The Sharp Edge of the Inner Circle

I walked away from Tuesday’s playgroup annoyed with the child who had so aggressively pushed Austin into the steel gate. I walked away from Thursday’s a signatory to the bank account.

What ever happened to see-saws and finger painting?

Still, I remain philosophical. Little Shover Boy will get his comeuppance and I don’t mind doing my bit to keep the Thursday group ticking over.

And perhaps like Austin, so skinny and mild-mannered, I was also an easy target. For the past three weeks I’ve been arriving early to open the hall and set out the toys. I also recently bolstered the take from a cupcake stall by raffling off a voucher I’d secured from our local celebrity pastry chef, Adriano Zumbo.

The one thing I didn’t do is attend last week’s AGM, but then it is important to maintain some sort of work-life balance.

Or is that just a Gen-Y thing?

The irony, of course, other than the fact that I can go to the beach when Gen-Y are at the office, is that it has taken the best part of ten months to be fully accepted by the playgroup’s inner circle. And that two of the best friends I’d made in the meantime upped and moved to another group closer to home just as I was getting drawn into the cake stall fundraiser.

Now I’m going nowhere, but at least I’ll have a say on how we spend the funds so stylishly raised. And Austin does so love those ride-in police cars.

Dad v. the Huntsman

I'd just popped on the headphones for a bit of mid-morning air guitar when I spotted the bugger in the top corner of the study. Though not yet midway through the first verse there was no question I had to stop.

It wasn't fear of the spider. More the embarrassment of having an audience.

And it was just as well Kate was at work. She hates the things. Tough as nails on a netball court, but put a bug in front of her and she's up on the nearest chair.

She'd also been beavering away in the study from four to six this morning. I'd hate to think what would have happened if our eight-legged friend had arrived a few hours earlier.

And by hate I mean preferred to keep sleeping.

Anyway, scene set - now for the action: one brush, three strikes, out the door.

The first took it from wall to mattress. Next was a shot I couldn't repeat in fifty attempts - a flat drive from sofa to curtain cord. From there it was easy: extend the cord out the door and kick the thing into touch.

Okay, not just into touch. Once there it was doused in fly spray until it looked like Frosty the Snowman.

Talk about mellowing with age. In the old days I'd have lit a match.

Okay, possibly still a bit excessive. The spider was outdoors where it belongs, and it's not like it was a Red Back. The Huntsman exists purely to scare New Zealanders and English tourists.

Big but harmless. A kitten in a Tarantula suit.

Still, we do have a wild sub-tropical backyard and I'd like to think there aren't any big spiders in it. Let alone one that's pissed off and lurking 'round the corner.

Back In The Pool

There are some things I've come to really hate about school holidays. The hoards of children and parents, mainly, and that they always flock to the places Austin and I like to go.

It's like everyday is the weekend. Except that Kate is at work.

This school holiday there is a flipside. My mate Softy (not his real name; he's a lawyer and afraid of any unwanted publicity this blog may bring) has three days off work to look after his five year old boy.

Softy & Son were at the Leichhardt Park Aquatic Centre this morning for junior's holiday swim class. This gave Austin and I a reason to take a dip somewhere other than Ian Thorpe Aquatic, and for the first time since he learned to walk.

This made things interesting.

Put on his feet in the paddling pool he instinctively looked to take some steps. Of course he did, standing still is boring and he doesn't know how to swim. Problem was, he couldn't quite make it work in waste-deep water.

Step, step, splash. Step, step, splash.

But within 15 minutes came one of the moments that make at-home parenting the rewarding thing it is. My boy figured it out. And then he was off.

Off faster than Dad could 'bum shuffle' with out-stretched hands.

Before I knew it Austin was en route to deeper waters; his adventure ending only when the water level rose above his chin, making necessary a parental intervention. But that's what laps are for, and many of these were done.

More tomorrow were it not for 'Baby Bounce & Rhyme' at the Balmain Library.

Talk about losing your inhibitions. Today the London tan, tomorrow I'll have to sing in public. Wednesday is vaccination day, however, so all I'll have to do his give him a cuddle.

I just hope that Tuesday's sing-a-long will be as short-lived as Wednesday's tears.

From One Extreme To The Other

Another day, another playgroup. Another playgroup, another toy obsession.

On this occasion, two. Thankfully.

He certainly mixes things up, I'll give him that, but the end result really was an emotional roller coaster. The axe was one thing, but yesterday he wandered around for what felt like an hour with a pink comb in his hand. To make things worse, I'd chosen to dress him in a striped cardigan.

We might as well have named him Stefan.

Still, it was hilarious - particularly when he approached one of the mums who was sitting on the carpet, babbled as he showed her his comb and then wandered behind her as if contemplating his first cut. Bless.

There were lows, too, none more so than the moment when another of the mums offered him a mirror to replace his comb. I know! The gumption!

As before, the spell cast by Toy One actually lasted for 15 to 20 minutes. Then he became charming. Prince Charming, actually.

One of the little girls had dressed up in a princess dress and Austin was following her around the room carrying a pink slipper. Even if I wasn't his dad I would have stopped to admire his technique.

And the slipper must have fit because the two of them then played happily for quite a while. Still, she was a bit older so I must remember to talk to him about that.

But not before I explain why it is that he can't have an axe.

Milking the Kids Dollar

We recently started buying Dairy Farmers' Kids milk for Austin. Being "natural brain food" and providing "75% of daily Omega-3", we figured it was worth the extra dollar or so on a two-litre bottle.

That was until this morning.

Having used the last of the adult milk on my first coffee of the day, I was left no choice but to borrow some from the lad for cup number two. As is my habit, this went into the microwave to heat up while the coffee was brewing. With cup in hand, I then parked myself on the couch to watch a breakfast TV item about how women are putting their careers on hold in favour of domestic duties.

Before I could say 'Hello! Am I not proof that this is not a gender thing?', I was distracted by the strange taste of what I was drinking. At first I thought it was just a little weak. Then I tasted fish.

But it couldn't be, could it?

Having drunk half a cup, I only wish it could not.

Any doubt disappeared with the making of Austin's breakfast, today's being banana porridge. When it came out of the microwave, much hotter than my coffee milk, there was no mistaking the odour - particularly when your running circuit takes you past the fish market three or four times a week.

No hint of it when cold but unmistakable when hot. I bet those Dairy Farmers thought they were super clever.

Super honest too.

Looking at the label it was there for all to see. At number two on the list of ingredients (after milk, thankfully) is Omega-3 DHA Oil, otherwise known as fish oil.

We figured this stuff would be an easy way to compliment Austin's fish intake, not add to it. Brain food it may be, but some things just aren't meant to go together.

I guess you can't blame Dairy Farmers for chasing the kids dollar. Innovation in the face of recession really should be applauded.

But did it not occur to them that this stuff is more often than not going to be heated up?

The banana seemed to mask it in the end, and I'm sure enough Milo would too, but once you've caught a whiff of fish milk you can never go there again.

And, let's face it, in a land that's girt by sea, why should any of us?

One Too Many Social Skills

Kate and I are both pretty average when it comes to initiating conversations with strangers. And, like my inability to put drives down the middle of the fairway, or hers to parallel park with the car actually parallel to the kerb, this is one of those traits I'd hoped Austin would be spared.

It turns out I needn't have worried.

Yesterday Austin and I paid our second visit to the Rozelle Ramblers playgroup; still a room full of strange mums and kids. Where Kate would have remained by my side, Austin spends the next hour working the room, his smile and babbling ingratiating him to mothers and toddlers alike.

Other parents play with their kids in a sea of mainly self-contained huddles, but his actions leave me stranded and alone. A wallflower in a suburban playgroup.

Safety concerns and self-interest give me the occasional opportunity to venture over and be reunited with my son. Alas, he simply wanders off in search of yet more new friends.

Thanks mate. Now I'll have to talk to someone.

It's not like I wouldn't have done it eventually, but I now move over to one of the mums while contemplating how much to deduct from his inheritance. As I do I'm struck by the extent to which he has control over this situation. Aren't parents supposed to be in the driving seat? Surely not only where holidays and rainy-day drop-offs are concerned?

Of course, I should be proud and delighted. And I am, very. It would just be nice to not be the least interesting person in the room.

That said, there is a silver lining. We'll clearly have no reason to worry when it comes time to pack him off to daycare. No teary farewells with this lad. No walking out the door with a toddler hanging off your trouser leg.

Yesterday I doubt he'd have noticed if I'd popped out for brunch.

Rock n’ Roll and the Dances of the Clouds

Right now the sun is shining brightly over Sydney’s inner west. Half an hour ago it was raining.

It’s sure to again; partly because I’ve just put the washing outside for the second time, and partly because tonight is football practice.

The clouds are mocking me and, after a few consecutive days of these laundry shenanigans, it’s starting to get bloody annoying. Perhaps I should burn my Al Gore book and shove a load in the dryer.

Perhaps I should save defeat for the winter.

Austin is not a cloud but he too has a new annoying habit. As his mobility improves and he gets ever closer to those first steps he has come to hate being on his back. He can sleep in whatever position he likes, but when it comes to changing nappies this is a real pain in the ass.

The secret is to keep his hips flat and still. Alas, like a ’57 Elvis the boy has got them rockin’ n’ rollin’ and obstructing every step of the process. Depending on where you’re up to this can be pretty hard on most of the senses. On a bad day this includes touch.

Come time to put on the fresh nappy things are far more pleasant but the frustration is even greater. Nappies are not designed to be fitted to a infant when they're on all fours. Nor when then they Jailhouse Rock.

Can he not think like a Formula One driver at pit stop? Can he not figure out that it’s a win-win?

I guess if he could he’d be walking already. Potty trained too. Like his first penalty save, these will have to wait for another day. And, remarkably, like the weather outside, that is just fine.

Boys Own Fun

Yesterday afternoon was almost perfect. After Austin’s sleep we hopped into the car with Bruce Springsteen and drove to Bunnings.

It was Austin’s first time and, as all Bunnings customers do, we had a very important purchase to make.

This was a pair of Cyclone heavy duty loppers with bypass cutting action and non-stick SK5 blades. These are essential for chopping up the palm fronds which regularly – and spectacularly – fall onto our garden.

They come with a 10 year warranty, but I’d like to think they’re made to last; something Austin will grow up seeing in the shed, coming to use in his chores and eventually inheriting along with my extensive collection of English football scarves and Dad’s Army DVDS.

Come to think of it, there’s really no reason to bequeath him anything else.

But that’s a long way off, touch wood, so back to Bunnings and our boys own adventure.

One of the fundamental Bunnings rules is that, regardless of time constraints or what you actually came for, you can’t leave the store without browsing every aisle. And, with the lad strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn, that’s exactly what we did.

He was enjoying it immensely, I was getting ‘good on you son’ looks from middle aged men and, then, jack pot. We wander into the tool section and find precisely what I also needed: a pair of Stanley 150mm diagonal cut pliers. These are very important things and, though I’m not sure when I’ll next be called upon to cut some electrical wire, it's satisfying to know I’ll be ready for the task.

That, by the way, is not an open invitation.

Cooking For Invalids And Substituting For Eggs

With the cake poll closing on Wednesday it’s time to start thinking about recipes. This is exciting stuff as it gives me a reason to spend some time flicking through all the volumes we’ve collected over the years.

One instantly catches my eye: The Country Women’s Association of New South Wales Cookery Book, which I picked up on a 2004 trip to Forbes.

Fifteen editions have been published since 1937, when the first was compiled by Jessie Sawyer OBE and Sara Moore-Sims to mark the coronation of George VI. Little appears to have changed, however, and it remains very much , and most wonderfully, of its time.

Looking for cakes I naturally find chocolate, banana, sultana, pound and madiera. With them are marks left by the previous generation – centenary cake and the Victoria sponge – and two I imagine must have been omitted from at least the 1941 and 1945 editions: German cakes of the coffee and pound variety.

A common (and entertaining) feature of these old books is what appears here as the Household Hints chapter. I learn that gelatine added to a cake will take the place of three eggs and that when picknicking I can keep a bottle of milk fresh all day by adding a good pinch of bicarbonate of soda. These, I am certain, will one day come in handy.

Another chapter, Invalid Cookery, causes some initial confusion. I then realise this has nothing to do with protocols or regulations but instead concerns the preparation of food for poorly or convalescent people. This is a serious business and there are three rules that must ‘dominate’ food preparation:

1. Absolute cleanliness is essential.
2. All food prepared must be nourishing.
3. The food must be served daintily and dished attractively to tempt the patient’s appetite.

Pardon? I appreciate – or at least assume - that rice water, lemon foam and chicken broth are all highly nourishing, but how the hell you’d serve them daintily is beyond me. A sprinkle of parsley? A doyley? A small narrow vase with a single, appropriately-coloured carnation? Probably all of the above.

Then I remember that wisdom is perfected in more difficult times than I have known, and I choose to put my future mealtime happiness - and perhaps health - in the hands of the fine ladies of the great towns of regional New South Wales.

For the birthday cake, I may have to turn to Nigella.


Learn about the history and activities of the Country Women’s Association of New South Wales at www.cwaofnsw.org.au

Old CD, New Theme Song

One thing I was really looking forward to upon returning to Sydney was a chicken schnitzel at Una’s in Darlinghurst. Another was reacquainting myself with my CD collection.

It kinda went to London with me, stripped of its physical presence and loaded to my iPod, but there’s nothing like slipping a disc into a stereo and leafing through the sleeve notes.

Such is the pleasure this gives me that I now have piles of CDs next to each of our stereos, and every now and then I indulge myself with a fossick through the cupboard to find some more to top these up.

Today’s indulgence led me to a long-forgotten sampler CD from now-defunct Melbourne label Candle Records. It kicks off with a gem of a tune, Stepford Husband by Tim Oxley, which I instantly selected as my new theme song.

It wasn’t that I was looking for a theme song - nor have I recently been watching Ally McBeal - but once it leapt out of the speakers it was obvious that it had to be. It starts thus:

Washing up is fun
Unless you do it five times in one day
Then it’s not

I follow my kids around
Picking up their things and putting them back down
Then I pick them up again

Stepford Husband style
You walk a lot of miles
Around the house

Another gem I was delighted to rediscover is a DVD of Candle Records' 10th birthday concert tour from 2004, which Kate and I saw the Sydney leg of at the Metro. Alas, Tim does not feature. He does, however, have a MySpace page, streaming on which is a new song call House Husband.

Not as good its Stepford cousin though, so I’m sticking with the theme song I’ve got.


Stepford Husband is the opening track on the 2005 album Kitchen Songs. You can sample (and buy) at the iTunes Store.

My Child Has No Hips

Okay, not literally. And, yes, he is a boy. My point is simply that he can’t keep his trousers up – or at least the ones he should be in at his age.

We were sorting through his clothes on the weekend and discovered that Austin is still comfortably getting into a few pairs of 3-6 month shorts. He also has a stack of 6-9 month gear which is a long way from staying around his waist without a pair of braces.

The kid is a twig.

Not that this is a bad thing – especially in the age of childhood obesity – and obviously he has time on his side, but at the risk of sounding overly metrosexual he does have some lovely things from London and New York which were purchased with ages and seasons in mind. And then there’s the stuff bought as an outfit where he’ll have outgrown the top before his hips can handle the bottoms.

As his wardrobe grows (no clothes for his first birthday, please) the problem grows with it. We’ve always had one draw of ‘upcomings’ and another of ‘way offs’, but we’re now at the point of needing a spreadsheet to avoid having a pile of clothes that we forgot we had and never got on him.

And that would be a fashion crime.