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superdad

motherhood

All in a day’s work

When folks find out that I’m a stay home mom with a 15 month old toddler and a 2 month old infant AND no maid, they have one of the following reactions.

1. Wide-eyed wonder. “Are you out of your mind? (Like WHY ARE YOU EVEN HAVING KIDS BACK TO BACK? Haven’t you heard of birth control, woman?)”

2. Sympathy. “I feel for you, I truly do. But seriously, go get some birth control.”

3. More sympathy. “Poor thing, betcha can’t find a job and you’re just sitting your ass down at home chilling out instead of contributing to our sluggish economy.” (Oh, trust me, I am contributing. It’s called shopping.)

So they want to know how I do it. What really goes on in this war zone I call home. Weekends notwithstanding because Superdad is around to take over, I am solely responsible for the well-being of my little munchkins (down with the wicked witch!).

I usually start my day with a cold shower – for the sleep deprivation, a cuppa – for the nerves, and a hair net – for the crazy hair. I also try to clear my system in the morning because that’s all the toilet action I’ll be having for the day. And then the fun begins.

5.30 – Express Milk. Engorgement is usually at its worst so it takes a good hour to clear the ducts.

6.45 – Kirsten wakes up for milk.

7.30 – Tru wakes up for milk. Kirsten goes back to bed.

8.15 – Breakfast with the husband and Tru.

8.45 – Superdad goes to work. More milk expressing.

9.45 – Tru goes down for his nap. Kirsten wakes up for a feed.

10.30 – Shower and play time for Kirsten while I cook lunch for Tru.

11.30 – Kirsten goes back to bed and I blitz around the house trying to squeeze in the laundry and cleaning.

12.00 – Tru wakes up in time for lunch. I feed him while expressing my milk.

1.00 – Tru’s bath time, followed by an hour of song and dance. This is where I perfect my Mickey Mouse impressions.

2.00 – Kirsten wakes up for a feed and I have 2 kids thronging me for attention.

2.30 – Tru takes his second nap. (He usually plays in his cot alone for 30 mins before sleeping) Play time with Kirsten. Here’s where I show off my already perfected Mother Goose impressions, complete with high-pitched Nursery Rhymes and storytelling. Mostly, she just looks at me like I’m off my rocker. See what I did there? Pun totally intended.

3.30 – Kirsten goes back to sleep. I shove some food down my throat and express milk at the same time, followed by a quick shower.

4. 30 – Tru wakes up. TV time on Playhouse Disney.

5.00 – Kirsten wakes up for milk and Tru runs amok in the living room.

5.30 – Tru takes his dinner while Kirsten rocks out to her cot mobile.

6.30 – Kirsten goes back to bed and Tru takes shower #2.

7.00 – Tru goes to bed for the night. You would think here’s when I finally get to prop my legs up, let my hair down and pat myself on the back for another day survived. But you’d be wrong, because 7pm is the witching hour for my sweet little baby girl. Every night at a certain hour, she will wake from her stupor and turn into the Bride of Chucky   and no amount of love and attention will pacify her. So she’s practically stuck to my hip screaming from 7-11, sometimes 12. The strangest thing is once it hits midnight, she turns back into a little angel and falls asleep without the slightest whimper.

12.00 – Kirsten gets her last feed, I express my milk and crawl slowly into bed.

And all this is considered a good day, which happens like once a week. On bad days, there will be tantrums, food slinging, vomiting, screaming, yelling and kicking. I told you, it’s the toughest job in the world.

Father Inc

The biggest relationship secret ever, unveiled.

For those that are popping by this blog over the weekend and expecting just the random musings of a dad of two with absolutely no take away – eat your heart out, because what I’m going to share with you is something that is going to change your life irrevocably and immeasurably for the better.

I’m not talking about good advice here. I’m talking about a movement. A campaign. A paradigm shift that is going to shatter your predispositions toward  logic, justice and women.

This is post is really meant for men. If you are a woman reading this post, and are in any sort of a relationship – you need to share this with your partner. Email them this post. Put it up on your Facebook. Retweet it. Shout it out on the streets. We’re talking about millions of lives here.

I am putting forth a hypothesis, no, a definitive truth,  that will shorten the duration of quarrels, prematurely terminate conflicts, and ultimately effect an increase in the life expectancy of men to finally match that of women.

Here’s how it goes.

Men should sincerely apologise to the woman with the greatest remorse possible in every single conflict.The apology must be made regardless of the reason nor the circumstances leading to the conflict.The apology must be heartfelt, sincere, non-patronising and suffer the dual tests of continual agitation & abuse .

In other words, the man must just say sorry.

Just say sorry.

Repeat after me.

Just say sorry.

Before you start hurling inflammatory comments at me (watch it fellas, this is a mommy blog after all) – i have already prepared an FAQ to address those concerns you may have. Now put the gun down, young man.

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1. What should I “just say sorry” if it wasn’t my fault in the first place??

A: Whether it was your fault or not is really subjective.  There was no overarching, neutral and benevolent authority that chronicled the details of what happened that led to the conflict and then decided that it was my fault.

The famous Johari Window talks about a potential blind spot every person may have, whereby your faults are known to others but not known to self.

It is probably your fault.

2. That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Everyone was appalled at what you did. There’s no way on planet earth I can apologise for that!

A:  Remember the time when I asked why you loved me, and you sang that incredibly cheesy song about letting the reason for love be love and it wasn’t even quite right because if I asked why you liked bacon potato chips would you have said “i love sour-cream and onion Pringles, just because.”?

3. Uh, I’m kinda confused. Look, I do love you, but that DOESN’T MAKE WHAT YOU DID RIGHT!

A: People value many things in this world. Amnesty International is commendable in that it values justice and honours symbols of freedom in oppressed countries, like Aung Sang Suu Kyi.

Modern society came to a point where it eschewed dogma and started to value logic and rational thinking. As a result, civilisation advanced in many forms, be it arts, culture but in particular, science and technology.

4. What has that got to do with ANYTHING?

A: I need you to value me above justice. I need you to adore me above freedom. I need you to cherish me more than logic and rational thinking.  I need you to love me because of me.

5. That doesn’t make sense.

A: I need you to love me more than your love for sensibility.

6. Look, YOU are the one that made the mistake. YOU should be the one to “just say sorry”. Why should it be me?

A: We bleed every month and get utterly terrible cramps through no fault of my own.  We are expected to stay in shape but if you eat and get fat, you are just being a “regular dude”. We need to strip and squat down to pee while you just “whip it out”. We  cover the choicest parts of our body to prevent you and your menfolk from grabbing at them. We have to spend hours powdering and grooming our faces to prevent our “out-of-bed” look from dispersing crowds as though there was a zombie invasion when we go onto the streets. We squeeze out an entire human being from within ourselves through an opening no bigger than the size of a ten-cent coin.

Moreover, women have been marginalized through the ages – the pain of  thousands of  years of suffering weigh heavily on my soul, as though they were my own.

7. Wow. Alright, I get the point. It’s my fault, and I want to “just say sorry”. What exactly do I apologise for?

A: If you raised your voice at me, you need to apologise for that. If you didn’t but you ignored me or were cold to me for any duration longer than 30 seconds, you need to apologise for that.

If you didn’t raise your voice at me, nor did you ignore me – you need to apologise for not saying sorry earlier.

8. This is one of the craziest things I have ever heard. Are you sure it’s going to work at all?

A: I may take advantage of your expected subservience in the face of total indignation but that is merely temporal. Chances are –  but I’m not promising anything here – that a couple of years down the road when I have cooled down sufficiently, I may accept some responsibility for what happened. Or I may not. It really depends.

9. That’s amazing!  Sign me up for the “Just Say Sorry” Campaign!

A: Sign yourself up. And get your dude friends to sign up as well. Visit www.justsaysorry.org to make a pledge.

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Oh by the way, this is a chain letter type of post. If you have read this post, you need to send it to at least five other people, or they may get “accidentally” run over by the love of their (albeit short) life  in that harmless looking pink Vespa.

Remember, Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned.

Just say sorry!

Father Inc

Yes, Superdad Can.

Hi there, I’m Superdad.

This post is going to be rambly and somewhat lacking in humility because I am in the midst of manifesting the full awesomeness of my powers – the Wife has just gone out to do her hair and eyebrows and potentially some shopping, leaving me alone with Truett & Kirsten.

I have successfully cleaned, bathed, fed, and put to sleep a three week old baby and a year old toddler all by myself, without the use of tranquilizers.

More reasons why I am super? Well..

1)      I am faster than a speeding bullet in preparing the milk, changing the diaper and attending to the Wife’s every whim and fancy,

2)      I am more powerful than a locomotive in opening stubborn bottle caps of baby food jars and,

3)      I can carry a month’s worth of groceries from the car all the way to my house (up a flight of steps) in a single bound.

I have been hailed as the sexiest man alive and am known as an extremely , ahem, fruitful individual, thanks in no small part to an overenthusiastic colleague who yelled “ WOW! YOU ARE DAMN FERTILE” at the top of her lungs -the entire office was shaken – when she found out we were expecting Kirsten barely 5 months after Truett was born.

A bit of background here on my powers. I am an ordinary 28 year old dude but in my quest for extraordinariness, I turned  to equipment for that little bit of extra.  I guess I’m kinda more in the Batman vein of superness with all that gear (except that I won’t call myself BatDad, if I’m not wrong it sounds this place in the middle east or something. Ok, I’m actually trying to be witty here – I do know where that is, alright? You think I don’t know my South African geography?)

While I haven’t actually gotten down to using a Man-Boob like Greg Gaylord Focker, I do need my Brest Friend’s help in feeding Kirsten – somehow the ergonomics of a man’s arms just doesn’t do it for babies and the avoidance of milk spittle on me is great incentive for me to not mind looking somewhat ridiculous wearing it.

I do need the Miracle Blanket to induce Kirsten into a deep sleep or at least bind her like she’s some psychiatric patient so she doesn’t claw my eyes out.

I need my idiotic laundry dryer that has just died on me to save me the pain of hang-drying indoors so much so that my house now looks like a quaint shop selling antiquated undies.

But with the powers combined (and the equipment in place), I AM Superdad.

Question is, does the “super” even matter?

I’ve been talking to the Wife about how as Asians we tend to be brutally raised in a typically dysfunctional family with Dads that are aloof and at times outright violent in their parenting methods – and yet we turned out quite alright, pretty normal except for the occasional violent scream at an unwary stranger. Does it matter whether we are super or not? Perhaps Hitler’s Dad was a super dad for all we know.

Yet looking at the Wife and the two angels, it really doesn’t matter whether it matters or not, because I’m not quite raising baby Jesus himself. It doesn’t matter if they don’t invent the cure for Aids or the real iPhone killer or even appear in the local newspaper with half their body cropped out of a file photo.

I’m just enjoying the journey and trying to make it as easy for the Wife and as memorable for the kids as possible. And if they do turn become Stalinist one day at least they’ll look back and wonder “Boy, with the kind of childhood I had, how did I become this messed up?”

Kirsten is crying- Excuse me while I go put on my Brest Friend.

P.S Next week’s post is going to be so awesome it’s going to change your life.

P.P.S  No, I mean it, it really is awesome.

P.P.P.S  Tomorrow’s Super Sunday Giveaway is  awesome too.