The End of an Era

Each Monday evening Austin and I get his dinner out of the way early so that we are cleaned up and out on the porch by 5.45pm. We know mum won’t be far off. So too the garbage truck and the lanky, long-haired rubbish man who always waves and says hello.

A few weeks ago I explained to him that this was the highlight of our Mondays. His response: “It’s my highlight too.”

Yesterday had brought some wind and rain but there was nothing that would stop the Clark boys being out there to see our mate and his big white truck.

One last time.

Having just secured two new freelance projects, my December and January are going to be full-on. The larger of the two, working on Sydney’s biggest and most significant infrastructure project, will push through to at least the end of March.

It will be fantastic; an opportunity too good to miss. It will also tip me over 50 hours a week, every week during this time. Most of it at the client’s office.

And that means major changes on the home front.

Kate and I have done our research and found a daycare centre well-connected with home and both of our workplaces. Pending an inspection later today, Austin will start there next Monday.

There’s a lot to soak up before then, but come the hour he’ll be great and we’ll be fine. These things I know.

Of course, no stay-at-home dad means no blog, so there's another chapter that has to end. As a creative outlet it has been fantastic. Not bad, either, as a chronicle of my time at home with the boy.

One ardent follower challenged me over the weekend (and a beer) about the irregularity of the posts and my recent leaning towards leveraging American news. I suggested that perhaps I should publish a Charles Foster Kane style Declaration of Principles.

I don’t think he got the cinematic reference, but he did get the point. Not that one exists any longer.

What there will be, though - and this should make him happy - is one post for every day that’s left. The weekend included.

And then that’s all he wrote

Fork Me! He Can Do It!

It’s been a big week. A week of firsts. New tricks.

Tricks the little bugger has been keeping up his sleeve.

All of a sudden Austin is brushing his teeth, wiping his nose and eating with a fork. He’s even discovered how to get himself moving forward when atop ride-on toys.

A parent should be delighted, and I am. Proud too. It’s just that we’ve been working on these things for some time without any progress. To see each of them mastered in the space of seven days is, shall we say, a little unexpected.

A little suspicious, too.

Obviously he’s not shaping up to borrow the car, but it could be that he is a genius and using this developmental burst as a strategic ploy in the lead up to Christmas.

It could also be a coincidence, but the genius angle works for me so I think I’ll run with it.

What parent wouldn’t? Any Christmas shenanigans are obviously wasted on anyone who isn’t Father Christmas and there’s no reason whatsoever to complain if your child wants to brush their teeth.

The fork thing, however, is starting to become a real pain in the ass.

It’s not that we don’t want Austin to use one – they’re one-third of a mighty important set – but rather that we’d like him to also use a spoon.

Not at the same time; just when appropriate. Rice bubbles, for instance. Or soup.

How to be a Stay-at-Home Dad

It's time to make a confession. I am an idiot. And ignorant to boot.

For the past nine months I've been flying solo; learning for myself, day-by-day, the tricks to the job of being a stay-at-home dad. Looking back, it should have been obvious that someone in America would have produced a handy two minute video guide that I could watch for free on the internet.

Should have been obvious, but better late than never.

Then again, maybe not.

A Post Brought to You by the Numbers One and Two

There are so many things I have to teach my son. The late cut, the off break. The clove hitch, the bowline. How to tie a tie.

But first up it's how to crap into a plastic bowl.

To be honest, potty training is really quite exciting. It's about developing a skill he will hopefully have for the rest of his life. One that will change his - and my - life forever.

A change very much for the good.

The first step, of course, was to find the right potty. This meant test driving every one on the Babies Galore shelves. Trousers on, in case you're wondering.

Some were too easy to get off, some were to hard to get on. Some brought smiles to his face, others made him grimace and grizzle.

There are ones that are just a potty, and there are those with removable bowls. A few transform into the transitional seat that goes on the toilet. Ours does this and becomes a step that will one day help him reach the sink to wash his hands.

It also has a seat cushion, moulded into which is a flap to make sure he 'tucks in'. Appropriately named the Comfy Cushy, it will come in pretty damn handy should I ever get a case of hemorrhoids.

Or go to a stadium with old-fashioned wooden seats.

Four days in we've had just the one widdle, but Austin knows what the potty is and will happily walk himself to the bathroon to sit on it. He'll stay there for a good twenty minutes too, but only if he has a book or a phone.

The purist in me would like to think I could do this without those aids, but I figure they're going to come into play sooner or later.

That's why we'll be buying a house with at least two bathrooms.

All in a Week's Work

A child's development is no linear thing. Take the past week. Austin has clocked up half a dozen firsts and new tricks, where as the previous month had seen nothing but more-of-the-sames.

Granted, more of the same smiles, laughs and cuddles.

To these we can now add high fives, hand shakes and even kisses. Opened mouthed and wet, but kisses none the less. And lots of them.

Kisses on request. Kisses at bedtime. Kisses when he wants to show his affection. Kisses when his face is somewhere near yours and he wants to make the most of his new trick.

Aunty Rachel was sure he'd brought this one out of the bag just because she'd come all the way from Auckland to see him. Fair enough I suppose. Maybe he did.

It may also be the case that her visit was the catalyst for his first poo in the bath. Thankfully she wasn't in there with him, although her shampoo and conditioner were two of the items that had to be fished out.

Fished out by Dad.

Most impressive of all is his sign language. So far just the one word and, though I'm sure an enthusiastic wave of the right hand is not a text book 'yes', a pretty damn useful one too.

No more serving up strawberries only to find he wants a banana. No more milk when he actually wants water.

Unfortunately, there are some teething troubles. He is a toddler after all. Five minutes ago he gave me a wave when asked if he wanted an afternoon nap. Given the screams now coming from his room I guess he must have thought I was talking about something else.

If only he could tell me what.

Daddy's Little Helper

He can’t say ‘ta’ and still fits his 3-6 month shorts, but Austin is growing up.

I know this because he can no longer get into the monkey t-shirt we bought from FAO Schwarz. Also because he's started helping his old man with the housework.

He hands me things from the dishwasher so I can put them away. He picks clothes out of the laundry basket and passes them over to be pegged onto the line.

Yesterday morning he watched patiently while I folded the football kit. When it finally came time to put the shirts in the bag, the wee man handed me the number four top with outreached hands and an enormous grin.

If only he’d seen the way Number Four had gifted Chatswood their second goal on Saturday.

Austin’s enthusiasm for helping out won’t last forever, of course. And, to be honest, it isn’t actually that helpful. It is cute, however, and he'll have to learn about chores at some point.

Lord knows there’ll be plenty more to come over the next eighteen or so years.

And for now it’s free. Ultimately an understanding of pocket money will mean that his labour comes at a price. That is when it's not coming as a punishment.

The People In Your Neighbourhood

Yesterday we reached yet another milestone in a month that is still only seven days old.

The 'I'm too big to be in a stroller' phase has arrived. And if the first experience is anything to go by, it's going to make everything a lot, lot slower.

Austin and I were out for a fairly routine afternoon walk; down to the Balmain shops and along Darling Street to Rozelle via the local hardware store. Then, just after that stop, pretty much our halfway point, the lad kicked off in rather spectacular fashion.

Not one to mince babbles, he made it abundantly clear that he wanted out.

Fair enough, sometimes you need to stretch your legs, but what happened next was a real eye opener.

The thing about kids in strollers is that they seem to be pretty much invisible. Not literally, of course, but it's generally only elderly females who acknowledge their - or your - existence.

At least when you're an at-home dad.

But with a toddler on their feet, everything changes. The elderly English lady with the dog, the little boy and his nanny, the couple who deliver junk mail, the mum and her two little girls. All of them stopped to talk.

All of sudden there are people in Austin's neighbourhood.

The flip-side is that we moved at a snail's pace. Somewhere in the region of 500 metres in 30 minutes - and that included a few spells of being carried in Dad's arms. We only managed to make it home before dark because I discovered that the plumber's tape we'd picked up at the hardware store was enough of an enticement to get Austin into his stroller.

Without that, there's a chance we'd still be out there.

That said, it was a great experience for him. The first of many I'm sure; and ones with which will come more adult interaction for me. We'll just have to allocate more time to those journeys. And take a packed lunch.

Things Are Finally Falling Into Place

Earlier this morning Austin put a plastic shape into the appropriate hole in the Tupperware toy. The day before, at the cafe, he put the lid back onto our friend's juice bottle.

All of a sudden it's not just about destruction. And his parents are over the moon.

In fact, it's been a pretty big week. A burst of developmental action. A showcase of new abilities and talents.

He can now be left to eat alone without the threat of his bowl ending up on the floor. He can climb up onto the couch by himself.

And he discovered his penis.

You have to keep them in perspective (for the record, the plastic shape is more significant than the penis - at least for now), but each of these milestones gives you a bit of a thrill.

What’s more is that you generally don’t see them coming. The bottle lid was certainly out of character and up until that point Kate's bath with Austin was just like any other.

Of course, it would be nice if you could script just a few. Potty training, when the time comes, would certainly fall into this category.

Right now, I’d settle for a few new words.

‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ are wearing a bit thin, particularly as they are now almost invariably used with a tone that suggests the parent in question is not in his good books.

‘Yeah’ would be fun, as would ‘right on’, but the smart money is on ‘ta’. That’s one we’re very much looking forward to.

More so if he also stops snatching.

Books. Books. Books. Books.

Oh my god! I think my son is going to be a librarian!

And that could well be just fine, but I can't help but think of the 1946 classic It's a Wonderful Life and the stark contrast between the mousy, spinster librarian Donna Reed who grew up in a Bedford Falls without Jimmy Stewart and the gorgeous, vivacious Donna Reed who married the Jimmy Stewart that never left.

I know there's more to it than this. And who wouldn't want their kid to quickly establish a love of books?

It's just the way this has manifest itself.

Austin has always enjoyed having books read to him; That's Not My Train being an early favourite. A month or so ago he went into second gear, sitting happily in his room at the base of his bookshelf, from which he would pull down a book and flick through its pages. A pile would quickly build up around him. It was very sweet.

His latest passion is to collect a book from his room and bring it to the couch. Once he has three or four, he stands by the pile as if waiting for library members. Being one of these (it's my son's library; of course I'm a member), I take the book and thank him for it.

Over and over.

There is an occasional variation. Some books need to be read to the librarian. For the past two days this has without exception been Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy.

Over and over.

It's pretty cute, actually. And, like I said, it's great to have a kid who loves books so much. I also realise there's a fair chance it's just a phase. It has to be - we haven't had fireman or astronaut yet.

There's time for those, of course, and they too will pass before he inevitably hones in on professional footballer or winemaker.

A Tale of Two Cities

Three men in a pub. That could have been almost any midweek evening during my four years in London.

Many of them were spent in a famous old establishment; parts of which survived the Great Fire and in which literary greats such as Dickens, Tennyson and Twain also took refuge from the city's frosty winter nights.

That was the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, tucked away just off Fleet Street on Wine Office Court. It's a prince among pubs; spoilt only by its favourable mentions in every guide book ever purchased by a London-bound American tourist.

Thankfully, they tend only to visit during daylight hours and, should you be in a windowless pub in the middle of a work day, are certainly no higher than third on your list of problems.

Three men in Balmain's Unity Hall Hotel was an altogether different situation.

For a start, it's awful. By day a haven for middle-aged and elderly horse racing types; by night a venue for cover bands brought up on a strict diet of Cold Chisel.

But what separated it more from the Cheshire Cheese on Saturday afternoon was the topic of conversation. Boris and Ken are things of the past. So it seems is watching sport. Here we were talking about potty training and lamenting the convenient absorbency of the disposable nappy and the laziness it can too easily instill in parent and child alike.

My how the drunken have fallen.

The reality is that this will one day become a very important issue. And, with my companions being the respective guardians of children aged three and four, I really should have been taking notes.

To be honest, that wasn't really necessary. The lads made it sound as simple as picking a few weeks during the holidays, stocking up on undies and getting your wife to do as many of the hard yards as possible.

Simple in its planning if not in its execution.

Then again, who knows? Maybe it is. Thankfully, I have a year or so before I find out.

Rain Ruins Road Trip. Cabin Fever Sets In.

We never did make it to Mittagong. Worse still, we never made it past the mail box.

And now they're talking about another 50mm over the next few days.

The intent was there, I'm glad to say, and it will be again tomorrow. We were packed to go when Austin woke from his morning sleep, but with torrential rain having fallen for most of the morning I felt bad about taking him through that to the car, let alone driving in it for a couple of hours or what might await once we arrived in the Southern Highlands.

Instead, we spent another day at home.

I paced about a lot. He slept as little as possible, smeared food across his face and demanded at every opportunity to be picked up and/or handed a phone. There were several periods of blue skies, but these were gone and the rain once again upon us before we could get ourselves ready to walk to the shops or head out for a run.

We were left frustrating but dry, warm but increasingly stroppy. So much so that Austin's dinner was brought forward an hour to speed up the end of his day. In hindsight I should have threatened bedtime earlier - dinner was a mess-fest but once down from the table he was funny, affectionate and extremely well-behaved.

Just in time for Mum.

This was noted, however, so that'll be another $100 off his inheritance.

Why Does It Always Rain On Me?

We may have been the first country to qualify for the next World Cup, but if every winter is like this Austin is not going to learn a heck of a lot about football. At least not that which comes from getting out on the pitch.

For the fourth-straight week rain has sunk the Lane Cove West Wednesday evening training session. And, though only half-way through our 18 game season, this weekend will be the third with a second (Sunday) game to catch up on others postponed due to water-logged pitches.

Whatever happened to the Lucky Country?

And it doesn't get much better on the home front. Sydney's rain never bothered me in the old days when I spent my time in an office. At home with a toddler, it's a very different story. All of sudden there's a bunch of things you can't do; mostly the ones that have the added benefit of exercise.

To make things worse, we now have a little boy with a head cold.

No Thursday morning playgroup for him, no Thursday morning adult interaction for me. Through the noise of rain on our tin roof, this is starting to sound like a case of cabin fever or road trip.

Because surely it can't also be raining in Mittagong. Surely.

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.

Two Strike Tucker

The slice of pear was just the first taste of lunch but its contact with the floor put the boy on Strike One. Another and lunch would be over. Anything tossed to the ground would do it - a piece of finger food, a spoon from his main course.

A strike is a strike.

Welcome the world of Tracy Hogg, author of The Baby Whisperer. The book's subtitle says it 'solves all your problems' and what few we've had it generally has. At least that's my understanding - being a bloke I've not actually read it. As stay-at-home dad I probably should, but thankfully Kate was smart enough to uncover the two strike rule and tell me what I needed to do.

Thanks to baseball, this didn't take long. There was even enough time left in the ad break to get another beer.

Enough tomfoolery. This is a serious and terribly important parenting project. The Rule was our solution to Austin's obsession with tossing food to the floor if done with or dissatisfactory - something which, if left till boarding school age, could get darn right embarrassing.

Thankfully, the Baby Whisperer had a plan. One based on tough love, sure, but as far as we were concerned one well worth a crack.

Well worth it indeed. Two days in and I've only once had to call off a meal. Most get to Strike One before Austin remembers where the line is drawn. Even his early foul play with today's pear was backed up with an otherwise faultless performance.

It's enough to make you wonder what other gems the Baby Whisperer has up her sleeve. I'm sure there are a few. I also know Kate will tell me about them when I need to know.

Those 21 Days of Silence

That's right, it's been three weeks since this blog was updated. Arianna Huffington would be appalled. Any reaction there would be a compliment.

Two people actually have asked me to explain. It may not be critical mass, but it is an audience. And there is a good reason.

Two, actually.

For a start, Austin is walking. This is both exciting and something that requires careful attention. And then there's Clark Co - the working title for my freelance communications business which now has two clients and several briefs to deliver on. Needless to say there's been no cake baking or Brad Pitt movie marathons.

But there has been a lot going on. One thing you learn when you're at home is that there's a whole world of stuff that only happens if there is someone at home. People coming to check this, people coming to deliver that. Today it's off to the post office to collect a letter, tomorrow it's the car's first service.

How is anyone supposed to watch daytime television?

Despite all this, and the demands of freelancing and watching a toddler, a lot of blogworthy things have happened over the past 21 days. By way of a catch up, these have included:

Football Dramas
Chelsea crashed out of the Champions League in hilarious fashion while Lane Cove West (simply the best) followed up a two-game winning streak with a performance riddled with schoolboy errors. It wasn't noted in the match report, but I played quite well. And, as my mother's been saying since I was nine, it has to get through ten players before it gets to me.

More Fun with Meat
Texas chili, barbequed butterfly cut leg of lamb and Kerrigan rissoles. Alas, not at the same time.

More Bad Customer Service
Six weeks after it was ordered our dining table finally arrived but without the chairs. By the time these turned up (two weeks hence) the table had been returned to fix the poor varnishing. Thank heaven we were given trays for our wedding.

Speaking of which, we also celebrated our third anniversary with a long-awaited return to Cafe Sydney.

Some Parenting Wins
It drove us crazy for a few days but we soon found a solution to his nappy change rock n' roll routine. Give him a Mr Men book and he lies perfectly still. It has to be Mr Men though: he threw the AA Road Atlas of the South Island straight on the floor. He now also responds to requests for him to go back to drinking his bottle. Amazingly, he always knows where it is.

If only I could always say the same for my wine glass.

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.

And Then There Was Much Baking To Be Done

Democracy is nothing without participation, so I was delighted that 35 people chose to cast a vote for the shape of Austin’s first ever birthday cake.

Despite a late flurry of support for the rocket ship, it was the Texas cake that prevailed. Its 14 votes (40%) were five more than the rocket ship could muster, with the number one (5), 20cm round (4) and goalkeeping jersey (3) all lagging far behind.

And then it was time to bake.

Experienced parents know how to simplify and de-risk their children’s birthday cakes. The best example I’ve seen came from our Napier friend Teenica, who created a sandcastle ice cream cake in less than three minutes using two round tubs, biscuit crumbs, flags and chocolate shells.

Teenica is a pro. I am an obsessive, anally-retentive amateur.

I also love intensifying risk. It adds pressure and makes things more fun.

Firstly I had opened up the selection to a public vote. Then I took a shape that required me to fuse together four pieces cut from two cakes and went for chocolate to suit our adult guests rather than the challenge of creating Texas.

Sponges are ideal for this sort of thing. Chocolate cakes are dense and flat, so that meant two layers and four cakes.

Next I decided to use a recipe and icing (both from Nigella Lawson’s How to be a Domestic Goddess), which I had never used before. What I quickly discovered was that hand beating four eggs into a mousse is a pain in the ass, so I turned to my trusty Edmonds Cookbook for the others, replacing the cocoa and water approach favoured by my mother with melted dark chocolate.

Another unnecessary risk, sure, but it paid off in the end and fused with fresh raspberry icing the two halves complemented each other perfectly. Most importantly, no one noticed they were different.

The cake, like the party, was just what I’d hoped for. From what our guests had to say, it both looked and tasted great.

The task, although overly-elaborate, was also everything I’d hoped for. It was great to have a day dedicated to this tribute to our son, and it was rewarding to overcome all of the obstacles I threw in my path.

Making a big cake is like playing golf – all of your good plays can be undone by a subsequent bad one. I thought of this when I switched recipes and invented my raspberry icing. It also came to mind when I started to ice a cake which, because its pieces had been cut from a greater mass, was generally lacking a side crust, and when I rejected Kate’s idea of a stuck-on message and decided to pipe one on myself.

Tremendously rewarding, and I’d do it all again if I had the chance. I won’t, though, be forgetting Teenica’s sandcastle.

Click here to view photos of the big day.

Taking Vegetables Britannia From A Baby

Yesterday, middle of the afternoon. I was hungry. Nothing in the fridge took my fancy.

Then I had a brilliant idea. That mash potato thing Austin had for lunch would be fantastic between two slices of white toast. That mash potato thing is just what I want.

I opened the freezer but paused for a minute to consider the obvious ethical question: is it right for a parent to eat their child’s food?

Yes it seemed a bit iffy, but it wasn’t like I was scooping it off his plate while he hung his mouth open like a fairground clown. I merely taking a couple of ice cubes worth out of the freezer and heating them up.

What’s more, I had been the one who took the time and effort to create this frozen stash and would happily do so again in order to replenish his supply.

It’s practically a win-win.

It’s also bloody delicious. Despite the big name – inspired by its two primary ingredients and a tribute to Austin’s country of birth – it’s nothing more than mashed potato, peas, onion, parsley and cheese. That said, if you sauté just the right amount of onion and add the peas after mashing the potato, this is a rather delectable dish.

And I was right: fantastic between two slice of white toast.

A Day In The Life

I guess there’s a faint chance that someone will stumble across this blog because they actually do want to know what it’s like to be a stay-at-home dad, rather than how much I hate car salesmen.

‘Be Prepared’, Baden-Powell said, so here it is – the official record of a reasonably typical day with the Clark boys:

6.00am
Kate wakes me up looking surprisingly ready to go to work. She is. I see Austin on her lap and reach out to touch his face. The real Austin is in his cot so, recognising this sign for what it is, I get up and make a strong coffee.

7.00am
Austin’s turn to get up. This time he is both real and happy to see me. We celebrate with his morning bottle, followed by playtime.

8.00am
Breakfast. He works his way through Vegemite toast while I whip up some cheesy tomato scrambled egg. Apple follows, and all is consumed with zero fuss and minimal mess. I did, however, forget to have Austin practice his spoonmanship (part of our plan to get him feeding himself), but thankfully the day has two meals left in it.

9.15am
We also have a plan to halve Austin’s morning sleep to one hour. My strategy is to carve 15 minutes off each end for the next three days before going all the way. I’m sure the parenting books would agree, but there’s also a bit of self-interest involved – I also have to transition myself from two hours of ‘me time’ to just the one. It’s easy to get sucked into a few games of Stick Cricket and I’ll be in trouble with Kate if I don’t make the bed. Austin clearly understands where I’m coming from. We’ve spent the past 45 minutes playing. This eventually becomes me holding his hands while we walk around the house and, as if by magic, he heads into his nursery at precisely 9.15.

9.16am
Austin is showing all the signs of going straight to sleep. I make another coffee then, remembering that I am a house husband, use this hit not to surf the net but rather to mop the floors, empty the dishwasher, do a load of laundry, bring in the rubbish bins and call the car dealership to confirm our delivery date.

10.45am
Having showered and dressed with sufficient urgency, I enter the nursery on schedule to find Austin half-awake. As he's just a few days away from an even shorter sleep period, this is a very good thing. He now goes straight into the stroller and off to the playground, then to the supermarket. I use pedestrian crossings where possible and look both ways before crossing the road.

12.30pm
Lunch time. Today I’m attempting his first all finger-food lunch – another part of the plan to have him feeding himself. I quickly realise how much comfort there is in feeding your child a certain number of ice cubes of homemade infant meals. I overcompensate by giving him a few bits of pretty much everything I can find: celery, cheese, sausage, tomato. This is followed by pumpkin and peanut butter sandwiches (separately) and, for desert, grapes, mandarin and banana. I guess he’s not too young for tapas, as everything apart from the celery is given a fair go. Not bad for a chap with two teeth.

1.15pm
Time for his afternoon sleep so I decide to knock off my one outstanding chore. Every few days we top-up the collection of Austin’s frozen pre-made meals. Today's creation is mashed potato with salmon, peas, onion and parsley - an English classic but also good for brain development.

2.00pm
It can be a risk to leave my own lunch until the second half of Austin's sleep, but luck is on my side and I easily get through what's left of last night's pasta and an episode of the X-Files. Miraculously, I’ve never seen this one before.

3.15pm
I get Austin up. He’s been awake for 15 minutes but happily talking to himself. We read a story, have a sing-song and he works through most of his afternoon bottle. Then his arms rise up. This is not a gesture of affection but my cue to hold them so he can go for a walk. Indeed he does, and we stroll for the best part of 30 minutes around the house, out into garden and then a victory lap back around the house.

4.40pm
My turn to lead they way so he's into the stroller for a 6.5km run around Blackwattle Bay, past the Fish Market and over the ANZAC Bridge back to Rozelle. This enables me to convert 'play' time into 'me' time, but he does seem to enjoy the fresh air and harbour views.

5.15pm
Dinner. After his tapas lunch I decide to skip the finger food and opt instead for a jumbo serving of the potato-salmon dish. Austin loves it, and also races through his pear and yoghurt. This time I remember to let him take every second spoonful. This is messy and unproductive but a step in the right direction.

5.30pm
That step in the right direction has resulted in much more than the usual amount of food on the floor. I get down to clean it up and Austin begins laughing. I wipe his face with a wet flannel. Austin stops laughing. We call it even and begin a post-meal play session.

5.54pm
Kate arrives home and Austin crawls towards the door to meet her. This does the trick as his mother gives him a cuddle and then a bath.

6.45pm
Stumps are called and, following a bedtime story, we put Austin to bed and head for the gin deck.

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.