Man-flu. Shopping. Pay day. Chaos. Braai. Beer*. Friends. Kids. Chaos. Fun. Mess. Tired.
All of which adds up to quota photo time. Here are the kids, earlier today: Three faces; One Smile.
So, to complete the picture (so to speak):
Blog. Drugs. Bed. Sleep.
* (Medicinal)
She waltzed out this morning, said she was heading to the airport, to Jo’burg, to see other people.
I wasn’t too upset. She’ll be back tomorrow, mark my words. She always comes back.
And I slipped a slab of Dairy Milk into her laptop bag. So she won’t go hungry.
The cruel reality of the situation is that I have a night with the kids. Alone.
Both of them are sleeping reasonably well at the moment. Just not very concurrently.
At the moment, Alex tends to not go to sleep too quickly and he’s up early, K-pu goes to sleep quite easily and wakes up late, but is often disturbed during the night. Which is all well and good when there are two of you to spread the load. However, by crude extrapolation and use of maths and stats only a mother could love, I predict that I will sleep between 10pm – 11pm and 4am – 5:30am. Except for the 10pm – 11pm bit, because I’ll be watching UEFA Cup Europa League footy.
Should this alarming prediction prove to be accurate, I can only advise you that it would be foolhardy to cross my path in any way, shape or form tomorrow.
Yesterday evening was spent playing (and winning) a dramatic football match under peachy skies. And, as this photograph completely fails to illustrate, in gale force winds. There’s a grating sound each time I blink and I’m still crying grit. However, on the plus side, I now feel that I am in a position to recommend sand-blasting as an excellent method of exfoliation.
Just as long as you have control of the process and can halt proceedings before it gets down to the bone.
More Football Evening photos.
This is my daughter in a beer garden in January. See how she smiles.
This was not the case last night. My daughter has tonsilitis. She announced this to us by having a huge spiking fever at about three o’clock this morning and then, when we went to investigate the circumstances surrounding her crying, by copiously and accurately vomiting all over her mother.
Nice.
Still, it could have been worse. It could have been all over me.
In these situations, the most important thing is to get the child’s temperature down as quickly as possible. Thus, I got to sit in the shower with her on my lap (my daughter, not my wife, sadly) and spray us both with cold water. This is not what anyone wants to have done to them at three o’clock in the morning and little K-pu protested loudly, but that sums up what parenting is about. Vomit, cold water and misery.
Of course, there are high points as well, which – as you can see – apparently occur in beer gardens in January. That might have something to do with the beer though.
Sorry – I’m just feeling tired and cynical. Being a parent is great. Being in a cold shower for 30 minutes in the wee small hours of the morning and the mess it makes of the rest of your day- isn’t.
I am constantly poking Mrs 6000 in the direction of a big screen telly, but she remains disinterested. That’s because Mrs 6000 doesn’t actually watch a lot of television. She only watches on Friday evenings because there’s some god-awful American programme with a plethora of bimbos throwing themselves at a bloke from Watford.
But I digress. The reason that is what is watched in our household on Friday evenings because there is no footy on. Which brings me to the second reason that Mrs 6k is against the big screen telly idea – that I would end up watching more sport.
This is an utterly ridiculous suggestion. I couldn’t possibly watch more sport than I do now. Unless they start regularly screening football matches on Friday evenings, of course. But if the payoff for a smart new TV was a continuation of Friday nights being crap American telly, even when Brentford v Swansea is on 203, then that’s fine by me.
And then there’s the money. Red wine is an expensive business and when you’ve got to bring up two kids on top of that – well, you can see that there’s not going to be much to spare. And then you have to buy them food as well. And pay for electricity, which is going up again next week/month/year/all of the above. It never ends.
(Incidentally, a big screen telly is pretty power hungry, but I’d be willing to limit the amount of time it was on by switching it off on Friday evenings.)
Of course, there’s actually nothing wrong with the telly we have at the moment. It’s just not very big. And no matter what they say, size is important.
Step forward Brian Micklethwait:
If I want a big screen telly, I move my small screen telly nearer.
Which sounds fine in principle, but it would be a little hypocritical of me to do that, since the kids aren’t allowed close to the TV screen and are constantly being chastised for it, drawn in by the gravitational spell of CBeebies (and not just Sarah-Jane Honeywell, like their dad).
So that leaves only one option, then. Shrink the furniture.
Father-to-be misses birth of his son after being arrested for grabbing nurse’s breasts on way to delivery room
A father missed the birth of his first son after being arrested for groping a nurse on the way to the delivery room.
Police said Adam Manning sexually assaulted the nurse as she wheeled his wife into the delivery room.
The 30 year old had told the nurse she was “cute” then reached round to grab her breasts.Police in Ogden, Utah, were called to the hospital and arrested Manning on charges of forcible sexual assault.
When later asked about his actions he said he had no idea why he carried out the assault. Police confirmed that he missed the birth of his son.
Class act, hey…?
To be honest, I think this could have happened to anyone. After all, every dad breaks the law on the day his son is born: it’s tradition.
Me? I did 150kph around Hospital Bend at 5 in the morning.
But probably only because there were no cute nurses to molest.