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.

At-Home Dads are Going to Hell

According to examiner.com, at-home dads across the United States are up in arms (some probably quite literally) about comments made by a Texan pastor.

A video posted on youtube shows an excerpt from a sermon in which Pastor John Hagee calls at-home dads 'bums' and says we're all going to hell.

Maybe, pal, but certainly not for this.



Hagee is founder and senior pastor of the Cornerstone Church in San Antonio; the town of Alamo fame situated just down the road from, er, Austin.

His website claims the church has 19,000 active members and that his gospel is broadcast by television and radio networks across America and more than 200 other countries.

In the early hours, I imagine.

But wait, there's more. Apparently he's also a gospal recording artist. Not one for my CD collection though. Or my Christmas card list.

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.

We're Everywhere. Apparently.

Just when I thought I was on my own, Britain's Telegraph reports on a study which reveals that almost 50% of fathers are stay-at-home dads.

Okay, so they're talking about Britain. Then there's this darn recession, and some are part-time, but it's still a heck of a lot. And given the proximity the job gives you to the BBQ and beer fridge, the figure could well be higher here in Australia.

Not that you'd know from playgroup.

Read the full story here.

The Joy of Gardening and the Almost Forgotten Art of Carrot Storage

Back in London, the start of each spring would see me wander through Tooting Bec Common to our local garden centre to purchase my tomato plants. The chili plants would already be at home, strong and healthy, having been grown from last year's seeds. Come summer, all would be thriving in pots on our sun-drenched and decked back yard.

Hardly an allotment, but great fun nonetheless.

The tradition has been maintained in our first spring back in Sydney. What's different is that here I am without my own seeds and, at least for now, left to experiment with a few varieties of local chilis and tomatoes.

This and that with us fortunate enough to have a decent garden I've claimed a bit for a vege patch. Beans, carrots and a token in-ground tomato, as well as basil, thyme and continental parsley.

You can take the boy out of Europe, as they say.

It might be more expansive, but it hasn't been all plain sailing. First there's the neighbours' cats. Being the softest part of the garden they found it an ideal toilet. The beans were robust enough to take the punishment but the carrots and herbs have suffered.

My sister had the same problem last summer. Taking a leaf from her book I put sticks and small stakes into the ground to stop the cats from squatting.

Sure enough, problem solved.

Next my darling son. A small fence was erected to stop him walking onto the garden and, much to his mother's surprise, it has withstood his shakes and remains upstanding. The only problem is that with so many sticks in the ground on the other side he thinks this is where all sticks belong.

When not picking them up, or replacing the potting mix he has redistributed from around my potted plants, I sometimes consult my gardening book to find out what other, more typical problems might lie ahead.

Green top, fanging, sclerotinia rot. Stuff like that.

My book is Dr D.G. Hessayon's The Vegetable & Herb Expert, purchased a few years ago because it looked like the sort of book every bloke should have, albeit a bit over the top for one with nothing more than half a dozen terracotta pots.

Despite this, and the planting guides following northern hemisphere seasons, it's both handy and a darn good read.

The book is a best seller in Britain and one of 22 'Expert' books the green-thumbed doctor has published since 1958. To quote Dr Brent Elliot, librarian at Britain's Royal Horticultural Society, "the Expert Books have been the biggest innovation in gardening publications since the death of William Robinson in 1938."

That could very well say it all.

That and the life Dr Hessayon continues to breathe life into what I can only imagine is the dying art of carrot storage.

Carrot storage, that is, sans fridge.

It's a trick designed for the British summer and its all-too-often abrupt end which leaves mature carrots unharvested and exposed to the elements.

Using only those which can be picked without damaging the roots, the leaves are cut back to half an inch and the carrots placed in a 'stout box' between layers of sand or dry peat. You have to make sure they don't touch. Then it's simply a case of keeping the box in a dry shed and checking the carrots occasionally to make sure none have started to rot.

Apparently they'll keep this way for five months. If you have a dry shed. Not to mention the curiosity and conviction.

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.

A Photo that Isn't Beef

By popular demand. Also five new online distractions, including Sydney's sexiest male lawyer.

Coming soon - a review of the past two weeks, the politics of playgroup and the world's best ever burger.

Let there be Beef

As promised, the ultimate Fathers Day lunch.

Fathers Day Fare

Tomorrow is Fathers Day. My second and last before Austin can at least muster up an 'I love you dad'.

"I love you dad, but I've eaten my lunch and I'm bored. Can I go to the park?"

Something to look forward to.

Something still a long way off, thankfully. For now I'll just have to imagine what he's thinking.

So I do.

Earlier this morning he looked up at me with a tender glance and babbled away with bright eyes and big smile. It took some effort, but his words eventually took the shape of "You're the best dad ever and what you deserve this Fathers Day is a top-notch Sunday lunch. You know, the kind with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and proper, made-from-scratch gravy. While you're at it, you should open one of those nice bottles of Pinot. You've earned it."

He's right, of course. And very articulate. The only problem with his plan is that, being a Domestic Goddess, I'll have to cook the bloody thing myself.

And it will be bloody. Just a bit. Nice and pink.

To follow there will naturally be some football on the telly. Well a DVD anyway. And a quiet beer. Perhaps one of the great Gerrard games - Olympiakos in 2004 or the FA Cup Final of 2006.

The boy and I will both wear the red shirt. Not that he'll stay by my side for more than a few minutes, although I'm sure he'll wander back from time to time.

He'll stick it out in the future, though. That much I know. And forgo the park. On this day at least.

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.