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we were waiting for the document to be stamped and processed, the civil servant said that our wedding certificate was no longer valid.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 Church certificates are no longer valid, we were told.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

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.

- click here for more information

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.

Eyes full of sand

I've always helped out with the nightly feeds, despite how painful they might be on the body, as you are tired.  You just have to abstain from engaging with certain late night activities, such as going to the pub, drinking too much alcohol and/or staying up late to watch a movie.  It's as simple as that!  That is why many parents stay home (become anti-social in some people's eyes) during the first 8-12 months of their baby's life.  We just don't have the energy.

Monday morning was my first night feed, having spent the two previous nights trying to help my wife with the breastfeeding - and no, this is no moment to get all sexual, it is simply a matter of me helping to place the baby in her arms, so the baby can feed easily.  However, the Dolly Parton Syndrome effect on my wife is a pleasant sight at 2.30 in the night.

Anyway, I woke up at 4.45, gently lifting the little princess up and walking downstairs.  It was amazing how quickly I memorized the nightly feed ritual; coffee, blankets, remotes, baby bottle and of course the main star herself.

She was starving and I had barely seen the intro of "The Mummy" before she had finished her feed.  She savored the last 20ml, while staring around the room, as I was watching the movie.

When she had emptied her bottle, which made me proud to see, I gently placed her on my shoulder to make her burp.  Sweet lord.  This can be a scary moment for any parent, as you are not sure what to really expect.  The baby has a number of options available:

1. Projectile milk covering you, the sofa and parts of the wall  - generally anything in front of the baby
2. Enormous fart, that warms the palm of any grown man, and makes you wonder if that hurt
3. Hiccups, which in worst case could lead to option 1
4. Burping sounds, which in some cultures is a symbol of excellent food.

My daughter chose the last option, thankfully, but the sound and quality would make any teenage boy envious.  My eardrum was ringing for several minutes after that experience, but I didn't care.  I've seen "The Mummy" a few times already, so I knew the dialogue.  

The innocent little angel simply smiled, after releasing what must have been, the World's loudest baby burp.  It is a delight to share such moments with your child.  I can only imagine how amazed her friends will be at the first parties, when getting older.  After that performance, she fell asleep on my shoulder.

It is bizarre to wake up so early, mainly because you are amazingly awake.  Sitting in front of the computer at 05.30, listening to the first birds chirping and seeing the first rays of the son, is actually a magical moment.  There's absolutely no point going back to bed.  The other two kids are going to wake up soon anyway, so I might as well keep going.  

I better get going - bread is almost done baking, I have to prepare breakfast for the kid, make their lunch boxes too and prepare the next load to be washed..  Good morning, where ever you are.

Night of 1000 squeaks

The girls arrived back to the house, finally, Friday afternoon.  Amazingly, it was less than 48 hours after our little baby girl was born.  How women does it I have no clue?  Squeezing a melon sized baby out must be (and is) the most painful thing I could imagine.  Despite that, my wife walked calmly to the car less than 2 days after her ordeal and when they were released.

Perhaps walking is not the right term here.  She waddled slowly towards the car.  We waited for the green pedestrian light to come on, but we still didn't make it across the street in one go.  But, we were in no rush and I had brought a backpack with supplies, just in case we had to camp overnight.

It was wonderful to have the whole family together again, despite the hurdles we know lies ahead of us; sleepless nights, nightly feeds, diaper changes, bellybutton changes and of course the ever lasting sterilizing bottles.

Of course, most of the family invaded our house that evening, welcoming home our daughter, which is a great way of celebrating; laughter, alcohol and good company.  The house was full of joy since late afternoon and late into the night.  We should have known better!

Slightly intoxicated from the wine and beer, I laid down on my pillow looking forward to a nice long sleep.  Did I not learn from our two first kids?  Was this still a weird surreal dream about having 3 kids?

Any parent of young kids must understand that kids have no respect for hangovers or the fact that you have not had your full beauty sleep.  Well, beauty sleep would take way too long for me, and I would not get any prettier.

Having a new person in your house, especially a baby, reduces your capability of falling into deep sleep.  You know, the sleep where you fight off giant ogres, dive into the unknown abyss or simply floating in space totally relaxed.  For what ever reason, all your senses are alert and you'll hear if the baby farts, breathes slightly faster or whines a bit.

Our first two kids were born 5 and 6 weeks early, and were kept in ICU (Intensive Care Unit) for two weeks, so having our little baby home after just two days was a VERY new experience to us.

Approx. 30 minutes into my dazed journey across the plains in Never-ending Story, I was pulled back to reality, as our little baby squeaked.  Strangely, I managed to get out of bed, stood in the middle of the bedroom very confused, looking for where this new sound was coming from.  The pain shot through my shin, as I walked straight into the corner of our bed, blindly looking for our baby's bed.  I finally arrived, only to find my wife sitting with her, breastfeeding.  Like a zombie, with only one instinct left working in brain, I limped back to bed, having no difficulty returning to the adventures of Sebastian - 01.28

01.37 - My dream quickly changed, I was now being chased by Ring Wraiths, expect their screams sounded more like muffled mouse sounds.  Soon, I was awaken by a stinging pain in my left arm, and woke up with a scream, only to find my wife sitting next to me saying it is my turn to hold her.  I wonder if that was the pain Frodo felt when he was slashed with the morgul blade?  I just felt the pain from my wife's knuckles!

My zombie "skills" kicked in again, and I crawled towards the baby's bed - leg was in too much pain and I had no use of my left arm.  Using my Ray Meare's survival skills, I used my remaining limbs and teeth to get into a standing position, and grabbed the little wonder.  Quickly, as she calmed down, my heart melted just by looking at her.   01.49

This was going to be a long night indeed.  But, keep in mind, this was all new to us, so every like squeak or fart from the baby, and we would come to her rescue.  Natural parent instincts I guess, but in hind side, probably slightly over worried.  She's fine and we know it - just difficult not to react.

So, the first night of being reunited with the family, my wife and I had probably 3.5 hours sleep each.  At 06.55 I was gently woken by our oldest daughter "whispering" in my ear that she was hungry.  Wow, had I really slept for 16 minutes straight?  A new day started by making breakfast for the two oldest kids, as if nothing had changed.  Somehow, my wife managed to get another 2 hours of sleep, which she fully deserved.

Ready or not, here I come!

The Big Moment - Part 1

The day we had been waiting almost 9 months for had finally arrived, and like the previous two deliveries, we were not ready.  Lets face it, you can never be ready for the actual moment of your child is born.  It doesn't matter how many books you buy/read, how many hours you spend on Google or how many pre-natal classes you attend, you will never be ready for the actual time.

For some women, contractions / labour can last 24 hours, but I would assume that most women "only" have contractions in average around 10 hours before the action.  This is not easy to comprehend for us men, as we don't feel pain, but it looks fairly painful.  It would probably be like getting flicked on the testicles every 3-8 minutes, according to my lovely wife!  Not sure if that explains it and not sure how she would know how painful that actually would be.  NOTHING compares to that!

According to her (our) doctor and her chart, her due date said that we still had another two weeks to go, but my wife is always early; 5 weeks early with our daughter and 6 weeks early with our son.  Why this one would come on time is beyond me.

A large proportion of our family, predicted that it'll be a boy.  And, my so-called physic sister-in-law was adamant that it was going to be a boy, and had actually used spiritual forces and a gold ring to foretell the gender - and, he was going to be born only 1 week early.  My prediction was that she was going to go on or shortly after Easter and that it would be a girl.

Wednesday morning when I was getting ready to leave the house, after the breakfast feeding frenzy of our two kids, my wife said that her stomach was a little bit sore and that she needed to relax.  It was my duty to call in cavalry, my mother-in-law who "luckily" lives nearby.  She came over to the house to lend a hand with the kids while I was at work.

Shortly before lunch, I received a phone call at work from my disstressed mother-in-law, saying that my wife was in pain and she needed an ambulance.  In the background I could hear my wife cursing like "The Exorcists" and asked if I could talk to her.  I quietly explained to her that having a baby during business hours and during the week is not really an option, and she ensured me that she was fine and just needed to rest.  Sorted!

...but no, it wasn't sorted!

Close to 15.00 (3pm) I received another call from my mother-in-law, who this time was in a frantic panicky stage, screaming "he no good, he go!".  Who the hell was he and what had happened?  After some translation in my head I understood that it had to be my wife she was talking about.  I briefly spoke to my beloved wife, and she informed me that they had called an ambulance, as her pain was getting stronger.  Oh, and by the way, the water had broken.  What water?  The shower pipe? What?

Then it struck me.  The aquarium glass had broken.  Damn it.  I had just cleaned it.  Thankfully my wife clarified the situation, and it was actually her water that had broken, meaning she was preparing to poop the baby.

My initial reaction was somewhat subdued and I was just wondering where the water had landed, and how easy it would be to clean up.  Instead of asking, I agreed to meet my wife at the maternity hospital.  While having her contractions, water breaking, keeping her in panic mode mother calm and waiting for the ambulance, my wife actually informed me that she had cancelled the horseback riding and gym for the kids!  How on earth did she manage to think of that?

Shortly after, I was driving on my hog (my Vespa scooter) to the hospital, ready to participate in the delivery of our 3rd child.  When I say participate I of course mean lending my hand and arm for physical abuse and my ears would absorb all the negative language.  The man's role in most deliveries is simple. You need to act as United Nations between two stressed and hostile nations; one side your beloved wife who hurl verbal abuse at the medical staff when they touch her and on the other side the medical team trying to assist my wife.  You need to use all your political skills to negotiate a successfully delivery.

While waiting, I was nominated the award for "Worst Timing Ever".  because I had left the office in a rush, and had waited for the ambulance, I never got a chance to go to the toilet to pee.  I Simply had to go and legged down the corridor.  38 seconds later I was back in the war zone.

Minor glitch in the overall plan - the baby was lying in a breeched position, which is not really ideal for giving birth and will often require a C-section..However, despite all the doctors and nurses best efforts to , time was not on our side and my wife was giving birth to our third child.

For you ignorant people out there, a baby is meant to be born head first, so when the nurse says "I see a foot!", then you know it is NOT the ideal delivery scenario.

...more to follow in Part 2.

Quick vote

My wife is due in the next few weeks, expecting our third child, and we are of course very exited.  As with our previous kids, we do not want to know the gender of the baby until it is born.

The most important thing for us us that are having another baby and that the baby is healthy.

Many new parents want to know the gender, and I can certainly understand their reasons why.  Knowing what to expect in regards to gender will allow parents to buy clothes and nursery equipment in either pink or blue.

Our first child was a girl and our second was a boy.

What do you think our third child will be?

Did you know the gender of your first child?

My Ace of Cake

When I first met my wife many moons ago, she was not well skilled in the kitchen - or anywhere near the kitchen for that matter.  I'm not being male chauvinistic, but she was just a disaster when it came to cooking.  It was clearly something she hadn't tried before, and probably never wanted to try either.  She just hadn't been in a kitchen before - at all.  It was like watching a blind person using an iPod.  I blame her parents of course, for this lack of marriage preparation training.  Kitchen navigation is one of the core lessons to teach your daughter.

I remember the first time she had to cook, or help me prepare dinner.  I asked her to boil the potatoes while I picked up a friend from the airport.  2 hours later, when we returned to the apartment, there was a strange smell of burnt soil.  The flat wasn't huge and the kitchen tiny.  What was causing these strange fumes?  And more, where were the potatoes?  I quickly spotted the pot where I had placed the potatoes and noticed that the bottom was covered with a thick black crust.  Mystery solved. She had burnt the potatoes.  When I asked her what had happened with the boiled potatoes, I got this evil stare and a quick reply "Boiled potatoes?  I had to put water in the pot?  You didn't give me clear instructions!".  I left it at that, no point arguing over burnt spuds, and ran to the local chipper to get fries.

Looking back, I strongly believe she had invented a new technique for making homemade chips / french fries. A technique that will be fully appreciated and worshipped when the planet runs out of water.  Then all the master chefs will come running to her for advice.

Despite the early failures in the kitchen, my dear wife has become a very good chef and makes lovely dinners.  I normally made dinner every night, before we had kids.  But because kids needs to eat early, she started to cook dinners during the week and I'll cook in the weekends.

Her interest in cooking / baking has taken her down different avenues, opened new doors one could say.  She is particularly fascinated by baking birthday cakes for the kids - even when it is not their birthday!  Not just any kind, but cakes that are shaped like princesses, dogs, balloons, etc.  If you have seen the "Ace of Cakes" TV show, then you'll know what I mean.

This is a skill she has been perfecting over time and she can now make the most amazing birthday cakes.  She is making fantastic cakes for the kids' birthdays and they love them.

Now, I fully support and appreciate these creations, but her determination and stubbornness when making these wonders are often scary.  She spends weeks planning the design, and investigates various techniques on the internet.  Lately, she has resorted to YouTube to get tips and hints, showing her how to make the perfect icing coatings and home made decorations, etc.

However, when the cakes are being made hell breaks lose.  The kitchen looks like a war zone; flour everywhere, ALL baking utilities are out, bags of spices scattered around, decorative figures standing in line prepared for battle and the MacAir is running YouTube and other baking sites.  The entire house smells of exotic spices and freshly baked cakes.

The actual process making these creations can take anything from 1 hour to 2 days - it all depends on the icing and design - or so she says.  For safety reasons (my safety), I retreat into the living room, out her reach, as I would otherwise get run over by a runaway (flying) bowl.  She curses, screams and sweats during the ordeal.  Sometimes I wonder if she is related to Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde.  Dough flies into the living room. It gets stuck on the TV closely followed by a pack of butter.  Calmly, I scrape off the dough and butter, while I dial the local parish office to get connected to the baking exorcist.

I have tried to assist her at times, despite how silly this might sound, to provide her with support.  But, more often than not, she has already been absorbed by the dark baking powder force, and she gives me the store of the flaming eye and utter words that I cannot repeat here.  I love it when she speaks dirty, but not when she bites kitchen utensils and spins her head.

Honestly, I never expected this transformation to happen.  When I fell in love with her, she was dressed in black and wore black eye makeup - black was her colour.  The first time we went to the pub and we had to go home (drunk of course) she was literally lying on the road outside the pub, attempting to stop a taxi.  Now, she's throwing baking rollers, bowls and ingredients around the kitchen ... or at me.

The creations are, as I mentioned earlier, amazing.  Our kids love them and all their friends are clearly jealous when the cake is presented, and feuds starts when cutting the cake, as they all want part of the decorations.  Some parents have even asked her if she could make a birthday cake for their kid's birthday.  Thankfully she has declined.  None of her friends should have the same cool cakes as our kids and I'm not sure my nerves would last too long anyway.

- cakes below are from our daughter's 6th birthday; cats 'n dogs theme

 

The real X-factor (Jedi mind trick)

My family and extended family celebrate individual birthdays with good food and drink.  We meet up in the house of the birthday person to celebrate the day.  Thankfully these events are mainly scheduled during the weekends.  This tradition has been going on for at least 12 years now, so it is something that has become an important part throughout the planning of the year's activities.  It is almost up there with New Year and Christmas.
...and, it helps me remembering all the birthday dates.

For some reason this year, the grand father decided to go away for his birthday, celebrating his birthday with his wife - a somewhat intimate and quiet birthday celebration for the elderly people.  Nothing wrong with that, but it might not be the best idea considering the tradition we have going and the high expectations of a free dinner. In their case at Loco Che's house.

When my 5 (almost 6) year old daughter got wind of the fact that her grand parents were deserting us and the party, to go abroad for a long weekend, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

She promptly contacted them and told them off.  Not only did she tell them that it was inappropriate to leave on holidays, but it was totally unacceptable to leave during a birthday.  "This is not the way we do things around here", she explained.  So, she kindly informed her grand parents that they had been X'd out of the calendar and the family.  It was their own fault.  They ditched the family tradition, so the family ditched them.

I think the grand parents were taken back, how honest and direct my daughter was. Tell me about it! I live with her 24/7, and I have felt her wrath a few times. It is not pleasant.

Shortly after, the family was invited to celebrate grand dad's birthday.  Another free meal, nice food, alcohol (for me at least) and a lot of good laughs.  Happy birthday grand dad.

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.

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

Being Number 1...

How do you know if you've been a good dad, and importantly, if you are a good dad?  In my humble opinion, there is no formula and there is no course you can take to become a good dad.  It's not like you get a certificate from the School of Excellent Parents. It might surprise some men, but you cannot sit an online exam on Facebook either.  You can only do your best.  The amazing thing is, your kids will love you for who you are - perhaps not as much when you embarrass them in front of their friends, such as singing, teaching the kids how to break dance or simply just kissing them in front of their friends.

This sounds very flower-power-ish and free spirited, but honestly, relax and enjoy being a dad.  I try to most of the time, but they can drive you up the wall at times too. Looking back at those incidents, you can only laugh at them.  I was pretty annoying at times when I was a kid, according to my dad, but I totally refute that statement.  He can't prove that I broke the fence in the back garden or caused the dog to have explosive diarrhea.

The best thing about being a dad is when you come home and you are greeted by the little devils. They run towards you while they hide the permanent makers behind their backs, trying to eliminate evidence of them drawing on the walls.  When you then ask them "did you do this?" they just stare at you with their Bambi eyes and say "no dad, those paintings have been there all the time!".  You gotta love them.  I'm positive it has nothing to do with them seeing their parents decorate the walls with Disney characters, thinking it would be OK to add their own take on Woody or Buzz.

It's magic when they come up to you and beg to see a movie with you on the sofa. They hand you the DVD and you insert it, only to discover that it has been used as a hover-board across the kitchen floor tiles, rendering it useless.  We've bought so many replacement DVDs of their favorite movies, only to find that they too suffer the same fate as the previous 10 copies.  We've learned from our mistakes and have copies stored on the Mac now, so they can be streamed to the TV. Bless Apple.

BUT, one thing that we men can do, and something that the kids do not want to do with their mums, is to play with Lego, trains, Playmobil, toy soldiers, cars, etc.  And, this is to the delight of us dads.  As my previous blog states, we men LOVE to play with toys again and we will use any excuse to prove this to the kids.  I once played with Lego, building castles and jungles, and didn't even notice that my son was asleep and my daughter had gone to bed - it was only 22.30 (10.30pm) in the evening.  If it hadn't been for my wife,  I would have played all night.

It is also fantastic to play games with your kids in the pool, again, games that mums don't want to play (throwing the kids in the pool, up in the air, etc.).  My daughter especially likes sitting on my shoulders while we venture into the deep in the pool. She once told me to freeze, so she could pee on my shoulders!  My son on the contrary would act like a real man. He'd jump out of the pool and stand quietly and pee on the edge of the pool - making it look casual, as if it was just water running down his legs.  However, somehow I don't think my son will ever forgive me for taking him down the longest and coldest water slide in Latin America - in Costa Rica.

As parents, you just want to make sure your kids are having fun and that they love you.  Although the Beatles once sang, "can't buy me love", by God do we still try.  Especially your first child is spoiled rotten.  They need to get the best beds, sheep skins, designer toys and furniture, and of course the best holiday destinations.  How many kids out there can proudly say they've been to Mexico, USA, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic and several countries in Europe, by the time they are 5?  Not many. We discovered this year that spending a lot of money on holidays doesn't really matter, as long as they spend time with their parents.

This year we saw, what my wife and I would normally consider boring, so many things with our kids around where we live, and we had a blast.

• My son pooped in the car while on a road-trip and we just laughed about it - a few hours afterwards of course.
• Build our vegetable garden and planted useful crops such as leeks and brussels sprouts. We can sell them at the market now. We have so many.
• Our daughter tried horseback riding, fell off and still loves it.
• We visited far away places, at least it felt like going back in time, when seeing small villages (with issues) in Northern Ireland.
• I pooped my pants when I crossed a rope bridge in windy and rainy conditions.
• My wife learned a new skill, taking over one of my male dominated areas, and became BBQ master of the house.

Kids also know when to embarrass the hell out of you, in public.  Going to the hospital with my son is a learning experience for any man, and to witness how he gets into the nurses bra and claps their bums within seconds is the work of a true master - and he gets away with it.

My clever little daughter speaks English and Spanish fluently, and demonstrated her ability to switch languages on our recent trip to Costa Rica.  She knew that people there spoke Spanish, so she quietly said to my wife one day at the pool (in English) "Mum, look how fat that woman is".  The woman next to us, the target, looked across and simply smiled at my wife - she spoke English!!

Kids are so honest, all the time. I'm now known as the annoying donkey (Shrek movies) by my daughter, as she thinks it's annoying when I hassle her to go to bed.

So, how do you know if you are a good dad and parent?  I have absolutely no idea, but I'll ask my kids.

I try to, most of the time, to smile when they misbehave.  I might have a little outburst when they pour juice into my keyboard or delete an entire music library from the Mac. Then I realize that it was I that showed them how to use the Mac, so it's my own fault, right?

My advise to you, man to parent, is to let your hair down (if you've got any) and enjoy being a parent.  I'm dreading for my kids start to play away from the house, meeting friends at the corner-shop and having sleepovers. I would be up all night, worrying what might happen.  Why can't they just have sleepovers via Skype?  There must be some technology you could avail of, to keep them safe.  What's wrong with inserting tracking devices in your kids, to keep them safe?  Imagine combining the tracking with Google maps and you would know EXACTLY where they are - except the image would be static of course, but you get the point.
- I'll probably call in a few favors if a guy breaks my girl's heart.

By the way, is it wrong to teach your 5 year old daughter to play Half-life 2 and Command & Conquer?  I just need somebody to play against!

First day of school [skool] for my daughter [daw-ter]

As parents you measure your life in milestones based on your children's activities.  The fact is, you no longer have your own activities and if you did, these would be very short and scheduled when the kids are asleep.  But, luckily the majority of people you socialise with are probably in the same situation, so going to the local pub once every 6 months should be possible.  Gym?  Haven't been to the gym for decades.

So, it is no surprise that when your child starts school, this big day is a major event and it is vital that both parents attend.  Our big day had been in planning ever since our daughter was born.  In Ireland, you have to register for school as soon as possible, to make sure the child gets in (ridiculous). So we registered our daughter 18 minutes after giving birth.  Felt stupid filling in forms still wearing the surgical outfit and goggles.

Our daugther started school, Junior Infants, last year.  It was somewhat surreal to attend the introduction meetings during the summer where the principal talked about what to expect.  This in itself was in hindsight planned at a ridiculous time.  It was in the evening at 19.00 (7pm), when kids are meant to be sleeping - at least ours.  If you don't have a babysitter and two kids, then this becomes a challenge.  Therefore, most parents attending this meeting had brought their kids along, making it almost impossible for the principal to speak.  Funnily enough, as soon as the principal stood up on stage all the men fell silent, and I did too.  I guess we all had some run-ins with the principal when we were kids. Now, we wanted to behave when the principal was nearby - a natural reaction, a power that comes with being The Principal.

All the proud parents attended the two hour long briefing on how important it is to drop off your kids and leg it, as well as the method they use to teach kids how to read and write.  They use phonetics, which is basically pronouncing the sounds of the letters when spelling.  For me, it was a challenge to understand my daughter for a few weeks after she started, as she was using these sounds for a lot of words.  It would be the same if you were to read [reed] phonetic /fəˈnɛtɪks, foʊ-/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [fuh-net-iks] writing [ra:i-ting].  Gradually, this becomes your second language when you do homework with your child and you have to have full conversations using the phonetic language (which doesn't exist by the way).  Having spent two hours on really uncomfortable chairs, we left the school no wiser and probably even more nervous about the Big Day.

This is were the madness began.  My wife wanted our daughter to have enough different outfits to last her the first school year, resulting in a shopping spree in Zara, H&M, Next, Benetton, Designer labels, picking up 238 outfits with matching accessories.  Slightly exaggerated, but we bought a lot.  This was pre-recession of course.  Due to the recession, my son will probably inherit all the clothes, hand-me-downs, when he starts school, which would make him a perfect target for being beaten up. Nobody, except Scottish kids, wear kilts to school!!

We also bought her a new school bag, with wheels on, and a lunchbox.  I provided some pens and paper, sponsored by my work. She was ready to take on Junior Infants.  We should have known better, but I gave her a pencil sharpener, which lead to all pencils being sharpened until they were an inch long.  I could not borrow more pencils from work, so we had to buy her a new pack.  All her books were bought as soon as we got the book list.

The Big Day finally arrived and my daughter was ecstatic. This was it, out little girl was all grown up now, leaving the house for a part-time school career.  Yes, she had attended play-school, but this was different and it felt different too - probably because my wife was sobbing the days leading up to the 1st day of school.

We left the house earlier that morning, to make sure we were on time, only to find that all streets within a mile were blocked by cars.  All parents in the area were taking their kids to school too - weird!  Luckily we had VIP parking in the area.  Dressed in the latest kids fashion, we proudly walked to school and made our way to the yard.  All kids were so excited, but the parents even more.

ALL parents, including ourselves, had brought along any film camera we could find, to document the special moment in our lives; mobile phones, digital cameras, video, polaroid, etc.  You name, it was there.  Every step you took, you were asked to get out of the frame or got a video camera in the face as the proud father was following his child walking with the school bag.  I was exactly the same, honestly, and I was even using a 'clapper' for the various scenes.  My wife was so embarrassed everytime I screamed "Action!".

The teachers came out of each classroom, calling in the kids, and this is where emotions erupted.  Remember the scene in Indiana Jones, where the Nazi woman looks at the Jones' and screams "ALARM!"  It was like scenes from Titanic. All mothers holding on to their kids and whispering "Don't let go!"  In every direction you looked, people were crying and kids screaming.  I think the parents were the root of the problem. I had to be dragged screaming (and most likely crying too) out of the room by the school caretaker, holding on to my daughter and her table + chair.  My wife was locking herself to the rail, in the yard for some reason like some tree-hugger. She kept scratching me when I was trying to remove her from the rail while she was crying uncontrollably.  It was absolutely chaotic.  I remember seeing one parent pretending to faint hoping to delay school start - how childish!  All this caused our poor kids to get scared and start to cry.  I'm sure the teachers were dreading this day all summer.

Most kids sat in their chairs and were innocent spectators to their parents behaviours, not knowing how to react. They were just looking forward to their first day in school.

After the civil war scenes had finished with most parents receiving detention from the principal,  school finally started. All parents walked calmly to their cars.  Most women were still in tears and trying to find ways to run back, but their husbands held them back.

My wife picked up our daughter after lunch and she had had a blast in school, making so many friends and playing in the yard.  She ate her lunch and she was basically delighted to be in school.  The drama went on a few more mornings, for the other kids of course.  My wife had her moments every evening, questioning if our daughter was ready for this, quietly crying in the bathroom.   I was ordered to delete certain parts of the recorded footage, still and moving images, so I guess censorship still applies in some countries.

Anyway, we survived our daughter's first day in school. Now we are already planning our son's first day in school.

Good luck to all the new parents.  I've heard they have riot gear on sale in London, after the recent summit.

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.