Archive | March, 2012

Occupation – Blogger

12 Mar

For a man who thinks an iPad is something your doctor may apply to a bad case of conjunctivitis, stumbling into the world of blogging was a little unexpected. Twitter irks me, downloads bypass me, iphones baffle me and to cap things off I am the proud owner of a disc man. I am a convicted technophobe and the only 30something I am aware of who is still adversely affected by a lack of phone credit. Blogging on the other hand is freakin addictive, “can you change Max’s nappy darling?” “sorry not now, I’m contemplating adjusting my widgets”. “He really needs a change” “did you not hear me, I AM ADJUSTING MY WIDGETS WOMEN!”

When filling out forms, under occupation I have started to put Blogger (a bare faced lie of an occupation, occupation after all suggests some form of monetary exchange). I shoehorn it into everyday conversations with clumsy intent, “what a nice day it is” “yes it is a nice day, a nice day to Blog, for I am a Blogger you see”. It’s not that I am an egomaniac, self promoting, serial lying, needy, pompous twit (actually I think that might be a very apt description), I’ve just got the bug or should that be Blug (no it probably shouldn’t).

My favourite thing about blogging is the Blog statistics which reveal all sorts of interesting data. On the 8th March 2012 two people found my Blog by searching “my dad’s bollocks” on Google, 1 person finding you that way is odd but to get 2 is truly incredible and a little bit concerning. I can only imagine his (for some reason I imagine the offender being a he) disappointment when he found my Blog. The stats also reveal that most of my followers (something quite conceited about putting the words “my” and “followers” together, makes me sound a bit like Jesus) are immediate family members, a sorry state of affairs really. Most surprising of all the stats showed me that on one day I received just under 1000 visits, to say that this was an increase in my usual readership would be like saying there aren’t really that many parenting blogs around. Now I know my mum is a big fan, but surely she is not committed or demented enough to revisit the blog 1000 times?

It turns out that a leading parenting book author picked up on a comment I made about her book and thanked me on her Twitter page. Before I sign out, this is probably a great opportunity to thank Apple for the iPad that is a constant source of mental stimulation for Max without which he surely wouldn’t have a 140+ IQ score. Huggies, Max wouldn’t shit into any other nappy it’s you guys or the paddling pool. And Nike, Max certainly wouldn’t be running sub 10 second 100 metres if it wasn’t for your super comfy and great value Nike Air Babies. And how could I forget Heinz, without your delicious and nutritious meals Max wouldn’t be topping the healthy baby charts. And finally Little Creatures Brewery, without your crisp, hoppy, refreshing brew there would be a huge beer shaped void in this dads life, cheers.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dogs Tails

11 Mar

In a previous post I confessed that a boy was top of my wish list – I want to kick the footy around with my son, go fishing together, teach him how to undo a bra with one hand (nimble, slender fingers are the key) and all that other boy stuff. The problem is that Max is already out-boying me, he is all man and has more testosterone in his little finger than I have in my whole body. Sometimes I catch him looking at me in disgust as I pop my pinny on and rustle up a batch of scones.

At the library I look on enviously at the parents reading books to their attentive little girls whilst Max is French kissing the ones too young to crawl away from him. Girls don’t do that.

On Max’s 1st birthday whilst the little girls were blissfully happy playing with their dolls, Max was disgracing himself and the family name by poohing in the paddling pool. Girls don’t do that.

Bath time for Max is not about getting clean, it is not a time to sit back and enjoy the soothing warm water and aromatic fragrances of the bubbles. Bath time is for poking, prodding, stretching and generally interfering with ones doodle (we opted to go with doodle, other options include; tinkle winkle, dingly dangly, dongle wongle or for the more matter of fact parent – penis). Girls don’t do that – obviously.

Whilst my knowledge of mechanics is limited to looking under the bonnet and staring blankly at its contents hoping that might magically fix the problem, Max has a thorough understanding of the components and functions of each and every toy truck he owns, and he owns a lot of toy trucks. Girls don’t do that.

At the park after Max has finished eating all of his raisins, he turns his attentions to little pellets of possum pooh, not stopping at one he will consume as many as he can get away with and then look genuinely hurt that I’ve stopped him. Girls don’t do that.

I sometimes consider what Max might be like when he is grown up, if his current habits are anything to go by he will be a trucker, who forces himself on girls, touches himself a little too often, soils himself in public and eats animal faeces – a real charmer then.

Of course none of this should come as a surprise, research shows that boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dogs tails, whilst girls on the other hand are made up of sugar and spice and all things nice.

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