Is it just me or does Father’s Day seem to be less of a big deal? It’s like while women (who are mothers) are often defined by their role as a mother, men are usually defined by their fancy jobs and the size of their um, cars. For most men, being a father is relegated to an afterthought, like that guy over there is an Emeritus Minister, drives a Bentley and BTW, has 3 kids.

These days though, we’re seeing the rise of the Superdad, who take on their fair share of parenting duties, and then some. Like I always say, they’re practically moms, minus the breastfeeding. And today’s post will be all about the husband, whose Superdad status has reached legendary proportions.

Ask any woman and they’ll tell you that there’s nothing more smokin’ hot than a man who adores his kids and is adored right back by them. It’s exactly why guys who bring along a puppy for a walk in the park are 83% more likely to pick up a hot chick than those who fly solo.

Being Father’s Day and all, it seemed like a good time to make a list of my all time favorite daddy moments.

1. Dogwalking at East Coast.

On a hotness scale, guys who bring a dog to the park have a +25 points advantage, guys who bring kids to the park have a +50 points advantage and guys who bring a dog and kids to the park have a whopping +100 points advantage. That’s a guaranteed fly ball-out-of-the-park home run.

2. Sitting on the shoulders of giants.

This is a classic daddy move. Women are just not ergonomically designed to carry kids on their shoulders – I do this for 2 seconds and my neck feels like it’s about to fall off. We carry them close to our boobs for snuggling but daddies are just right for that added height boost.

3. Matchy matchy outfits.

I know how much guys hate doing the matchy matchy outfits thing because “it’s so girly and gross”. I had to order these tees from Threadless and make them wear the exact same tops on the same day. Too cute for words.

4. Being a pretend unicorn.

Again, something that falls squarely in the daddy’s domain. My stomach muscles just aren’t defined enough to withstand this sort of abuse. Good thing there’s daddy to take one for the team and offer the unicorn riding services.

5. Baby kisses.

This makes my heart melt into the shape of a Precious Moments figurine. Ok, inside joke. But this is definitely my absolute favoritest moment of all.

Happy Father’s Day, sweetheart.

Yesterday the kids had their first magazine photo shoot. It’s going to be for an article in an upcoming issue of Young Parents featuring the husband’s special superdad abilities and they wanted a picture of him with the kids. I was just the extra on set fetching gummies for the kids; nobody cares about mommies anymore.

But I jest. I’m happy to be the runner because you know how awkward I am in front of the camera.

I watched baby girl as she was doing her make up and my heart melted into a giant gloopy mush. She sat there absolutely still and looking so awfully proud to be a big girl as the make up artist swirled her brushes and powdered her nose.

She saw me fiddling with the pictures last night and said “aiyo SO PRETTY!” with a shy little smile. This girl has a way with my heart.

Also, if you’re interested, here’s a look at what went on behind the scenes of the photo shoot.

This weekend is Fathers’ Day, so today we bring you a special daddy edition.

There’s something about fathers that make them so special. Mommies are good for nap times and fixing snacks but when daddy is around, it’s all about piggyback rides and wrestling and fun outings.

And why is it that daddy’s approval seems to be worth a lot more? I’m always telling the kids that they did a great job and momma’s so proud of them and they’re like “Sure, mom, whatever.” But when daddy says the same thing, they’re look all pleased with themselves.

Although, I can’t really blame them because growing up, I thought my dad was the smartest, strongest, coolest person in the universe. He was more awesome than Superman and Batman and the Hulk all rolled into one. When I got pushed around by other kids, my trump card was to yell out “I’ll ask my daddy to whip your ass“. And I really believed it. In fact, I was also certain that my daddy could whip the other kid’s daddy’s ass too. I never got around to witnessing it, mostly because the other kid would usually shut up or leave me alone after that.

I have a feeling my kids feel the same way.

Case in point: baby girl. Kirsten is a classic daddy’s girl through and through. She’s totally biased and I KNOW YOUR DADDY IS SO SPECIAL BUT YOU DON’T HAVE TO RUB IT IN. Even though she’s capable of calling mama (she does it when the stars align), her favorite word is dada. No prizes for guessing who she’s referring to. As I was changing her diaper today, I tried my luck again.

Me: Say mama, baby girl. MA-MA

Kirsten: Dada

Me: No, MA-MA

Kirsten: DADA

Me: You’re rubbing it in, aren’t you?

Kirsten: DADA, DADA, DADAAAAA *claps her hands to emphasize her point*

Me: Dada is at work. You’re stuck with me.

I can just see it. One of these days, she’s going to climb onto the husband’s lap, gaze into his eyes and say “When I grow up, I’m going to marry a boy that is just like you, daddy“, and the husband’s heart will instantly melt into putty and he will buy her anything she wants, including every single piece of that ridiculously exorbitant Sylvanian Families dollhouse set.

Tru is less obvious because there’s that alpha male vibe going on but I bet he secretly wants to be just like daddy when he grows up. The way he looks at daddy is so different from the way he looks at me, like he’s observing everything daddy does intently. Then next thing I know, he’s doing the exact same thing.

He’s got this tool box set that looks like a briefcase and from time to time, he arranges his toy cars inside neatly, gives me a kiss and announces, “Bye mommy, Truett go work.”

Most of his minor boo boos are easily solved by momma but the really serious ones, we have to bring out the big guns – daddy’s giant biceps. They are strangely effective in making them feel better. It’s either that or daddy’s masculine smell that’s the secret. Whatever the case, it works and that’s good enough for me.

Typically, Fathers’ Day comes with less hype and fanfare as compared to Mothers’ Day. I’m guessing that’s because us mothers are very protective of our turf when it comes to the kids and also, most fathers are happy to take a backseat because there are more pressing matters to attend to, like killing zombies and watching soccer.

While I agree that dads are less inclined to be maternal (they’ve got less of those soft bits that are oh-so-comfortable for babies), they’re no less important to a kid’s growth and development. They add that little extra – the stability, security and giant biceps. Of course it helps that daddy can change a diaper in 30 seconds flat and hold the fort while I go out for a shopping spree.

In short, Happy Fathers’ Day, sweetheart. You rock my world too.

Good cop, bad cop is a strategy we use all the time in disciplining the kids. From the onset, we agreed that we’ll rotate the roles so that it’s fair and we both get to be the good cop at some point. Because nobody wants to be the bad cop. Besides sociopaths, that is. Or masochists with a sadistic streak. But well, neither of us fall into those categories.

Unfortunately, it’s becoming quite apparent that daddy is emerging as the resident bad cop. Why? Because mommy has no backbone and she can’t keep a straight face when it comes to discipline. Also, it’s terribly weird to talk about myself in the third person.

The kids seem to sense that weakness and they have been exploiting it. They do their cute I’m-so-sorry-didn’t-mean-to-do-it move and I feel bad about being upset because they’re obviously just babies and innocent and all puppy dog eyes looking at me. That makes me immediately forget about how they spat out food all over the floor 30 seconds ago. WHILE I’M STILL STANDING IN THE SPITTLE. I’m such a cliche.

So now whenever we do good cop bad cop, Kelvin gets to be the bad cop while I dangle bribes of ice-cream and Yakult. It never works though and I don’t even know why I bother.

Me: Tru, if you finish your food mommy will let you have a scoop of ice-cream.

Tru: ICE-CREAM!!! GIVE ME ICE-CREAM! GIVE ME GIVE ME!!

Me: I meant you have to FINISH your food first.

Tru: I’m all done. Give me ice-cream!!!

Me: No, you’re not done. You can’t be done if you haven’t even started.

Tru: ICE CREAM!!!!

That goes on for a while until he grabs his head and slumps onto the table, which is his sign for “I don’t care about your stupid ice-cream anyway. It’s not worth having to swallow this broccoli for.”

That’s me wasting 15 minutes of my life trying to bargain with a two-year-old.

So it’s the cue for bad cop to step in.

Kelvin: Tru, open your mouth, say ahhhhh.

Tru: No, don’t like.

Kelvin: Do you like the naughty corner?

Tru: No, don’t like.

Kelvin: I’m going to count to three and if you don’t eat by the time I get to 3, you know where you’re going to. 1…2…

And it works like a charm. Once in a while he tries his luck and ends up in the naughty corner. Daddy says it’s about consistency, which I have none of. I keep trying to find excuses to cut him some slack, to not have to put him in the naughty corner because it breaks momma’s tender little heart to see him cry.

If this goes on I’ll be the kind of mother that has to leave the discipline to their husbands and the best they can do is pull out their killer phrase “wait till daddy gets home” whenever the kids start becoming bratty. But that won’t work very well for me because by the time daddy gets home, I’ll have a VERY LONG list of things, some of which I’m likely to forget.

I think I better start lessons on being a bad cop before Kirsten gets smarter and I get eaten alive by TWO kids with innocent baby eyes.

Daddy’s been home these two weeks, the longest break he’s had since he started work. I heart having daddy around at home, he does all the manly stuff like cleaning poop and yelling at the kids while I sleep in. In case you missed that, I actually said sleep in. That’s like the Holy Grail of motherhood. And you would think that it’s going to feel overrated after you have it but oh no, it. is. good.

I can really get used to this, not having to do everything on my own. A 2:2 (two-parent to two-kid) ratio is so much easier because we can divide and conquer. One to hold the fort while the other takes five.

I’ve also noticed that the kids are closer to Kel whenever he’s at home. Tru asks for daddy all the time and he shouts for “dad-dyyyyy” in that sweet baby voice, which is a relief because I can escape diaper changes but I’m also bummed about being displaced as his favorite person.

I know boys need a strong, masculine presence to give them security and all but I miss that special look he used to give me like I’m everything he needs. Now everything is morphing into something once in a while and soon it’ll be “mommmm, don’t kiss me in public anymore, it’s WEIRD and EMBARRASSING!”

I hate to break it to you, kid, but momma’s going to kiss you till you’re 65. Maybe not all over because that would be weird. But kiss you, I will.

We’re all going to be a little sad when daddy goes back to work next week. Tru’s going to throw a hissy fit when I have to tell him that “daddy’s at work, sweetheart”. Baby girl will look all forlorn again. Momma will cry a little and maybe dust under the sink for a place to hide.

But we’ve got three days left, right about the time where you start to feel the blues sinking in. The last few days of any holiday are always bittersweet because at the back of your mind, you’ll always be thinking about how it’s going to suck after. That’s why the last three days of our honeymoon was spent in Disneyland so we wouldn’t have time to sit around and mope.

Three more days and I’m going to par-ty like it’s 1999. We’ve got Kirsten’s baby dedication and a wedding coming up so it’s going to be fun. Hopefully we’ll have some good pics for you guys. Here’s one first, for the record.

Mothers get all the fun baby accessories. You have the awesome but also feminine-looking beco baby-carrier, Kate Spade diaperbags, the Medela Twin Turbo Breast pumps, to name a few.

Daddies basically carry around the aforementioned which is totally inergonomical and ill-fitting to our muscular frame *flex*.

Despondent by the lack of customised accessories and crackpot gizmos for the new father, I have spent the past year and a half working closely with Deuter to come up with the ultimate bag for dads that is called – wait for it - the BagDad.

In spite of the apparent misnomer it is well known that Iraqis do not make anything besides chemical bombs so I’m not too concerned about the implications here.

The Bagdad is a ground-breaking, cutting edge piece of technology that blends the best of military, motorbiking and culinary equipment.

The Bagdad

1. Milk Distillation/Hydration System

The man-boob debuted in 2004′s Meet the Fockers but the past six years have seen tremendous strides taken in the field of perfecting what is now commonly known as the “milk moob”.

The Bagdad’s milk moob involves a complex liposuction system that basically breaks down the fats of the carrier in yet another complex process similar to that of a woman expressing milk. Without going into the technical details, fathers can now lose anywhere between 10-25 kg wearing the Bagdad and also feed the baby for somewhere between 18 months to a year.

2. Helmet

A child’s mind is his most valuable possession. This helmet has a built-in audio system that will loop the theme song from Special Agent OSO as studies have proven that too much Sesame Street increases the intelligence of a person disconsolately. It was King Solomon who said that ”too much study wearies the mind” and I totally concur.

3.  Tantrum Stabilizing

This is for strapping the baby’s arms together similar to that of a mental patient in a straight jacket. Best used with the Contoured and Removable Hip Belt with Gear Loops (See below).

4. Food Channelling Sternum Strap

Older babies will move towards consuming solids like crushed oreos with melted butter or shredded lard deep fried in olive oil (cos its *healthier* that way). The food channelling sternum strap feeds your little twinkie baby from an interior storage compartment that maintains it at an optimum temperature to maintain a thin crisp,especially for the shredded lard.

5. Contoured Shoulder Straps for Baby’s buttocks.

There are times when you absolutely need to hoist your baby high up in the air; for example when you’re clubbing and there’s a hovering cloud of smoke just about face-height or when you get caught spitting gum onto the ceiling. It’s self-explanatory, really.

6. Poop Suction (the Deuter Alpine System).

The irritating thing about kids is that they do their business as and when they feel like it. By purchasing the S-plug or the Splug (sold seperately at $39.90) to connect your child to the Poop Suction or as the fancy-pants suit at Deuter insists I call it, the Deuter Alpine System, you no longer have to worry about diaper changes or wet-wipe warmers.

7. Contoured and Removable Hip Belt with Gear Loops.

I’m a firm believer that every child needs to be disciplined. Inspired by Mel Gibsons’s the Passion of the Christ, The Contoured and Removable Hip Belt with Gear Loops will ensure a memorable and life-transforming disciplinary session for your child. You can also customise it by purchasing Barb Hooks with Heatable tips at $9.99 or simply purchase a Whip Extension at $4.99 to give you that extra dimension (and length) for that escaping baby.

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To purchase Bagdad, visit www.deuter.com.

Key in [Motherinc] as the promo code for a 20% discount.

Parenting requires a lot of resolve. Which is why parents, of all people, should make resolutions. (resolve – resolutions – root word, geddit?)  Your approach may mean the difference between your child becoming a Hitler or a Ben Tennyson.

Here are my resolutions for 2010.

1. Must not refer to myself as Superdad.

Seriously guys, I’m totally overrated. I change a few diapers, take a couple of feeds and I get a prefix that implies overriding awesomeness and infinite ability? To me, a Superdad is someone who brings home the bacon – in a vehicle like this.

Honey, I'm home.

2. Must stop calling wife “retard” and “moron” (and vice versa – not in the sense of “must stop calling retards and morons ‘wife’”, but as in Daf should also stop calling me names, ah, you did get it the first time).

This started waaaaaay back in when we were first dating and we attended this “terms of endearment” course in school, the lecturer was going on about semantics,  semiotics and how 80% of  all communication is non-verbal. Which was to say you could call your honey-pumpkin “Nazi Puppy” if you say it in the most awshucks, sweety-pie-sixteen voice and STILL could make her goosebumps stand. You got to try it to believe it.

So in a totally non-derogatory sense we have been calling each other “hey moron“, “what’s up, retard” for years and people around us are so used to it, they think our marriage is on the rocks otherwise “Did you call her ‘sweetheart??’ Are you guys quarreling again?” Plus it *helps* put people at ease when they’re doing projects with us.

[Sidenote: Daf and I pulled of this awesome scam a few years back. We were introduced through a friend of ours to this lady and for some reason she immediately assumed we were siblings (as apparently, we both look alike, fair enough). This went on for almost a year and every single time this lady bumped into us she would go "Hey, why are you guys always together? You're giving people the wrong idea, how to find girl friend and boyfriend, like that?"

We were having a meal one day with a bunch of friends and she couldn't help but to remark again on our perpetual proximity to one another until a bewildered mutual friend went "What the hell are you talking about, they've been together for 4 years!"

Total awesomeness.]

Thing is Truett has been a sponge of late and taken to calling Daf “baaaaaaabbbbbeee” in the way i call her when she’s across the room/hallway/hawker centre from a distance.  It’s only a matter of time – if we don’t stop – he’s gonna calling his friends mentally-handicapped individuals in the un-PC way.  If people ask, I’ll say something along the lines of how the nurses at Mt A thought he had failed the Oscar test and mentioned it to him repeatedly when he was under phototherapy. Poor boy.

3.  Must stop grinning and nodding approvingly when child does something awesome (but dangerous).

I’m a firm believer that parents should always think their kids are the most awesome (I know, i overuse the word. It’s an “honorable mention” sort of resolution to cut down on it) creatures to have roamed the earth, the finest species of mankind ever produced and vastly superior to all other children be it red or yellow black and white.

But when Tru attempts to fling himself off a 2m high platform and lands immaculately with a shoulder roll (that’s *how* parachutists do it, mate), one must not get carried away with thoughts of son being the incarnate of Maximus Decimus Meridius and do celebratory chariot race around the playground with him on piggy back.

That is because he may actually get injured or worse, die, although I do think its more important that what you do in life echoes in eternity!!

4. Must not play Winning Eleven/Football Manager/FIFA and leave kids unattended.

When you become a parent, you basically surrender all rights to personal rest and recreation. No afternoon naps, no late mornings, no movies, no GAMING.

So on the off-chance I get presented with the opportunity to cradle a Playstation 3 controller in the bosom of my fatherly being (ok, yucky expression), i unleash the repressed desires of my sub-thirty-year-old consciousness to get my GAME ON.

This happens on the weekly visit to Mother-in-law’s house, because Brother-in-law (BIL), despite being only a year younger, is very much single, certainly kidless, free from the shackles of feeds and woggly baby legs. As such his status enables him to be the proud owner of the holy trinity of gaming consoles – the PS3, the XBOX 360 and the Nintendo Wii.

The ideal is when everybody is around i.e.  the adult to baby ratio readjusted to a favourable 5:2 whereby I get to play reasonably undisturbed. The problem only arises in a 2:2 ratio where it becomes a rather iffy situation if the 2 adults are in question BIL  (player 1) and “superdad” a.k.a player 2.

BIL has a rather nifty stereo system hooked up to the gaming “altar” so it drowns out the sound of screaming kids in the adjacent room, not that I *ever* did that. I’m just saying it y’all.

5. Must not buy toys that promote either 300 B.C or 2010A.D violence.

It started off innocuously with two water pistols which i thought would be handy in giving me some added range for taking down those pesky ceiling lizards. However it also marked the introduction of “pulling the trigger”, “aiming”, and “shooting to KILL” to a nineteen-month old boy.

A visit to a friend’s house not too long after became the initiation to swords, then maces then death-by-steamrolling and finally, chainsaws. I’m not even joking about the use of chainsaws; without going into the details it was a game of “doctor” gone wrong – horribly wrong.

Therefore, Truett and Kirsten will play with cuddly bears, petite trucks and vegetarian dinosaurs at most.  That way they may secure a job in the United Nations or Green Peace. And we all know how important the United Nations are.

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So that’s my list of parenting resolutions. Feel free to be inspired. You’re welcome.

If you know Daf and I personally or read this blog long enough, you would know that we were both classmates from the same university and took a course that landed many of my peers jobs in the media industry.

And apparently being young parents is a news angle because we get approached for soundbites more often then I would have liked.

Daphne has been in the news for her wisdom-in-a-neat-box quote of ” a wedding is but for a day, marriage is for a lifetime.” Hear, Hear.

We also (reportedly) beat the recession of late 2008-2009 by stocking up on expiring can food and a diet of spinach and tofu.

So some time back, she  did yet another email interview with a writer friend from a woman’s magazine which had to be weird because it was another of those too-much-information types.

The first signs of regret came quickly – a few weeks ago a colleague (more of an acquaintance actually, he was from the other side literally and figuratively speaking, but the devil is in the details and I don’t want to sin) came up to me out of the blue and said “Hey! I saw your photo in this woman’s magazine. Man, you looked different back then, dude.”

I mumbled something about putting the “fat” back  in “father” and made a quick escape, scrambling to recall which it magazine it was  and the context of the story.

Stepping into my boss’ office on the same day brought a cynical, split-second stare and a rhetorical “I read your article. Good job there.”

And the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back came when a colleague that sat right behind me (no escape!)  spun her chair around and blurted suddenly- “I saw your wedding photos! Man, i dig those suspenders. You looked different back then.” Incidentally, this was the same girl that declared my virility to the entire office when she found out that Daphne was pregnant with Kirsten less than six months after Truett was born. (Which was also why I was really keeping my fingers crossed during the recent pregnancy scare. I love them kids, but one at a time please.)

I mumbled something punny about “Dad’s the reason why” and headed off to the pantry pretending to make a drink -without my cup. Drats.

But there was no escaping the paparazzi and 2 days later I got a message on MSN.

“Read your article, good job dude. “

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. What the heck were you buying a woman’s magazine for anyway?”

“I clicked through a link on Asiaone.com, man. I thought it was about handjobs or something.”

By the mountains of Kilimanjaro, the story was online, on a major news site nonetheless. And totally searchable on Google if you key in the right words. Heck, we should have charged loading fees.

And if the camel’s back wasn’t broken (is there a gay joke in here somewhere?)  he was truly, completely severed into two when my mother started dishing out very descriptive advice on family planning and the host of contraceptives out there. Apparently she read the article too.

Note to all mothers, do your children a favour – avoid any description, not matter how matter-of-fact your execution is, avoid ANY description that conjure mental images of you getting it on with Dad. Just don’t do it. Please.

Well the fact is we’ve been bumping into people on the streets, shopping centres, parks that have been reading Mother, Inc. While no doubt Daphne can work the prose as a kickass writer, I wasn’t getting quite comfortable with the meet-and-greet thing. So, this will sound totally idiotic since we’re evidently not celebrities or anything but I’ve been feeling like I can’t even “let it rip” in public.  I’m just afraid people may be like, “hey you saw the guy that just farted, he’s actually the husband of Daphne from Mother, Inc. You know that blog with all that stuff about handjobs and getting it on.”

Sex does sell though (there, you’ve got the context of the interview) and given the rising divorce rates in Singapore, I suppose there’s no nobler cause than towards the building of strong marriages through some smokin’ hot sexytime.

You can quote me on that, thankyouverymuch.

The thing about kids is that while they can be dripping with the saccharine sweet kind of cutesiness that makes you go all awshucks and woggly over them, under the right conditions (i.e. teething, being sick, turning two) they can all become Chuckies (or the Brides of Chucky, depending on the gender).

We’ve all met them before (and it so happens that all of us have had the luck of the draw – none of them are our own. I raise my child up in the fear of the Lord, y’all). It was a nice quite afternoon at the East Coast Park, you were chilling sipping your cuppa of budgetta lattes when suddenly a shrill wail reverberates from the play area.

“Daddy this boy pushed me and broke my arm and punched my nose and called Mommy a whore!” (ok it may be any of one the above and not all together probably just the pushing bit but you get the drift).

The options in such a scenario are limited and these are the usual suspects.

(a) You can usher your boy away and tell him its ok, kids are mostly brutes and assholes (sorry daddy is not supposed to use that word anymore) and that’s why mommy says homeschooling is good now smile at the boy shake his hand and walk away.

The problem with this is that it is too cliche to be of any value to your child in the long run (turn the other cheek? bah!), unless you want your son to grow up to be a geeky stiff-necked academic (we call them President’s Scholars here).

Hence, peruse option B

(b) You push the offending boy, karate-chop his arm with one hand while smashing his nose in with your right hook and while he’s still screaming from the pain and shock from seeing his humerus stick out like Eduardo Da Silva’s shin, call his mother a whore in that looping sing-song voice “nah-nee-nah-nee-nah-nah, your mother is a whor—ore, nah-nee-nah-nee”

The problem here is that Social Services will haul you away from that child and your child.

So what’s a good parent to do? Here’re three alternative methods to get PAYBACK TIME without getting jailtime, or worse, landing up on the front page of the New Paper.

(a) Do something completely ridiculous and out of character for the typically sane parent.

If you’re at the playground, throw sand at the offending child’s eyes. Parents with newborns may want to consider flinging poop. If there are no objects around to improvise from, pinch the kid when he is being distracted. Smokers, set his Baby Guess jeans on fire and then put it out before it actually burns him.

If Brute accuses you of physical harm and Brute’s parents approach you, look completely bewildered and appalled at the idea that you could have done such a thing (I’m an GROWNUP, for crying out loud!). Brute gets a telling off from Mommy and Daddy for lying.

If you did the fire thing (always a good choice), you may even get a reward for saving his life. We all win.

(b) Offer him our *special* treats.

Daf and I always carry around in our diaper bags candies and chocolates that also double up as laxatives or constipatives for  the young ‘uns. It’s kinda our own little experiment and family-owned business,  if you’re not living in Singapore I’ll be glad to send you some. If you’re Singaporean, I am obviously kidding about this and my IP address is actually 221.123.44.1.

The idea is that spoilt brats and/or bullies are almost always obese and would never refuse candy or chocolate even if they are suspicious of your intentions. You would think that being as fat and engorged on candy as they are already their own saliva would taste like maple syrup but it is the paradox of the Turkish delight.

Mind you, these special treats won’t actually kill them but cause them enough trouble at an – importantly – delayed reaction time. So while your own child may be dismayed that you seemingly just rewarded foul behaviour, you can smile at him with a twinkle in your eye and be assured that two hours later that what goes into Brute may not come out for at least a week or come out very quickly at one go. In liquid form.

(c) Accuse the child of swearing.

For whatever reason, parents that don’t bat an eyelid when their kids behave like little Kim Jong-Ils go all ballistic when they find out their child uses improper vocabulary.

So here’s how it goes. Brute’s parents arrive on the scene and Brute has a Dursley catch-me-if-you-can smug look on his face. This is what you say:

“Your child just yelled the word f*ck”

They’ll be all flustered and panicky and go “My son would never say a word like that!”

This is where you turn towards Brute and ask in a gentle voice “Boy, did you say the word f*ck to me just now?”

Chances are that he’ll yell “NO I DID NOT SAY THE WORD F*CK!”. You then put on a sympathetic look, give a knowing shrug, and lead your child away to a safe distance away from the subsequent fallout. Victory is yours.

These are just some of the methods I employ when facing a sticky situation of disciplining a kid that is not your own child. If any of the above has happened to you before, I just want you to know that I do not frequent the Ikea@Tampines and I am not that “uncle” that mixed a moshy looking paste into your kid’s McFlurry.

Let’s face it. If i were to ask you readers out there “How many of you would consider your father to be cool?”, the response I get will probably be similar to me asking “Would you consider Hitler cuter without a moustache and having only massacred 2 million Jews instead of six?” or “Do you prefer being long sleeved or short sleeved?” while polishing the blade of my Hatori Hanzo.

The truth is most of the time, our dads embarass us, not in a purposefully conceited manner but in that lovable but doofish sort of Dad style – that makes them so NOT cool.

So he claims to be the top scorer for the high school basketball team that came just 2 points short of landing the state championships (i should have taken the game winning shot, he laments). But after seeing how he shoots (brings new meaning to the underhand method, urgh) and watching him screen your friends out from rebounds with his well-formed behind, all illusions of your dad being the Lebron James of his time shatter and you vow never to invite him to your pickup games again.

So he used to be the lead singer of a rock and roll band; apparently if American Idol was launched back then he would have made it to the top six on his sheer stage presence alone and then ace the competition plus a recording contract with his soaring pipes. Then he picks up Guitar Hero and screams an overly jazzed up rendition of FreeBird, and as your friends watch in a mixture of awe, shock and horror, you vow never to invite him to your video game sessions again.

Once I told some relatives at a family gathering that I was going with Daphne to Mount Faber for a drink with some friends. Upon hearing that, they started giving me knowing looks and winks as we left, much to my bewilderment. Later, I found out that Mount Faber was apparently a hotspot for couples to get some hanky panky action, and that my Dad used to bring my Mom there. FML.

Parents- Dads, listen, when your kids grow up, – the following is going to be inevitable.

1. They will look at our wedding photos and laugh at our attire. 

2. That is, if they apparently don’t die from laughing at our hairstyles.

3. The football players that you consider great at  the moment (Cristiano Ronaldo, Messi) will be to our kids those hippy men in super tight jerseys and tigher shorts running around on the pitch in those sepia-toned footage at half-time interludes.

[Fun fact about me: Apparently, I was supposed to be named after one of England's football greats, Kevin Keegan. Except that my folks got the spelling wrong and named me Kelvin instead. There is not a single famous football player in the world who has a first name called Kelvin. (Kelvin Kilbane doesn't count guys, he plays for Hull City.) Again, FML.]

4. They’ll listen to your story of how you met (and courted) their mother and go “Gee, I can’t believe mom fell for that. That is so dweebish. And, honestly dad, I thought I stepped into a museum when I went to Al Fornos on your Silver Anniversary. “

5. One day, you’ll decide to revive those inline skates in the attic. You’ll put them on and go to the East Coast Park and think that the young chaps who are also skating there will go “hey, that guy’s really cool for an old dude, he does inline skating!” Except that when you get there, there are no young chaps but lots of familiar faces hobbling around unsteadily on inline skates, which happens to have been out of production for five years now, by the way.

So what’s an old man gotta do? Me being the ever helpful Superdad, I have here a few tips on how to stay trendy, contemporary and cool when you enter into your golden years.

Don’t try too hard. 

This is really the key rule here. I don’t need my father to be doing scat singing a la Jason Mraz to be cool. In fact, I’ll be rather scared of that (oh, nevermind). You don’t have to wear baggy hooded jackets and a long, blingy chain to be cool. It’s very disconcerting. Stop it.

So, attire wise, you want to dress your age, but NOT how people dressed at your current age back when you were young. I know that’s sounds complicated one but chew on it. 

Change your hairstylist. 

This seems to be an arbitrary and somewhat insignificant point but I cannot emphasize the importance of this. I have seen too many photos of friends’ parents and parents’ friends and have concluded that they would have been better off doing permanent hair removal on their heads and then specially customizing a wig (or a set of similar wigs for washing) to reduce the carbon footprints involved in driving to the barber and turning on the electric shaver because THEIR HAIRSTYLE HAS BEEN THE SAME FRIGGIN’ ONE THE PAST FORTY YEARS. 

Noticed I said to change your hairstylist and not just your hairstyle. Look, much as Uncle Murasamy from Sri Nada is a very skilful barber, he probably hasn’t updated much of his skills set and not found a need to, so don’t be upset when you bring along a magazine, point to Beckham’s do and leave the salon looking more like Scary Spice. 

Don’t bring up past glories unless you’re asked. Even then, be self-effacing and pretend to be embarrased by the fact that you used to be Prom King. 

You should go all like “Ah, that was a long time ago, you don’t want to hear about that/see those pictures.” Make no mistake, you really want to but that is one heck of a bait. Your kids will go, “Aw come on dad, Prom King! I wanna see some photos!” and you’ll be all “Hmm, i’m not quite sure where they are now, but there may be a few pictures in the third drawer of the brown cabinet in the basement study room,  to the left of my Harry Potter box set and right below the stack of my limited edition Michael Jordan basketball cards.” 

On this point – strategically hide “contraband items” (like weed) in places where your children will undoubtedly excavate when they are bored. 

Your kids will be like, “Oh cool, my dad smokes weed!” Then they’ll see a vision of you looking stoned in your hippy hairstyle, glazed eyes and goofish smile and all and start to think twice about taking drugs. 2 birds, UNO STONE.

Write a letter to yourself, address it to Agent [your surname] and stamp a large-assed “TOP SECRET. TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY OR CERTAIN DEATH TO FOLLOW” 

The inside prose has to be convincing and you may want to research some John Le Carre novels for reference. Self-destruct papers are cool but risky if you live in a house with loads of country-style, wooden furnishing. Safety first, Agent Zero.

With these handy tips, you’re well on your way to be not just a Superdad, but a cool dad as well. Stay safe and if anything does screw up, refer to this.