silly to give kids below the age of four their own passport.  In all honesty, a baby's face changes a lot in the first 12 months alone. So, the child/baby could get arrested or could be denied entry.  Even my face as an adult changes from time to time. That's mainly because I'm getting a little more roundfaced as I'm getting older.  Sometimes my face changes as well when I attempt to grow facial hair, although I still cannot grow a full beard.  My late dad always made fun of this, and he probably still does.

One morning, after having dropped off the two eldest kids at their schools, the rest of the von Trap family journeyed into the local council office to get our newest member registered.  My wife was, as always, well prepared and had all the usual certificates copied and folded neatly in an envelope.  That should make the process quicker - we thought.  We handed the envelope to the civil servant sitting behind the greasy class partition and she "quickly" started the process.  Just as we were waiting for the document to be stamped and processed, the civil servant said that our wedding certificate was no longer valid. WTF!  I calmly explained to the numbskull that we had used the same certificate to register our two other kids, where to she said "well, that was before January 1 2007, right?" Church certificates are no longer valid, we were told. And, this comes from a country that has been manipulated and run by the Catholic church for centuries!  The only option, she said, was to get a civil marriage certificate or the wedding certificate legalised by the government/country we were married in.  That just made it so much easier ... NOT!

When we came home, I contacted my embassy, only to discover that this rule had indeed been agreed by most European countries to prevent fraud and human trafficking.

I then contacted the foreign affairs office in Denmark and discovered that I had to get our wedding certificate renewed, as they only accept certificates that are less than 4 months old.  FFS, this just got worse.

At this point, we seriously considered getting married in city hall, in Ireland, in our swim wear, (I in my speedos and my wife in her bikini) just to get this famous certificate.  Just one minor problem...we had to get divorced to get married.  And, in order to get a new certificate, I had to go to a Danish church, IN Denmark.

For personal reasons, I had to go to Denmark, so I brought the famous wedding certificate with me in order to get it upgraded.  My path would cross another civil servant again - damn it - this time disguised as a "friendly" clerk in the church office.  She turned out to be just as helpful as a kitchen sifter emptying a bucket full of water.

She could not find our certificate on the computer, despite it being the church where we got married. She then said my wife would have to come to Denmark too to get registered as a resident.  Interesting!  Do they suggest that we leave our newborn alone in Dublin? Remember, you can't travel without a passport, and to get a passport you need a birth certificate... Alright,  I've always tried to be diplomatic and understanding, but in this case I had to tell the lady a few truths about the IT systems they were using and her inability to provide alternative solutions.  These were truths the church haven't heard since the dark ages (the language of mordor), letting my dark side shine through.  Obviously, it didn't help at all and I was no further in my quest to get our daughter registered.

My dear mum heard my heartfelt story and stepped in to help her son.  Within 40 minutes, she had secured me a new wedding certificate and processed the payment to get the document legalised.  Now we just had to get the certificate legalised by the Danish Foreign Office, and pay to have this done of course ... I even had to pay for the postage stamp to send the certificate back to me!

Within 7 working days, the "new" certificate arrived.  It looked exactly like the one I sent them, with the only difference that it now had a small A5 sized stamp on the back.  Hopefully the Irish civil servants accept this one.  Something tells me that they will be looking for something else, e.g. video footage of the wedding, letter from priest, blessing for local parish priest - anything to delay the process further.

We can only keep our fingers crossed, hoping everything is in order, so we can get our daughter registered and get her a passport.  We are relying on civil servants.. Lord have mercy on us.

... and they didn't accept the new marriage certificate!
The legalized and stamped certificate arrived as promised. We travelled far distances across town to get our daughter registered.  Yes, back to the house of evil civil servants and their medieval processes.

My wife joined the queue and were soon face-to-face with a glazed looking male.  He starred at the newly stamped certificate, with the Danish seal on it, and passed it back ."No good!".  "It doesn't state it's a CIVIL Marriage certificate." he said. My diplomatic wife attempted for a long time to remind the civil supervisor muppet that we had done EXACTLY what they asked us to do. She also suggested that he should contact the Danish embassy since they were not accepting the Danish Foreign Affairs office stamp.  We should have known that he wasn't going to be of any help, so I contacted the Danish embassy instead, hoping they would be able to assist.

BTW, we did ask the question if we could re-marry to get this process completed, whereto the civil drone said we would be breaking the law! We would have to get divorced first to remarry. However, we could also be charged for tax fraud since we have been registered as married for years which means we have been taxed as a married couple... But, he wasn't following the legal EU directive himself!

So, I persuaded the assistant ambassador to write a letter to the Uber-clone, stating that our wedding certificate in fact was a legal civil document.  We just received that letter and now we just have to see if that letter is good enough as well.  All these obstacles just to get our daughter registered!

My wife went to the registration office, again, walked up to the hatch and spoke to the same "helpful" civil servant again.  She showed him the legal wedding certificate (again), the birth confirmation form from the hospital (again) and the newly acquired letter from the embassy.  Drumroll please.

Believe it or not, we finally managed to get her registered.  3rd time lucky as they say.  Now, off to the passport office. Let's hope they are not on strike!

There and back again, by misses hobbit

When Men became Men...

It was a dark and windy winter evening, more precisely a Saturday evening, and my lovely wife was going out. As in many relationships, that is when men decide to do all the stuff they normally wouldn't otherwise do; go to the chipper to get greasy food, drink normal coke, order pizza, smoke a pack of fags, watch horror or silly action movies (by the way, there are of course no silly action movies, just badly understood action movies) and play games on the Playstation. It wouldn't be any games, but gore, death and bloody games.

...and, while we do that, we play loud heavy metal music on the stereo.

Personally, I play 80's metal as it's so much more fun and the lyrics are crap.

My few hours of boyish behaviour was upon me and I was looking forward to killing a few zombies in the latest Resident Evil game and watching the shittiest action movies.

The evening started with a pack of Marlboro (reds of course) while I flushed down the batter burger with a few cans of Carlsberg. I have to support the local brewery.  At this point, the Van Damme action movie on the tele was coming to an end, which is the great thing about these no-brain action movies - they only last for max. 90 minutes.  Girlfriends just don't get this.

Time to chop the heads off of a walking zombie and shoot some bad guys in war torn Baghdad.

I loaded the Resident Evil game on my PS2 (Play station 2 for you who don't dig the lingo), turned off most of the lights in the apartment and turned up the volume.  Bring it on!

Soon, the living room was filled with screams, blood splatter on the screen and distant gun fire, as I moved my way through the various levels fully concentrated.  Adrenaline was pumping and I heard nothing other than the slicing of the chainsaw and the clattering chain-gun.

Zombies were reaching out from the darkness to smother me. Enemy snipers were trying to take me down.  Pure horror and terrifying effects were constantly placing my arse at the edge of my seat, ready for the next wave of pain.

This was a perfect boy night in.  My opportunity to show these fecking zombies who was the boss and commanding my unit effectively down the deserted streets of Baghdad.  I was in full control.  A real man in the making.  Nothing could cramp my style.

My character was walking down a dark corridor in the Hive (Resident Evil) and my fingers were ready for the next flesh eater.  Suddenly, a cold hand was placed on my shoulder and a soft voice asked if I was having fun.  I literally jumped 3 feet from the sofa, screaming like a frightened pig. I nearly wet my pants.  Fear of the worst kind had gripped me and I slowly moved into fetus position - the safest position to be in.

It was just my dear wife who had returned home without me hearing anything. She just wanted to check on me.  My reaction and pale white face made her burst into laughter, and she laughed uncontrollably for at least 10 minutes.  Personally, I didn't find this amusing.

Soon after this experience I sold my PS2.  Just couldn't get back into the game. I was always looking over my shoulder.

Who let the dogs out?

You haven't lived until you've visited a Pet Expo. The Pet Expo came to Dublin in October.  We simply had to go, not only to see all the ridiculous gadgets you could buy for our fluffy friends, but also so our kids could do something other than playing in the rain.  Playing Noah's Ark in the rain isn't that much fun after a while.  We just had to go because our kids love animals - especially dogs.

We went on Sunday afternoon, thinking we were outsmarting everyone by going on a holy day. We thought less people would be attending the expo.  Boy were we wrong!  2000 other people had the same idea, meaning we had to queue for 15 minutes before we were let in.  It was bizarre standing outside waiting, as we were surrounded by the strangest of animals.  No, not the other visitors, but snakes, dogs, spiders, cats and birds.  All of them going outside to get some fresh air and to have their pictures taken.

My dear wife had received a family voucher for the expo, which had expired 24 hours earlier, but the friendly cashier didn't seem to mind. That's what we love about Ireland. They are not strict about those things.  The kids were getting excited and dragged us through to the ticket stand. My son was dragging me to the toilet.  Drinking 0.5 liter juice while waiting outside was putting unnecessary pressure on his little bladder.

The first thing we noticed when entering the expo was the strong smell of animal feces.  It gave the experience a more authentic feel to it, as you had feces from all parts of the World.  It just made me wonder what they did with the dogs.  Was there outdoor facilities for canines or did they just have to hold it in?  Anyway, it made me look closely at where I stepped, hoping to avoid any squishy piles.

I couldn't believe the amount of stalls they crammed in.  Worse.  I couldn't believe what some of the stands were selling.  Dog therapy and massage!!  It was difficult to picture our Bernese Mountain Dog (Angel) with a cucumber face mask, while getting a pawdicure (pedicure for dogs). They had all kinds of outfits. They even had a fashion show!

We had agreed not to buy anything, or very little if possible. My daughter  and wife only bought 3 bags worth of accessories; back pack for our St. Bernard, Ultimate Dog Grooming kit for the Bernese and a Superman outfit for the Labrador.  I bought something that might have been on TV Shop, a non-spill drinking bowl.  My wife doubted my abilities to spot good deals, but having used the non-spill bowl for a few weeks, I must admit that it actually works.  I don't spill anymore and my dogs like it too.

In the middle of the expo area, they built a dog agility track.  I have always been amazed by those games when watching Crufts, and now we had a chance to see it live.  The dogs loved it and our kids were enjoying the show immensely.

After the agility show, they showed some dog training tricks and games.  I suddenly realised that dog trainers are a different breed of humans.  Appearances didn't seem to matter. They all used the same gadgets; little pouch for goodies, super tight T-shirt (no matter what size they were) and an over enthusiastic attitude.  I could just picture a movie with Will Ferrell, similar to "Blades of Glory".

Anyway, after 2 hours of walking around at the expo, witnessing the madness of dog breeders and holistic dog food from Scotland, we decided we had had enough.  Last stop was the face painting stall for kids.  They refused to pain my face!!

Irish Super Gnomes marches on...

Lucky me, I was invited to the Ireland vs. France match, a game that on paper looked to be in France's favour.  This was not just any game. It was a VERY important qualifying game for both Ireland and France.  Either country had to win in order to secure their tickets to the WC 2010.  The best team over two games will head to South Africa.

The game was taking place in Croke Park, Dublin's main stadium that has hosted many great events such as U2 360. It is the venue for multiple GAA games (hurling and gaelic football) throughout the year.  Hill 16 was built from the rubble left on O'Connell Street (Sackville Street) after the 1916 rising.  So, there's a lot of history and nationalism breathing within the giant Croke Park.  I've watched a couple of Hurling games from Hill 16 and the atmosphere is fantastic.

This time I was going to see The Green Army play Les Bleus, not from the stands but from premier level (also known as premier boxes). So that also meant free food and drinks.  As I've said in previous blogs (Chelsea CL game and FA Cup 2009), the only way to watch football is VIP style.  That said, I would love to see a game any time.

My friend and I arrived at the Croker around 18.00 to participate in the pre-match drinking games and view a few celebrities, mainly ex-Irish football players.  It was bound to be a great evening. I was certain Ireland would come out all guns blazing and running over the French frogs.

Even the Pope and Cardinal Desmond Tutu gave their support and blessings, hoping that the Irish would qualify for the World Cup in South Africa 2010.  Ireland was bound to win, considering that there are millions of Irish people outside of Ireland, in every country and any remote corner of the World, ready to support their relatives.  These numbers include, of course, all Americans that have 1/8 of Irish blood in them, who visit their relatives in Mayo every 10 years.

The game was OK. Ireland unfortunately lost 1-0 to France.  For 90+2 minutes the boys in green fought the battle, but not bravely enough.  On paper, France should have beaten Ireland 10-0. However the French didn't play with any passion or desire to win. They were even arguing with their coach.  The Irish focused mainly on defense, only bringing 2-3 forward. So, no wonder they didn't score.  Technically, the Irish simply weren't good enough.


In spite of this, the atmosphere in Croke Park was fantastic.  72000 Irish and 2500 French spectators must have been overwhelming for both teams.  Even if I'm not Irish, I felt proud being there and participated in singing the national anthem.  Did I cry?  No, but I probably farted quietly.


The Irish team received strong support even after being 1-0 down.  There's still a chance of Ireland qualifying for South Africa, but they have to win in France!  It's unlikely they will, but there's still hope for the green army.


I woke up the following morning, wondering if the taste in my mouth was that of defeat, but I soon realised that it was simply a combination of shitty burgers and too many pints of Guinness.  My kids were so happy to see me that they jumped into our bed, hugging me, not caring that my head was bursting.  They just didn't care that I had a minor hangover and why should they?  I just knew that I was getting too old for this shit.  My body and head just can't handle 7-8 pints of Guinness.  As Dubliners would say "I've got an arse on me like the back of Batman's car after all that Guinness last night".

I wasn't too sure that Ireland was the strongest team, so I had to compare a few key points, which should determine the true winner.  (France left and Ireland right)

• 65,000,000 vs 4,500,000 people - history shows that the Irish are stubborn people and they DO NOT want to be ruled by anyone (although they pretend to be British sometimes).  They will never follow bigger countries blindly (just the US and Britain). The Irish are always up for a good fight, so just because they are out-numbered 14:1 doesn't mean they will lay down their defenses.  Thierry Henry might be the best striker in the World (5 years ago), but the Irish have Dunne in defense, all pumped up on Guinness foam.
• GDP €2.6 trillion vs. GDP €282 billion - it is not all about money, but it would certainly help Ireland a lot, and make sure it is not stuck in the arsehole of the World's economy.  I'm "delighted" that we let banks and property developers ruin the Irish economy!!
• Thierry Henry vs. Robbie Keane - Henry has scored tons of goals for France, England and Spain. He must be considered as a top striker in the history of football.  However, Keane does not score many goals for Ireland, but scores many goals for Tottenham Hotspurs (England).  But, he's lethal. He runs around on the pitch like a little Tasmanian Devil. He's everywhere on the pitch; assists, free kicks, defending, getting water bottles, arguing with the ref and brings the crowd along. 
• Kronenbourg 1664 vs. Guinness - doesn't take much consideration or debate.  Guinness has it all; flavour, alcohol and it is filling as a meal too.  1664 is like drinking Mountain Dew. It's also bright yellow like pee.
• Pixies vs. Le Petit Prince - another easy win for Ireland.  Pixies are cute little fairytale creatures, whereas the Prince is an annoying little boy who has a problem with Baobab trees. He dies too. 
• Sarkozy vs. Brian Cowen - OK, France wins this one.  Sarkozy is short, elegant, well spoken and has his country under control (including economy).  Cowen is the direct opposite; butt ugly, chubby, poorly dressed, speaks funny and he has no control of his country and its economy.  You could say they are the Beauty and the Beast.
• Leon vs. Ray (in Bruges) - Yes, Leon is one of the coolest assassins in the movie industry, but Ray must be the funniest.  So, the winner is Ray.  Why?  Well, Leon is a loner and weirdo who dies in the end to save an obnoxious teenage girl.  Ray wins the girl and he doesn't die...and he karate chopped a midget.
• Brie vs. Cheddar - right, this is personal.  I hate cheddar with a vengeance.  It is hard and it has no taste.  Brie on the other hand is smooth, soft and delicious.  Also, France produces an abundance of different cheeses, whereas Ireland primarily produces Cheddar.  The only thing cheddar is good for is Macaroni and cheese.
• 4 seasons vs. 2 seasons - they call Ireland the Emerald (green) Island for a reason.  It rains every 2nd day here, so everything is therefore moist and green.  Ireland has two seasons; rainy and more rainy season.  Ideally, it would be great with a nice warm summer once in a while.

Overall, France unfortunately lost the competition here, but Ireland lost the first leg of an important football game.  So, who is one step closer to South Africa?

The Irish supporters are absolutely fantastic.  But, Ireland will have one big problem if they qualify because they don't have the dough to travel to South Africa.  On the other hand, nothing has been better for the economy than increased loans and credit card debt, so it might just be dragging Ireland out of the void.

Personally, I didn't care who won or qualified - no disrespect to any of the two countries.  My country, Denmark, already qualified by winning their games. They have also started to compose the Danish World Cup football anthem.

I wonder if the horrid twins Jedward will be singing for Ireland next year, if Ireland qualifies?

I hope Ireland qualifies so they can spice up the World Cup. Let's wish them best of luck for their next game in Paris.  Go buy shamrocks and pray to St. Patrick that they'll make it.

Choose your weapon mortal!

Getting the kids ready for bed is a challenge for any parent, no matter the age of the child.  In our little household, getting the kids to go to bed, and wash their faces and brush their teeth, can be a struggle.  They don't want to go to bed and they will find any excuse to avoid putting on their pyjamas or jump into bed.

Coming from Denmark, brushing teeth has been forced upon us through school education. Obsessive school nurses shoved a fluor tablet in our mouth to see where we had cavities or made us drink fluor liquid to clean our teeth - gurgling this vile drink for 60 seconds.  My parents made me brush my teeth every evening and morning, to avoid me getting too many cavities.  However, this strategy failed completely, as I have more fillings than Irish roads.

So, last night was no different, as my wife and I worked hard to get the kids to co-operate.  I normally attempt to entertain them. So, I started to tickle my daughter a tiny bit.  Playing a bit before bedtime happens to be a nightly ritual, partly to persuade them to brush their teeth.

Brushing teeth is always something that is a major challenge for us parents, not brushing our own teeth of course, but getting our kids to brush their teeth.  I've lost count of the amount of times my daughter has claimed to have brushed her teeth, only to find her toothbrush still in its packaging or it is dry as if it has been lying in the desert for weeks.

Through my connections at work, I've managed to secure a forensics kit that will tell whether my daughter has brushed her teeth or not, but somehow my daughter doesn't really care.  I can conduct these types of tests in the comfort of our own home. However the only problem is that the results take 7-10 working days and samples collected from home are not normally admissible in a court of law.  Yes, my daughter knows this and pleads the 5th every time she's challenged.

After tickling her for a while, my daughter got more and more frustrated. She suddenly stopped all movements and stared at me intensely.  She barely moved her lips and uttered "I will challenge you to a sword fight! Pick your sword wisely mere mortal infidel".  For a second, I thought we were re-enacting scenes from Highlander, a movie she has never seen of course, and smiled.  But, she repeated the line and moved a step closer.

Now, this was getting freaky. It reminded me of the scene from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" (me being the ugly of course), and I started to whistle the theme song in my head.

Suddenly, she jumped forward and ran into her room, getting her weapons - a giant book and the biggest hair brush she could find.  I panicked and grabbed the nearest weapon, the vacuum cleaner tube, and took Aragon's fighting stance.  My daughter moved around me using deadly ballet steps, and sliced the air with the brush, and charged at me with the Irish Fairy Tale book.

The next few minutes was a battle for life or sleep.  My daughter made all the sounds (some gun sounds too) and we fought bravely.  My wife and son had to seek shelter on the bed, and they were both cheering on our daughter.

I felt a pain in my side and collapsed on the floor. Slowly, I looked down towards my belly and side, and discovered that I had received a deep paper-cut on the third belly tire, and slipped into the sleep state.  I had lost the battle and my daughter was standing both feet on my stomach smiling down at her victim.  The screams of victory and defeat deafened the room, and I made a few last jerks before finally falling asleep.

Goodnight my dearest, see you in the morning.

The sea lion's mating call

We are in mid October and it is the season of various viruses being shared in public places, especially in offices with air condition systems.  If one employee has a cough or cold, then everybody on that floor will have it within 2 weeks.  That's just one reason I dislike air condition systems.  It's not that AC system aren't handy. It's just this whole social aspect of sharing diseases that is simply ridiculous.  And more, shouldn't we be more careful in these swine flu days?

So, at the beginning of last week I developed a bit of a tickle in the throat, which slowly developed into a cough.  Instantly, my female colleagues suspected the Man Flu, which is level 11 on WHO's pandemic scale - way above the more known deadly killers like Swine Flu and the Black Death - except this one doesn't kill, but merely paralyses the male chromosomes for a short period of time.  Either that or it is simply a urban legend developed by the female workforce.  Us men wouldn't fall victim to any viruses or other strange phenomenon, which will make us stay at home for a couple of days looking for affection and attention from our partner, would we?

I was slowly developing a dangerous cough which made me sound like seals found in Howth harbor.  I realized how bad I sounded, when people started to throw dead fish at me and when I lost my voice.  It was at times like being back in puberty, when the voice has these funny pitches and drops, to the amusement of bystanders and family.

My wife occasionally feeds our kids Manuka honey, which has healing powers, to help them fight an infection.  But not  me, I'm a man. A man doesn't need these remedies or other prescriptions. My powerful body will fight off the bad cells naturally.  The real reason for my dislike of honey is because when I was a kid I developed a phobia for honey. The smell, texture and taste makes me gag.  The cause is actually very traumatic for me, as it reminds me of the pain the nuns in my kindergarten put me through, every day for three years. They fed us kids with a tablespoon of honey EVERY morning.  That would break any man. Even a tough viking like me.

On Thursday evening my voice decided to go on holidays, leaving me speechless for the first time in my life - literally.  Whenever I attempted to say something to my wife, or reply, the only thing that left my lips was a weird ghostly voice - resembling a mafioso character in Mickey Blue Eyes.  You can call me Don Brix Calzone.

Sure, a good night's sleep would cure anything, so I headed to my favorite destination - Narnia Middle Earth.

The next morning hadn't changed much, except me hairdo that made me look like the Lucan Twins from X Factor (except I am twice their age and I can sing compared to them!), and my voice still sounded shite.  I had to go to work, as I had a business presentation.  Luckily I didn't have to talk much. I was the co-pilot controlling the slides instead.

Like every morning, I had to record my greeting on the voicemail system.  I'm 100% certain that any caller would have mistaken my greeting to be either a devilish backward recitation or some pervert stalker - but it had to be done.  People just didn't take me serious, with a voice like a teenage mutant mafioso twit.

Thank God It Was Friday, and I had to leave at lunch time to pick up my daughter from school.  I survived Man Flu!

Toxic Waste

During the latter part of 2007, we had decided to pimp our crib.  Obviously not the bling bling MTV style, but expanding our house our way.  And, during any large scale renovation work, we had to move our stuff into storage.  What better place to use than the converted attic?  Our kids were too small to have it as a bedroom and we never really spent time there.  Slowly, old furniture, moving boxes, clothes for charity found their way to the attic. The famous storage room.  Yes, my back was killing me. Deep inside I truly believed that I would develop Jean Claude van Damme biceps from lifting all these boxes.  Most of you, who have met me face-to-face, will agree that this change didn't happen.

Last month, we got a surprise message from some close friends. They were going to visit us.  We were delighted and we knew we had plenty of space in the attic.  All I had to do was to go through the stuff in the attic, which we assumed was a piece of cake.  It shouldn't take that long, we said.

The attic floor space is 20 m2 and it was packed to the last inch. So, getting into the attic was a challenge.

The Big Clean-out day came around quickly and I put on my hazmat suit.   For those people who haven't read Zombie Survival Guide or seen Resident Evil 2, a hazmat suit provides protection from hazardous materials, and might be combined with breathing equipment.  The more advanced versions come in shiny silver, which is similar to mine.  You really don't want to spend too much time in one of these suits or you will lose weight due to excessive sweating.  Imagine the smell inside the suit.
- by the way DO NOT fart when wearing a hazmat suit!

Dressed as something out of Moonraker, I ventured up the stairs. I was horrified of what was stacked in front of me.  Boxes and bags bulking to the ceiling. I had to work slowly and carefully.  It was amazing how much stuff we had accumulated over the years. I was finding stuff that I didn't know we had.  Perhaps the gremlins had been moving stuff from our Indian neighbours?  I didn't know that we owned large pieces of the Berlin wall or a treasure map to Atlantis.

We had no choice but to continue to clear the attic, as this was the only place our friends could sleep.  I was not prepared to share our bed with them, and I was sure my pregnant wife would kill or cause other bodily harm if that was going to happen.

I was lost in the attic for most of the weekend. I only came back to reality for meals and the occasional liquid refills.  I was starting to lose my mind and it started to dawn on me that I might not survive this expedition.  My family was thankfully going to start the rescue mission, Monday morning.

In the 10th hour, I discovered some unknown plants and animal species, which I proudly terminated with our Dyson Anti Asthma vacuum cleaner.  Some of these organisms would have attacked me anyway, so it was a question of being killed or kill them.

The worst thing about clearing out storage areas, indoor or outdoor, is when you open a box that contains memorabilias such as pictures, articles, VHS tapes, etc.  I got carried away with some of these boxes. I got fairly emotional when seeing pictures of the kids when they were just born, my own kindergarten pictures and family videos - so much that the hazmat suit would become all foggy.

Having spent so many hours in the attic, I was starting to see things.  The freaky thing is when you start to see movements (or at least you think you see movements) or when you think bags make strange sounds as if somebody was trapped inside.  I vaguely remember investigating a movement, when suddenly my wife tapped my shoulder.  A combination of fear and panic engulfed me. I screamed like a little kid and jumped to the floor in fetal position.  My wife seemed somewhat surprised and startled, but managed to pass me my coffee.

Gradually, I was able to see the carpet again and the attic was starting to look like the room it used to be in its glorious days.  The room was ready for our visitors, and we had a "new" room to inhabit again. A room that will be very handy once the 3rd dude arrives in April.

Phase II involved water and soap, and lasted almost 20 minutes.  All garbage had been removed. All the stuff we wanted to keep was organised and put into storage.  The room was ready.  However, I still don't know when we bought the full size Jesus marble statue? Maybe Dobby (Harry Potter's house elf ) can  explain it to me?

Regards
Sole Survivor

Gooooood Mooooorniiing Ireland

I always try to buy something for my wife and kids, when away either on business or going home to meet the family + friends.  Some would probably call it a bribe to ensure that your wife still loves you and that your kids will hug you when you return home.  They know they get something.  I hate buying sweets, mainly because I end up eating most of the stuff anyways and I forget to exercise, which normally results in me wearing a few extra rings around the middle.  And, believe it or not, our kids actually don't like sweets, e.g. chocolate, drops, etc.  So, this makes it extremely silly of me to buy sweets for the family.

Last year, when going to Frankfurt on a training course, I found this lovely clock for my daughter.  Back then, she didn't know how to tell the time, but there was something cool about having a clock in your bedroom.  We didn't install batteries either, primarily because we didn't have any batteries.

Anyway, during our daughter's recent room make-over, I decided to surprise her by installing batteries in the alarm clock.  Was it a wise idea?  No!

A few days later I was dreaming being somewhere in Narnia or Middle Earth, fighting giant Playmobil and Lego armies, when I suddenly heard a bell chime in a distance.  These bells didn't belong in Narnia or Middle Earth.  I was slowly being dragged out of my dreams, back to reality.  It was an alarm clock, informing the family that we had to get up.

But, I was the only person who heard this beeping sound.  It was still pitch black outside, and inside.  I could hear my daughter faintly crying for help, so I woke up.  I had to rescue her.  So, I got out of bed and stumbled my way through toys, shoes and clothes, towards the annoying sound.  There's nothing more annoying than hearing a sound and not being able to stop it.  The sound came from our daughter's bedroom.

Along the way I bumped my toe on the corner of the door.  In order to avoid screaming out in pain, I quickly put a towel in my mouth (I thought) and continued towards the sound on my knees.  The "towel" was in fact a pair of dirty boxer shorts, leaving me with a weird taste in my mouth.  We have wooden floors, so by the time I arrived at the source of the sound, my knees were bleeding.

I found the fecking clock - the nice alarm clock I had given my daughter, which she was so proud of.  My daughter was sitting with the alarm clock in her hands, and when she saw me she said "Dad, the alarm clock works.  This is brilliant!  Thanks".  I could see her white teeth in the darkness and hear that she was extremely happy.  I took the alarm clock away to turn it off, but I just didn't know how to turn it off.  Left with no choice, I ripped out the batteries and the house went silent again.  I could only hear the deep breathing of our kids, my wife's snoring and the 3 dogs farting.  Yes, my daughter had fallen asleep again, within seconds of turning off the alarm.

Limping back to my bad, I glanced at my own alarm clock and discovered that it was only 04.30 in the morning!  Still another few hours to sleep, but would I be able to find my way back to Middle Earth?

Sleep tight everybody
- JudgeBrix the Ugly Morning Fecker Ogre

Yeeeeeeha!

Lets be clear, this is NOT a blog about how much I adore Hannah Montana and how I want to be like her, but just a short story about the impact she has had on my daughter.  Actually, that's a pretty scary thought; me with a blond longhaired wig - call me Daisy!

My heart went achy breaky yesterday afternoon, while having dinner.  My cool 5 year old daugther has started to get into this Hannah Montana phenomenon.  OK, she's not exactly colouring her hair blond and she doesn't have all the 3 million HM accessories, but she REALLY loves her songs.  So, my wife and I decided to rent the latest HM pandemic movie last weekend and our daughter was over the moon screaming "Awwwwesoooom!".

It's a happy feel good movie with little or no story, somewhat shallow, but through and through a happy movie - and some catchy pop and country tunes.  As you know Hannah Montana is actually Miley Cyrus, the daughter of country singer Billy Ray Cyrus, who sang 'achy breaky heart' in the early 90s.

So, in the movie Hannah (Miley) goes back to her roots, which is laughable in the first place as she is only 15 years old, to spend a couple of weeks in hillbilly country.  Nobody, except her closest family actually knows she's Hannah Montana.  She has this blond magic wig that makes everybody believe she's Hannah and blinds them from seeing the truth - she is Miley!  I wouldn't mind one of those wigs once in a while, but just for the weekends of course.  Imagine sitting in a meeting, with a magic wig, hearing things people might be saying about you.

The legend Billy Ray plays the dad in the movie and gives a couple of guest performances, as you do to promote yourself, and they were actually fairly catchy - especially "Back to Tennessee".  My wife even closed her eyes and swirled away to the sound of Billy's voice.

My son was dancing in the sofa, clapping his hands to the rhythm and singing along.  He absolutely enjoyed Billy Ray's performance and I'm certain that he would have a blast at a real line dance hoedown.  In fact, all four of us, and probably the dogs too, would enjoy a real American barn party; line dancing, country music, creasy BBQ and cowboys/cowgirls - that'll be fun.  Bring it on, yeeha!

Anyway, during dinner, we played the songs on the Mac (iTunes) and I hummed along to the chrorus of the "Back to Tennessee" song.  I didn't know the lyrics, but that has never stopped me from singing what I think they are singing.

Suddenly my daughter stared at me..."Dad, you are NOT Hannah's dad!, please don't sing anymore".
I was stunned and asked her if she didn't like my voice, whereto she replied diplomatically "Yeah, but please don't sing anymore".  Somewhat distraught, I asked her again why I couldn't sing, and she simply replied "Ok, sing then, sing!  Come on dad, sing!".

That freaked me out and I got stagefright.  I'm not going to do the X-factor trials.  I'm stuck singing in the shower only, to the amusement of the neighbours.  Country is nice, at times, but not when performed by me.

Of course I can do the school run!!

It was Tuesday morning and the alarm woke me up at 06.00 (am).  My God!  It was still dark outside and it was still raining - nothing had changed since I went to bed in regards to the weather.  As for me, I was still as tired as the night before, and my looks hadn't changed for the better either.

It was the morning of my son's grommets surgery.  My daughter had had her grommets surgery last week, so we somewhat knew what to expect:

1. Stuck all day in the hospital
2. Starving child
   
3. Staff not knowing what was happening
4. Starving child
5. Hours of fun, sitting on a shitty chair
6. Starving child
   

My wife was meant to bring him to the hospital at 07.30 (am), so she had to get going earlier than usual.  Unfortunately, she sleeps very well and it can be VERY difficult to get her back to this World.  The way she was breathing and snorring, I would say she was hovering in between Worlds - completly zen and relaxed.  From the high nasal pitch, probably Narnia.  There was no hope in hell of waking her up.

Finally, after a few kicks to the kidneys, an old Steven Seagal trick, I got her back from Narnia and she moved like a zombie to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Our son is more like me. We are both up and running quickly.  The adrenaline was pumping and he was ready for a day of surgery.  He had no idea what he was getting himself into.  The poor thing hadn't eaten since the previous evening at 19.00 (7 pm), and he was not allowed to eat at all. The nurses in hospital would feel his wrath quickly, if there were any long delays.

My wife left the house with our son, who later (according to my wife) turns into a mum's worst nightmare; screaming and poohing all over in the hospital toilet. At least, she sent me a text asking to bring clean clothes, so something bad must have happened.

Anyway, as you know, I love my wife and family and I'm a great dad.  So, I'd taken the morning off work to help out.  It would be my second time (in 18 months) to bring our daughter to school, so this was still very new to both of us and also exciting.  Keep in mind, I trust my daughter, because she is 5 years old and she knows what is best for her (see "Horseback Riding" story). So, it was bound to be an interesting morning.

Our daughter wakes up just as "quickly" as my wife. So, getting her to eat breakfast, get dressed and her teeth brushed was challenging, especially since she was still asleep.

I made her lunch, a sandwich she designed herself. I hoped she would like it.  I'm not too sure how nice a a nutella and cheese sandwich, sprinkled with cornflakes would be!  But, she is 5 and she knows what she wants.

Because my wife took the car to the hosiptal, and my daughter doesn't have a bike helmet for the scooter, we decided to walk.  My daughter wanted to bring Angel, as she is very easy to walk with.

We put on the wellies, rain coat and bag pack and headed off to her school.  It would probably take 10-15 minutes by car, so it shouldn't take no more than 30 minutes walking.  My daughter was ensuring me that it wouldn't be a problem and that she had done this several times with Mummy.  OK then!

It wasn't raining when we set off, but I had (based on skills learned by watching Ray Meare's TV series) predicted it would start to lash later that morning.  I didn't start to rain until I was walking back.  We walked at a normal speed. I had calculated the route to take 28 minutes, which would leave us with 2 minutes to spare, as her class starts at 08.50.

At 08.49 I texted my wife, just to double check when school starts, as we were still a bit away from the school.  The last mile to school was the hardest for all three of us.

• Angel because she had had a stroke about 4 weeks ago and she needed to be gradually trained up again, but exercise should be good for her, right?
  
• Our daughter because I had taken the route we would drive by car, meaning it was a mile longer than expected, but she is 5 year old and she is perfectly capable
  
• Me because my body was (and is) NOT designed for exercise and I haven't done much exercise since the kids were born, but I had to start exercising at some stage...
  

So, after walking for almost 40 minutes, I was dragging the dog and kid behind me the last 200 meters, much to the amusement of fellow parents and the school patrol.  My daughter at one point asked if she could open her jacket, as she was sticky from sweat, but I thought it was too cold and wet to do so, and said no.

Finally, we opened the door to the school, walking slowly towards her classroom - only 7 minutes late.  Of all people, who did we bump into - literally?  The school principal.  We were caught late, in the hallway, by the principal.  She looked at us, both sweaty and exhausted, and said good morning.  She even knew my daughter's name.  I hope I didn't get my daughter into trouble.  So, I helped my daughter with getting her jacket off and pushed her into the class, and gave the teacher an apologetic face.  The teacher stared at our daughter as she stood in the classroom with red cheecks, sweaty patches under the armpits and about to collapse.  I wonder what was on the teacher's mind.

Now, all I had to do was to walk back with Angel, get dressed for work and head to the hospital to provide some moral support to my wife and son.

At this point, Angel had started to walk slowly - extremely slowly.  Suddenly she stopped and I spun around, afraid that she had passed out.  But no, she had to pooh!  Remember, this was morning rush hour, so the road was packed with queueing cars, all looking at me and my dog doing it's business!  To my fear, Angel had decided to pooh in the middle of the road.   Aaargghhhhh, the horror, fear and embarrasment.
...thankfully I had brought plastic bags, just in case.  I could almost hear the drivers clap as I scooped up the pooh with the bag, feeling the warmth on my fingers through the plastic.  It's unbelievable what we dog owners sacrifice to keep the environment free of dog poohs. My dignity was at stake here.  Now, all I needed was a bin, but the nearest was 0.5 mile away, meaning I had to carry the little bundle of joy a bit further, swinging in my hand following the rhythm of my walk.  By the way, Angel is a Bernese Mountain dog, so it was a decent size pooh, not easy to hide or carry - I just hoped the bag would last that long.

We finally arrived back at the house, soaked and exhausted.  I had to sit down for a few minutes.  I stripped down, which might be a horrible image for some readers, but the sweat was rolling off me.  I'm getting too old for this shit!

I'm sure there was a much faster way to school, by foot, and according to my wife, there was.  The other route, which nobody told me about (and I didn't ask about either) until after the event had taken place, only takes 20-25 minutes.

I finally left the house and headed to the hospital.  Here I was greeted by my exhausted wife and starving son.  It was at this point 10.15 (am) and he still hadn't been seen by the doctors.  It turned out that they had misplaced my son's medical chart, meaning that they couldn't do surgery on him.  We were getting closer to an apocalyptic event, as my son hadn't eaten for more than 16 hours, so something had to happen...and quickly.  I could even see bite marks on most of the furniture and toys in the room, but  luckily for the staff, he was getting low on energy.  Thankfully they located his file.

I must admit, I was somewhat worried that they could loose a file, when they knew he was scheduled for surgery a year in advance.  What else do they loose in the hospital?  Actually, I don't want to know the answer to that question.

He was rolled into the operation theatre (OT) at 11.40.  It was my wife's turn to support our son, while the nurses tried to put him to sleep with a mask.  A mask?  How naive!  My son fought with tooth and nail not to get covered by the mask, but he finally surrendered - I guess not having eaten for 18 hours takes its toll.  As my wife emerged from the OT, I spotted the red upper lip, which indicates that she was about to cry.  Now she knows what I felt like, when our daughter had cleft palette surgery and I had to support her - not nice.

Our son emerged from Neverland 45 minutes later, fairly pissed off and tired, but most of all very hungry.  The nurse kindly gave him 1 juice, but it took 3 to calm him down.  Then he downed 3 yogurts, 2 bananas and a bag of biscuits - it has to be said that he didn't want to eat by himself, so we had to assist him, holding the DVD player in one hand and the food in the other.  If you tipped the DVD player slightly, so he couldn't see the screen, he would let you know quickly either by screaming of throwing a bisquit at you.
...ah, the joys of being a loving and supportive parent.

So, that was the morning gone, now what?  Well, I had to go to work and my wife had to head home once he was discharged.  She was wrecked at this stage and she couldn't find the parking ticket, so she could pay and leave.  From what I've seen since, most of the damage to the interior of the car was caused by punches and biting.  Thankfully she found the ticket in her wallet and made it home, leaving the exterior intact.

It's funnny, we had been waiting for our kids to get the grommets done for months, and then they get scheduled to be done within 1 week of each other, in two different hospitals.  At least it is done now, and the kids still love us - phew!

It's not fair dad!!

My daughter, I love her to bits, but she can sometimes drive me up the wall.  She's suffering from pre-teenage syndrome, which causes parents and child to have unnecessary arguments about eating food that's served and going to bed - my daughter is only 5 years old!

In her early days, she would do as she was told, no questions asked.  Now, she will question every task we as parents give her or decisions that affect her civil rights such as bed time, brushing teeth, putting on pyjamas,  put on her seat belt...the list goes on.

So, yesterday evening, we were having food that I made.  I would consider myself as a decent cook, not like Jamie Oliver or Gordon Ramsay, but I can cook a mean roast and make tasty soups.

A portion of homemade mushroom soup was served to all of us and 3 out of 4 started to eat - good sign.  However, my daughter was in a chatty mood and was talking about anything and everything.  We normally don't mind and find it amusing talking to our daughter about Global warming, recession, the Universe and Charlie Brown (her horse at horseback riding).

But, we still want to make sure the kids get food before bedtime.  As parents, you gently remind your child to eat the food and you also have to set some boundaries and rules, e.g. "If you don't eat your food in the next 10 minutes (when the long arm on the clock is pointing at 10), then you are going to bed".  She fully understood this, as she immediately started to question which time zone and whether it was 10 past 7, 8 or 9?
- smart ass kid

40 minutes into her soup, nice and cold at this stage, I gave her, her final warning.  3 minutes later we marched off to bed.  This did NOT impress her at all.  Whatever she could grab on the way upstairs, holding on to, was grabbed.  You can still spot the claw marks on the walls.  Calmly, I instructed her to get ready for bed, brush her teeth and put on her pyjamas.  Through tears and blabbering (which I can only assume were some ancient Maya curses she learned from her mum), she finally finished up and went into bed.  No goodnight kiss for daddy tonight.

My wife arrived upstairs shortly after she was in bed, wanting to explain to our daughter why she had been put to bed without finishing daddy's wonderful mushroom soup.  Both of them like to discuss things, so they lay in my daughters bed for the next 20 minutes, discussing what happened at the dinner table.  It soon emerged that my daughter was disappointed with my wife, for forcing her upstairs - she wasn't upset with me, but blamed my wife, for making dad do what he did.  And, she by the way didn't like my delicious mushroom soup - I was devastated.

She, my daughter that is, even went as far as having a peaceful Gandhi moment, refusing to fall asleep until she got some food.  No screaming, crying or other actions to get her point across, just sitting there staring at her teddy, looking for sumpathy.  Unfortunately this protest backfired, as she fell asleep within 10 minutes of protesting, while hugging Nana (her teddy bear).

Anyway, happy days.  My daughter still loves me - sorry love.

Goodnight my daughter, and thanks for bursting my bubble and not joining Gordon Ramsay's "The F Word" competition.

Be patient, it takes time to loose a habit...

Bringing up children is not as difficult as it may sound, despite the many challenges and culture shocks that both you and the nearby environment has to go through.  As parents, you always have the fully devoted support from your own parents, as they went through the exact same things as you - so they think.

My parents have no clue what I'm going through and cannot compare my upbringing with that of my kids. Denis the Menace was, according to my dad, based entirely on my life and me as a kid.  I might not fully agree with this, because I learned from my mistakes too.

I'm trying to bring up a 5 year old girl, with pre-teenage syndrome, causing frictions during dinner and bedtime.  Why should she eat her food at dinner time? Why should she go to bed when she is not tired?  It just makes me wonder what will happen when she is a teenager.

Anyway, one of the biggest challenges parents face, beside becoming parents, is that of toilet training.  In my younger days, I would have suggested simply placing an old newspaper on the floor and educating the kids to do No 1 and No 2 there - but I now understand that this might be awkward when the child gets older, visiting friends and going to school.

I don't really like the term "toilet training", as training is normal something you do in sports or with pets, but it is unfortunately what you do; you train your child to use the toilet instead of their pants (diaper).

Our daughter was very easy, as she decided that she didn't want the diaper anymore and that peeing in her swimsuit (while on holidays) is absolutely disgusting.  So, in less than a week, on our holidays to the Dominican Republic, she was toilet trained.

Toilet training our son has proven to be somewhat more difficult and time-consuming.  One reason is that we live in Ireland which in recent months have been preparing for the coming of the 2nd flood -  raining every day. So, our son is confined indoors.  But, we have to start sometime and this summer, while staying in Ireland for our holidays, was the best time.
- just one piece of advice, do not go on road trips, by car, for long distances, while toilet training.  This can have some severe impact on the mood and aroma in the car.

The amount of books that people have written about the subject and quick tips, trying to offer parents moral support, while robbing us of hard earned cash, is amazing.  These books have been of very little help to us.

What has helped us?  Patience (mainly on my wife's behalf), patience (something I don't have), detergent for the clothes and floor; and various disinfectant sprays.

The grandparents are trying to help, thanks, but they tend to be somewhat counterproductive.  My wife believes that, and of course I agree, that we need to remove the diaper from day 1.  But, the grandparents think it's more hygienic for the child to wear the diaper at all times which in my opinion is counterproductive.  In theory it sounds very logical to remove the diaper, but in practice this might have its flaws.  You are immediately removing a safety-net, without knowing how to walk across the line and asking the child to accept this change.  The child still thinks the diaper is there to catch accidents, but this is now the job of undies, pants, socks and shoes - not to mention sofa, floors, chairs and beds.

On the upside, we now live in a very clean house, that is cleaned and disinfected regularly.  Most clothes are washed several times a day. He's the only boy who gets clean undies 3-4 times a day.  However, this is for a good cause.

For some reason, not fully understood by us parents, our son refuses to inform us when he has to go, for number 1 or 2.  Well, we are starting to understand the early warning signs for number 1, but number 2 eludes us.  The worst bit is, it doesn't seem to bother him too much, walking with a minor cake in the undies.  One would think it would be uncomfortable, but no.  So, to combat this, we bring him to the toilet twice an hour, to ensure no accidents will happen.

Apple technology freaks as we are, we even decided to rip a couple of movies to the iPod Touch, install the car mount for iPod on the wall and play movies for him while sitting there.  That worked in the beginning, but it soon lost its attraction.

It has emerged that, in recent studies of our son's toilet behaviour, he might not do number 2 when we are looking at him or when we are in the toilet with him, so we resorted to leaving him alone.  This is bearing "fruit".  However, if you don't keep an eye on him, he will swing the "shrimp" fiercely, marking his territory, and then wipe his hands on his pants - ah, those male genes work as intended!!!  My son is growing up and he is learning how to behave (pee) in the urinals in pubs. At least the smell in 99.99% of all pubs I've ever visited would indicate that men can't hit their targets either.

We are now on week 5 in the training program and he starts his playschool in two weeks!  Somehow this doesn't worry me, as I know my friends (who are parents too) are going through the exact same phase, as well are millions of families across the Globe...we're in a World of shite   :-)

The fight must go on, be strong my fellow pooh cleaners.  So, so long for now.

Slightly smelly parent

Going green and saving the green stuff for a rainy day...

The recession is still chewing up companies and making people jobless, so it is time to consider how you can survive if you are next - of course I hope this is not going to happen, but you have to be prepared for the worst, there's no point be optimistic these days - or at least that's what you are being told by the news.

We have, like any other family in Ireland, been spending too much money on luxury goods and excessive traveling.  There's nothing wrong with this, but when the Government increases tax and introduces levy on farting, then every penny counts.  Furthermore, in previous years, we could survive on one salary, but this single salary was "thankfully" reduced by 10% in a company initiative - no problem with supporting the survival of the company, as we should in this day 'n age be happy that we have a job.

Preparation to my family's survival of the un-fittest, starts by watching essential programs on TV:

• Ray Meare's Bush Survival - you never know where you might end up
• Bear Crylls - surviving on elephant pee episode can save your life (can human urine too?)
• Extreme Makeover - help us rebuild our house within a week
• Ancient and Future Weapons - allowing me to build a full size trebuchet, defending the family home 
• Super Nanny - knowing what to do with wild neighbours
• Jamie Oliver - cooking food of everything and anywhere
• Resident Evil (trilogy) - simply kicking somebody else's ass
• The River Cottage - home farming at its best

So, we are all set and the Digital + receiver has been programmed to record every one of these episodes.

The first thing we looked at, is where the hell can we save money.  It's not like we have any savings to live of, but we have on the other hand managed to accumulate some debt - similar to our fellow Celtic tiger victims; debt instead of savings.  Hail the credit cards!!

Firstly, we looked at our holidays and decided to stay in Ireland this year, seeing some of the local sights and supporting the local economy by spending our money here (check the Irish Vacation series, in my blogs).  Contrary to previous years, we would only visit faraway bounty beaches, by looking at our holidays snaps.  Oh, do we wish we were there.  No need to spend money on expensive flights, hotels and fantastic excursions.

Next we look at were the money is going.  One of the biggest beneficiaries of our wealth (sort of) was Amazon.co.uk.  However, where we spend the most money, like any other family, is probably on food.  We overindulge on exotic sausages, cheeses, organic meats, designer cereals and overpriced fruit juices.  So, we decided not to shop in the expensive grocery stores, and we joined the queues at Lidl, Dunnes and Tesco.  And you know what? We saved a lot of money shopping there.  We were initially somewhat prejudiced about the people going there - you know, we felt a bit like the Beckhams having to shop in Jack and Jones instead of Louis Vutton.  But, to our surprise, people were just like us, shopping for food, and we were all getting the same products for less - saving money.
- We did invest in bulletproof windows in the car, just in case.  Carrying cash is never a problem, so nothing to steal from us, we carry credit cards instead - much easier!!

The usual suspects, of money eating creditors, is insurance companies; life, car, dog, house, travel, health, dental, scooter, loan, insurance for insurances, etc.  You get the picture, you need an insurance for everything, and if you don't have it, you are doomed.  But, we cancelled a couple anyway and merged a few others, all in good faith.  Little did we know that one of our dogs would nearly die, shortly after canceling the pet insurance.

Satellite TV, broadband, phone and mobile phones had to undergo surgery too.  So, we consolidated TV, broadband and phone into one vendor, and only realized after moving across that we would loose a lot of the channels that we normally watch (see above list), and we will have to pay more money to get these back.  There's always a catch, isn't there?  But, we still save money on a monthly basis.

But, the proudest moment in our pursuit of happiness, was creating our very own vegetable and herb garden.  Everything had to be done by us, including building the vegetable garden patch.  So, yours truly used his Jesus carpenter skills and built a vegetable patch from scratch - build it and they will come!  I brought my daughter to the local garden centre, but all we could find was Broccoli and Leeks - better than nothing I guess.  Thankfully my daughter found loads of nice flowers that we could plant too.

A few weeks later we visited another garden centre and got a few more vegetables, and strawberries, and also build our own herb garden with basil, parsley and coriander.  Brilliant.  The only problem is that it rains a lot in Ireland, so going into the garden to pick the stuff we need, results in us getting soaked.  Another, probably even bigger problem, is that none us know when to plant or harvest our crops.  So, we bought an organic gardening book.  We are on the road to getting green fingers, home grown vegetables (at some stage) and saving even more money.

My wife is allergic to bees, so there goes the bee farm idea, producing our own honey - and, I don't even like honey.  This has been haunting me ever since kindergarten, where the nuns forced a table spoon of honey into me, EVERY morning.

What's next?  Well, we are seriously considering getting chickens, but neither of us would like to kill one of the chickens for food, so they'll end up dying naturally.  And, I don't like chicken pooh on my shoes, so who is going to collect the eggs?  Our garden is not big enough for cattle or sheep, but how would you milk a cow using your Wii remote?

But, having a farm requires you to maintain it and we are not outdoor people - we are built to be inside and have oversized thumbs to better push the buttons on the remote.  We don't try anything new without doing our research in Google.  However, the TV has taught us some many valuable things. We just need to apply these in real life.  Perhaps we should just stick with the FarmVille on FaceBook?

Thanks, your ego-friendly home farmer

Your kid goes under the knife

Let’s be honest, going into surgery is one of the things on my NOT to-do list.  I pass out when I see my own blood after squeezing a zit, so you can imagine how I am with needles and hospitals.  The weird thing is, I have no problems helping people if they've fallen and are bleeding, but if you try to stick a needle into my wife or children, then I'll get dizzy and unwell.  Watching horror movies doesn't bother me either, I actually find the amusing - which in turn scares my wife for some reason.

Some examples of up-close (in your face) experiences that almost caused me to slip into Neverland.

• When my daughter was being born, the midwife asked me if I wanted to watch - what for?  I had a quick peak, but quickly retreated and nearly slipped in some goo on the floor.  No wonder the poor woman was in pain; lemon and melon comes to mind.  For God's sake, my wife was squeezing my hand so hard that I'm still having difficulties holding a pen 5 years later.
• When my son was born, by C-section, the surgeon again asked the weirdest question on the planet, "do you want to watch a bit?".  Why would I?  My wife was being pulled left, right, up and down to get my son out (C-section is not the normal out for babies I might add), not something that I want to watch up close or I would have traumas the rest of my life.
• One of the junior doctors had to take a blood sample from both my newborn children, both times, and I nearly punched him for hurting and cutting my children, causing unnecessary pain on my kid.  He must have sensed my inner Riddick (Vin Diesel in "Pitch Black") because he did the procedure very carefully and ran off.  I’m sure most parents feel this way too, right?
• When I was admitted to hospital for a few hours observation a few months ago, for a minor throat infection (man flu according to my wife), I nearly passed out when the nurse inserted the needle into my arm.  She actually asked if was unwell!!  Was she for real, asking that question?  Of course I wasn’t well, but I think I managed to smile at her anyway while slowly sliding off the bed, unconscious.
  

Hospitals, needles and surgery is on my fear list.  There, I admit it.  I turn into a blabbering fool, start to drool and faint when confronted with the Angel factory.

But, there's something else that absolutely breaks my heart, and that is giving my children anaesthetics before going into surgery.

The first time this happened was when my daughter had to have cleft palette surgery.  For those who don't know what that is.  In my daughter's case, it means that the soft part (skin, veins and muscles) of the palette isn't connected, leaving her with a hole instead of a palette.  Nothing serious, but it had to be fixed of course.
For the record, my wife is fully aware of my hospital and blood/needle phobia.  On top of that, we had timed our second pregnancy so well, that my wife was not allowed into the operating room (OR) when my daughter's surgery was scheduled, do to radiation in the OR.  So, who had to go?  Mr. Nerves of Steel himself!!!   We knew this day would come, since she was born, but you can never prepare yourself for this day.

She was only 10 months old and I had to carry her into the OR.  I placed her on the gigantic table, on her back, holding her tiny hands.  I could see the fear in her eyes, but there was nothing I could do.  They placed the mask over her mouth and nose, and she slowly slipped into a deep sleep.  Her grip of my hands became weaker and finally relaxed.  Oh man, what have I done?  I ran quickly outside and smoked a pack of cigarettes (all 20) in 20 minutes.  This was more than a Viking could bare – my daughter being operated on.  Bloody hell, the surgeon had bigger hands than I do, and he’s going to put them into my daughter’s mouth to fix the palette!

We were told that, during recover, she might vomit up blood, but this is normal.  Despite being told this on numerous occasions, I panicked by the first sight of blood coming up and sprinted to the nurse’s station, grabbed the first nurse I could see and dragged her backwards to my daughter’s bed, while screaming frantically “HELP!”.  Probably managed to wake most of the other suffering kids on the ward.  The other parents did treat too kindly after that incident.

Second time was when our daughter needed to have grommets inserted into her ears, which is a very simple and fast procedure.  However, the waiting game is the worst part.  This time she was only 3 years old, but at least we could explain to her what was about to happen, and she was not scared at all - her mum and dad were scared on her behalf, and a bit more.  Thankfully my wife “volunteered” to bring her to the OR and I was happy to see coming back in tears - payback time.

I had actually quit the fags at that time - silly I know - but went straight back on them that day.  The actual procedure takes no more than 40 minutes, but as parents, these are the longest minutes in your life.  We managed to get a sandwich in a local cafe, have a coffee, go for a walk and I had probably 14 fags too - all in the space of 40-45 minutes.  She recovered extremely well and fast, to the relief of my wife – I think I had been to Neverland for a few minutes, caused by fear, as I don’t remember crawling into fetus position under the bed.

Third time was when our daughter had to have grommets inserted, again.  This time she was 5 years old and fully aware of everything.  Not a bother on her, but again, her parents let her down.  My wife was, for the first few hours in the day ward, biting any nurse's head off that stopped by our bed.  I actually had to wrench off her teeth from the male nurses right arm, when he as the 9th person, said he knew nothing about the schedule.  In fairness, my wife had good reasons to be upset, as all kids had fasted from 06.00 (am) in the morning until surgery, and NOBODY had the faintest idea when the kids were scheduled to go into OR, except that the surgeons didn’t start to work until 13.00 after lunch).  We were at the hospital at 11.00, last meal at 05.30 (am) and she came out of surgery at 15.45 - almost 11 hours with no food or water for a 5 year old child.

The funniest part of the grommet surgery, both of them, was when she was given a tranquilliser to make her relax.  Sweet Lord, that was the most amusing part.  Watching your daughter giggle uncontrollably because she wiggled her toes or could find them.  She burst out laughing if we asked her how she was doing  and when the nurse covered her faced with the blanket playing with her, she almost peed her pants.

So, now we know how our daughter will act and look like, when she is high or drunk.  Cute when she is small and she’s legally stoned, but not when she becomes a teenager, arriving drunk at the door.

My son is scheduled for grommet surgery next week, and will get drugs too, so let’s not hope he gets the munchies.  If he does, then the hospital will be in trouble, as he can eat horse in normal state, so imagine how much he can eat high.  I'm a bit apprehensive about his surgery and hope my wife will be my pebble stone to sit on (she's too short to by my rock to lean against), when he has to get surgery.  Not too sure I’m capable of going through the emotions again, less than one week after our daughter had her surgery.

I’m amazed by other parents that go through even tougher surgery with their kids or have to spend lengthy time in hospitals.  The staff are brilliant, but it is still a hospital far away from the comfort of your own home.