Breakfast with Jadey
March 14, 2008
Filed under:Chidluns
The kind of week that you’re pretty sure is going to be remembered in specifics for at least a month, and the kind of times that you know you’ll remember forever, are finally over. Over, in the calendar sense only though, and their essence still lingers in the air like a morning fart after an evening of dark beer and barbecued meat.
There are only a few kinds of poverty that seek to definitively sap your soul. Surviving them will never leave you unscathed, and the scars left behind will instinctively flare up within seconds of noticing that the bank account has dipped below a certain level while after thumbing through a stack of bills.
I’m scarred now. And it hurts.
The soothing balm of a promise of cash was short-lived, and in it’s place is a bitterness and numbness that seems to transcend the use of monetary devices of this common culture into a Utopian ideal. As a self-defence mechanism, my mind seems to drift off into a world of make-believe, where we don’t need money to be happy and good times are still readily available regardless of our lack of funds.
My underlying demeanour may betray it, but my mood is a good one this morning as I dance back and forth from the countertop to the stove, a toddling bucket of curls clinging to my only stationary leg. I whistle a nameless tune and eventually put lyrics to Beethoven’s Fifth that tell the story of the naughtiness contained in my small child. She humours me with an emphatic, “Gah GAH!” and then smiles up at me while a piece of egg-soaked bread flops limply into the frying pan. Breakfasts are my specialty.
Breakfast is also her least favourite meal, or at least the hardest to get her to eat.
I do what I can with the cheap white bread and our expansive spice rack, and even without butter (we’ve run out days ago) the French Toast turns out pretty good. I’ve made some of it sweet, with sugar and some syrup, and some of it savoury, sprinkled with a dash of nutmeg and some tomato sauce, to cater to the two drastically different palates in our household. I’m curious which the baby will prefer, as it took no fewer than 110 donuts and 13 eggnog banana milkshakes to keep her mother sated during the pregnancy, I assumed she’d have a sweet tooth.
Her mother may insist that the child has inherited her savoury tooth as she points out that her sweet preferences disappeared the instant the baby was born, but I find the child to be quite open to things such as chocolate and ice cream when offered. Of course, if one followed her small body about her day they would find her real love is bits of fluff off of the floor, typically found in corners or under furniture. She’ll quite happily chew a ball of dryer lint/random fuzz for as long as she can until you chase her down. Her resistance holds out until her mouth is forced open and is then redoubled in an effort to not only keep possession of the fluff but to bite my finger as a lesson not to try again. She’s quite resourceful.
My dance of the frying pan is given intermittent freedom while the toddlecurl discovers that I’ve accidentally left the pantry door open. As I check out the burning smell that turns out to be the spiced-half of the bread reacting badly to the margarine I’m frying it in (ah butter, how I long for thee) I can hear assorted bottles being shoved aside and something plastic clattering across the slate floor. I would worry that the perceived violence of the syrup bottle’s trip across the kitchen would indicate anger from the child, but she allays this with a squeal of delight and a loudly exhorted, “DaDAH… gah GAH! BAHBAH!” I take this to mean that she is telling me how pleased she is of her actions towards the syrup bottle.
I respond with something dry and sarcastic, and she repeats the same sentence as if to chastise me for not taking her seriously. I reply again with sarcasm, but feign apology as well, to which she plods the length of our 8-foot kitchen and yellingly smashes her face into my jeans. As I finish conducting my orchestra of slathering, spicing, flipping and syruping, I realise that I would have preferred her causing mischief in the pantry for a bit longer as I would have been able to finalise breakfast preparations unhindered by the squealing naughtiness gripping both of my legs and talking to the hole above my right knee of my jeans.
Breakfast is served. My wife, never really being much of a morning eater, dutifully trudges her way through a piece of French Toast before handing it over to me so that I can swap out the sweet half of the baby’s portion for the savoury and gauge scientifically the results. As I stir the oatmeal banana mush that I’ve prepared as a standby in the event of total French Toast Failure, I notice that the mass of lovely curls, that had mushed peas in them only last night, now have syrup in them as well. She appears to enjoy playing with her breakfast more than eating it. I divide a few pieces of the savoury French Toast and leave them on her tray rather surreptitiously for fear that she’ll rebel against things that I actually want her to eat, and throw them onto the floor for pure indignance. Some days, this one can be a real shit.
My attention turns from my own breakfast and the further stirring of the oatmeal concoction in time to see my child happily taking huge bites from a wad of bread in either fist. With balled-up syrup-covered fists on the ends of her spread arms, she looks as if she is challenging the World to provide something tastier to her, for what she’s holding would sure be hard to beat. She’s already eaten most of her mother’s uneaten breakfast. Just to muck with her a bit, I throw some eggs right in the middle of her tray. I’d fried up the leftover egg batter in the used cooking bits left in the pan, giving it a horribly grey colour that I prefer to think of as “seasoned to taste”.
As her thumbs become paintbrushes and the slightly runny and oddly coloured eggs become the paint, the canvas that is the tray of her high chair transforms into a masterpiece, complete with a collage of texture and flavour. “Less is More” she seems to believe, as she very purposely removes some of the leftover sweet toast with her fingers and then places it under her tray on the seat by her legs. I’m surprised to see such a deliberate act of removal when she is busy with wanton creation, but she’s always been a bit meticulous, and I will undoubtedly find at least half of her breakfast under her butt when I eventually lift her out of her chair.
With her creative juices flowing freely and her eating slowed significantly, I finally employ the use of the oatmeal mush. I get a few spoonfuls in before she concedes that her artwork may have to wait until after mealtime and decides to eat a bit more. As is her way though, her concessions are ever on her own terms, and she purses her lips and slaps at the spoon on it’s third trip in. I back it out and try again, only to be met with a shaking head and flailing arms. It’s becoming fairly evident to me that she may not be interested in my mushed backup plan.
Now I concede. She watches me put the spoon back into the small bowl before flinging her arms out across her painted tray, grabbing a handful of egg and toast, and shoving it gluttonously into her face. Her actions of hearty independence appear to be telling me that she may not enjoy the eggs and French Toast so much as dislike the mush and/or the idea of me feeding it to her. She almost giggles as she grabs a piece of egg-smeared crust and begins munching on it with fervour.
As I lean across the table and put my head in my hand, I realise how much fun she is. Not just to interact with, as I have been, but also just to watch, as I am now. So much of who she is going to be, is here already, and so much of who she is, is just wonderful. It boggles my mind to think that I have such an impact on this small person’s life, and therefore the rest of the World.
It is then that I realise that I haven’t been thinking about the rest of the World for at least an hour and a half, a new record for this stressful week I’m fairly sure, and I am once again humbled by the power that my child has over me.
Go away for a while World, I’m feeding my child.
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Biggest batch of pictures EVER.
October 25, 2007
Filed under:Lotso Pics, Chidluns
Woof, was that a busy visit. Mom made it out here safely, and then we did our best to play, drive, cookie, bother, and tourist to death. “Granbo” was a hit, a veritable life-changer, and none of us will ever be the same. Except the CrazyCatLady, but that’s only because it seems like nothing can stop the flapping theatrics… I mean “moths”.
Instead of writing and writing and writing about it, I thought I’d bog down all your page loads with a crapload of pictures.
With captions punk, no pouting.
Enjoy.
My Jesus birthday. I’m not sure why, but I thought that Jesus died at 32, and have only since found out that it was 33. It’s a magic number for me, my hockey number, my lucky number… all that, but I was most excited about telling everybody that I’d totally outlived Jesus, just like in The Onion.
But no. 34 will be that birthday, and I’ll wear a crown of thorns and tote a crucifix, I can assure you. Until then, we had cake and alcoholy awesomeness. So yay, and smile big.
The Bug simply being terribly cute. I know she does that alot and I know that we take a heap of pictures of her doing so, but this one is special because her hair is in two li’l sideknots, and makes her look slightly evil. Sorta like an agent of Hell, but who really wants to help you out this one time.
She eats my pen, my notes, my phone, and my Transformer Downshift… I eats her head.
She’s not near as amused by this as Wifeage was.
Her big brother just loves the hell outta her, and can’t stop himself from lavishing kisses and loves all over her whenever possible. She loves it too, in more than just the tolerating way she appears to be in this shot.
The Piehead had her 5th birthday party and I was informed… no TOLD, that there would be a most fantastical and wondermous cake to be created by her Nanny, the CrazyCatLady. I made her a cake anyway, on her actual birthday, and this incredible item was presented on the weekend, when all good partake in the fun.
Granbo during one of her first days with the kids. They took right to ‘er, of course, as we all knew they would, though Jadey looks mildly suspicious.
See? Candyland. Candyland is always the answer, even if the question is “Can I please have a juicebox?” Try it, it works awesomely.
This is at the climbything at King’s Park, the back end with the playground, and is only the second time that Pieface Pieington has climbed up to the second layer by herself. For a kid that would be tugging a tiger’s testicles if you weren’t watching (or fast enough) it’s hard to buy her “frightenedness” sometimes. Still, she used to be stupid about it, now she climbs it proudly, and everybody wins.
The boy is cool these days. Not too cool for a picture, but definitely a cool dude. He told me so this morning walking into the school. “I’m a cool kid, aren’t I Dad?” He wasn’t exactly a natural born monkey on this thingy either, but scrambles all over now. He’s a champ.
Me and the Buginess. Her making faces like I’m feeding her squirrelbrain and me looking like I simply grabbed whatever clothing was nearest the bed in the morning and went about my day.
I did. The clothing thing, not the squirrel thing. She loves her food too, and was only making that face because it wasn’t warmed up. SPOILED.
Granbo catches candid shots of the nightly family ritual. She used to read me that same book to me when I was teeny. I wasn’t Superman then though. Too bad.
King’s Park, the front end, sans playground. Still awesome and some cool views. There’s more of me and children being stupid, but I can’t be bothered finding them right now. Heh.
More cuteness. She’s just so damn funny, I threw this one in there. Granbo got this whilst hanging about our house.
I really just wanted to put a shot in here of me looking all killy and such. It’s rare that I get to feel even marginally close to “cool” and I realise that this still doesn’t even get me into that stratosphere, but I like it.
I made all that stuff, by the way, except for the helmet, sword, and shield. Alright, I didn’t make all that stuff, but I made most of it, including the armour and shoes, and I think that’s pretty damn cool.
This is where I tell you about who I’m fighting and how awesome I’m doing and what’s going on in the picture. Just pretend I did all that, and not that I not only got killedead but also split the crotch of my pants open from sensitivity to sensitivity. I got a few good shots in though.
Me and the boy frequently fight in the kitchen. I can’t even begin to express how awesome this kid is at… well… being. I’ve shown him some of the “hit locations” and how to “take a hit”, meaning act wounded, and now he’s better than half the troupe at it.
No shit, seriously, this kid is better at showfighting than some of the people that were in the ring last Saturday. Brutal they were. Awesome is he. Yodatalking I am.
I kilt him in this shot, but he got me later. We’re good like that and he loves it.
At the Art Museum. I include it only to show how BIG she’s getting and how funny it is when her expression says “HEY, no flash photography around the Egypt shit!” I love that I just noticed a drool patch on my chest and spilled milk down my leftside. This is the quintessential daddy picture.
Outside the museum. I don’t honestly know what that dude was yelling about, but I shout things like “I DO, I DO, I beLIEVE in fairies!”
Cousin Imo and Georgia Piehead at another barbecue, before the mozzies decided to gang up and wage war on our veins.
My father-in-law Poppy, discussing my golfing prowess with my mom. He beat her, but barely, and she beat me… barely. And I lost. Yeah.
Poppy, Me, and Jo’s Grandfather, Pop. We’ve all got our names straight then. Pop is 86 and quite awesome at lots of things. And YES, he beat me that day too. Sure, I can outdrive him by about 50 metres, but I can’t do a thing about the fact that I frequently 3-putt and he routinely sinks 25-foot putts. I’d curse at him, but he’s sweet and old and quite possibly one of the better examples of men on this planet.
Me, Ma, and Pop. She beat him, but he said that’s cos he let ‘er.
And I may actually believe him. Hmmmm…
The kids at Araluen Botanical Park and Flower Garden and Nature Reserve and Awesome Thing. Nobody told George to recline either, she just took it upon herself.
The boy is getting better at how to shape his face when a camera is pointed at him, but he still can’t quite smile normally. He tries, bless his li’l head, he tries. Still a handsome lad.
The beachyfit family, sans bub, and one of those days that’s so beautiful you can’t believe you’d forgotten that days can sometimes be perfect.
A fairly common occurrence… me trying to suck the baby’s brains out after I’ve beaten her into unconsciousness.
Awwwwww…
Gearing up for another big day. Look at ‘er, she’s just a-rarin’ to go.
Waiting for our fresh seafood on the dock in Freo. Bless those Kailis Brothers and their fish.
Jo having her first taste EVER of A&W Root Beer. I’d been going on and on about it for years, about how they don’t have Root Beer here and how sad that makes me. Then, when my AMERICAN mother is over, we chance upon a stall in the Fremantle Markets that specialises in American shi… goods.
I sucked down half of it in one gulp and exclaimed to the heavens how wonderful it was before handing the can to Jo and cueing mom with the camera for her much-heralded First Taste.
She drank, smiled a bit whilst processing the taste, and then loudly and disappointedly told me, “That’s just sasparilla!”
Well hell, I didn’t know that. I thought sasparilla was something that Goofy orders in those old Disney Western spoofs.
She LOVES riding around on my shoulders and will giggle every time my head rubs her belly. Never gets tired of that.
We needed somewhere with a microwave and, hopefully a table, where we could sit down and feed the Bug. The nearest and most convenient thing? A bar. HooYAH.
So, we shared a drink after the barmaid brought us both. Mine cold, her’s warmed over.
For the rest of her life, from that moment on, she will forever be a baby that once got fed in a bar while Daddy had a beer. I know that’s not uncommon, but I wonder how many out there can truly say that with such pride. Or at least say it with as many teeth as I have.
Oh My Dog! Her first ever trip to the beach! I didn’t even realise it until we were about in the water. She frowns at it and doesn’t quite know what to do with the rising and retreating water, but she loved it, walked in it, stamped on it, and giggled quite a lot. It was awesome.
Yet another of those moments captured forever… right after I had walked her out into the toodeep water, where I got splashed up to my knees and she got quite wet. I’m smoove like that.
The Visit From Granbo was an awesome one, full of much enjoyment and an amazingly busy and fun time for all. Jadey reserved no fewer than about 3 of her Firsts for Granbo’s landmark visit.First trip to the beach.
First time actually walking around in her walker (which she now does ALL Day long).
First time holding a bottle on her own (which opens up entire New Worlds to Daddy during feeds).
It was awesome, and as soon as she was gone we futtered about wondering how we were going to live life after getting so used to having her around.
Thanks again ma, for coming all that way just for me. Well, for me and my kids and wife and such, but you know what I mean. It means the World to me.
Loves to all, I’ll have some more pics from Ellis Brook on here soon as soon as I figure out where I put them and stop being lazy. Shoosh, it could happen.
Smooches.
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YOU’RE a blog entry.
May 18, 2007
Filed under:Chidluns
When faced with a task, either something that I’ve put in front of myself or something that someone has requested of me, I strive to be ever-expanding my skillset, my repertoire, as well as streamlining my processes.
Seriously, while I may look and act like a total dumbass sometimes, I am so efficient that it sometimes hurts. Literally, like my bladder and stuff.
So, when a friend asks me for advice and I feel the ol’ Writing Glands needing a squeezing, I choose instead to write an entry instead of actually just replying to that persons email like someone else might.
And by “someone else” I mean, “Normal People.”
And by “Normal” I mean, “NORMAL people are stupid.”
Right then, a very good friend and former colleague (like how that sounds SO much better than “guy I useta work with”?) has recently caught me up on a snippet of his Love Life, and has mentioned in a very charming way that he’s quite serious with a girl who has a 7 year-old boy.
Without presenting much more than what I just wrote above, he’s asked for some advice on this situation.
From ME. HA. I KNOW!
There are many who have known me for a while and there are many who have not. It tends to come as a surprise to those that are newer to me to find out that my two oldest children do not actually derive from my own personal genestock. They were actually pre-existing to my relationship with their mother, so I have some experience at what my friend is facing.
Sadly, as I look at this issue and, Dog help me, ANY issue in which I am asked advice, my reply is seemingly ever-rooted in the purest and bumblingest of sincerity. I simply don’t have any tricks. I’m just not that savvy.
I’m simply just me.
No surprise then, that this always seems to be my advice too. “Just be yourself” I find myself saying over and over, while forgetting that most people aren’t quite like me. Most wouldn’t act and react in the manner that I do in most Life situations.
Most wouldn’t fly around the World to “meet” a girl for the first time and marry her after a few days.
Most wouldn’t shoot their boss in the chest with a Nerf Dart Gun while facing a reprimand for other Nerf-related incidents.
Most wouldn’t expel gaseous matter from their body whilst typing and happily cup said gas up to their own nose for a sampling… Ooo! That one was Fruity and Coffee!
I’m sure you get the point that I’m bashing about the head and neck.
That said, I’m changing my standard line of advice. In fact, I’m going Polar Opposite.
DON’T just be yourself. It probably wouldn’t work. Be somebody that you’d like YOU to have been when you were the YOU that isn’t You now but is the other You.
Yeah?
Crap, I just went back and re-read that. Sorry ‘bout that… 2, 3, 4…
We’ve all been on one side of any given situation for our whole lives. Well, when you’re in a similar situation again, be the person that you’d have wished would’ve been opposite you the first time that you went through it.
Yeah that time? Crap, sorry again.
That really isn’t the advice that I want to give to my friend anyway, as I’m pretty sure he wasn’t ever the 7 year-old boy of a HotMom, facing his HotMom’s boyfriend. That one isn’t easy.
But, surprisingly enough, kids are.
Yep, you heard me. Kids are a piece of cake.
I mean, this one is a slam-dunk, candy-from-a-baby, easy-as, no-brainer.
Wanna get in with a kid?
BE a kid.
No shit. I don’t care what kind of kid you were or how you were treated for being so. At one point in your life, you thought the words “fart”, “butt”, and “poo” were hilarious. Shit, you still might.
There’s a fine example right there. The word, “shit”. It’s only funny sometimes, but mostly it’s naughty. Remember?
Remember hearing it used only in the one context, then in the other? Remember that it was a line-crosser to use in front of your friends, because it meant that you were tainted for life as a “swearer”? Remember how cool it made you feel in front of your friends and how dangerous it was around adults?
Talk to a kid like that. Don’t say things like “shit” unless you acknowledge its naughtiness and be prepared for fiendish giggling when you say things like “fart” or “poo”.
And the way we used to talk to each other, think back to that. When one of us, completely seriously, was asking the other something important, and we would take whichever noun was the focus of the question and fire it back as a taunt.
“Yeah, I’m gonna need those TPS reports today…”
“YOU’RE a TPS report.”
That shit is pure Gold, I swear.
I’ve gotten out of more “tough questions” and “sticky situations” with a plaintive/naughty child than I can count with that one. I use it when I’m cooking, I use it in the car, I use that one all the time, and I think I’m riotously funny.
“Daaaa-aaaaddy? What are you doing with Mommy’s make-up?”
“YOU’RE Mommy’s make-up.”
*******
“Dad, why are we going the long way to Nanny and Poppy’s?”
“YOU’RE the long way to Nanny and Poppy’s.”
*******
See? It’s an invaluable asset in one’s arsenal against Children’s Questions of Meaningless.
Another great technique is identical to the other favoured way that you used to answer my questions. It’s along the same lines as the previous example, however simply answer any question using the related noun and the location being one’s rectum.
“Dad? Where are my shoes?”
“Up your butt?”
This one is handy for special circumstances as well. For instance, when a particularly neurotic child has lost something precious that was meant for “Show and Tell” at school and said child wanders forlornly into the kitchen and almost weeps out the words, “Dad, have you seen my NinjaRobotPirate shirt?” You have to be gentle with it, but still get it out there.
“Is it in your bum?” (Wry Smile)
This will almost always draw a smile and, if it doesn’t, following up will almost always work.
“Nooo Dad… ” (Still with sad face)
“Aw buddy, we’ll find it” (Reassuring nod) “Did you even look in your bum though? I mean, how do you know for sure it’s not in there?”
That one’s a sure-fire winner for those times when you honestly have no idea where something is, don’t feel like looking, and may possibly be secretly terrified that you threw it out and forgot to ask if it was still needed.
Other than how to respond jackassedly, I’m not sure I’m good for much more advice on how to be around kids, especially kids that are of your partner and not quite of you.
This is probably because I didn’t last long with that frame of mind anyway, as I took one look at my kids and decided they were mine about a millisecond after they decided that I was theirs too.
It’s been a hoot of a carnival ride ever since.
I’d suggest that you start with giving them yummy things and cuddles whenever they want. That’s always a good place to start. Afraid of spoiling them? Wait for their other parent to tell you that you are, then back off.
Seriously though.Once again my advice for dealing with children, your own, your partners, your friends, or none of the above, is along the lines of sincerity and holding true to as many genuine feelings, actions, and reactions as you can.
Being sincere and genuine may not get them to like you straightaway, but it will never get them to NOT like you straightaway (Unless you’re genuinely and sincerely an asshole, I suppose, but if you are then you aren’t reading this and are instead dipping your finger in the cat’s litterbox and wiping it under your kid’s nose, so no worries).
Kids. Don’t Bullshit them. They can smell Bullshit (and Catshit) 17 miles away and 90% of the time they’ll never let you onto the fact that they KNOW you’re bullshitting them.
They’re incredibly adept at this li’l poker game we call “Parenting,” so don’t disrespect them.
If you can’t tell them something, then tell them you can’t tell them and tell them why.
If you need to lie, lie heavily about Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy, and sparingly about Death… in that order. In fact, with Death, don’t even really lie, just don’t tell them what your true beliefs are unless you know that they aren’t going to make their li’l pants go brown (No 6 year-old wants to hear about how you think during our journey towards the Light we’ll all have to answer for some of our worst transgressions, as he’s going to go straight to that time that he put the Icy Pole in his sister’s hair and honestly think that his flesh will flambe for that).
With parenting, much like my entire freakin’ LIFE, I stumble along and try to do my best and the Right Thing. Sometimes, frequently, the former and latter don’t get along, but that’s what a Premo-Champion-of-Awesomeness Wife is for, and I’d advise you all to go out and get one.Unless you already got one, that is. Or are a girl, cos then you’d want a hubband. Unless you’re gay and… meh, you get the idea. You can’t have mine though.
Smooches.
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