Day 10 (ish) - Disparate is a fancy word for different

Local cinema cafe, around 1pm. Seated in the cafe are the usual assortment of doting and chattering Mums. What is more interesting is three disparate groups of blokes:

Group 1 = Myself and Dave the builder (not to be confused with Nigel the builder of Hamilton fame). With us are his 6 month daughter and my 6 month daughter. Both in chairs waving their arms in erratic directions and drooling happily. Our babies were fine too. We received a number of approving looks from the resident doting mothers.

Group 2 = Five blokes from the road worker's crew just down the road. Sipping flat whites and delicately munching blueberry muffins. I expected them to be discussing the Black Caps latest miserable defeat. But no, here is a tiny snippet of their conversation:

Burly bloke: "Mate, I make better muffins at home"

Unshaven bloke: "I can make a bloody good cheese scone"

Grizzled bloke: "He can, bloody sensational cheese scones they are too"

Burly bloke: "The wife refuses to bake so I ended up doing it myself. My mum taught me when I was young"

Grizzled bloke: "Look good in an apron do you?"

Burly bloke: "Why, you cruising for a piece of my fine kitchen ass?"

Group 3 = Two blokes having short blacks. Mind you, they would probably prefer large blacks or the fine kitchen ass of burly road worker seated nearby. Gay as the night as long (or a bit festive as my Nana used to say). Not that there is anything wrong with that, as Seinfeld once said.

Rewind 30 years and this scene would be completely different. For a start, New Zealand didn't understand decent coffee. Most would be drinking tea. Most Auckland cafes still don't understand decent coffee and don't get me started on Hamilton's so called coffee. There would be no stay at home Dads, no openly gay blokes and road workers would not be experts in baking cheese scones. Us blokes might be a bit dim compared to the fairer sex, but fuck me, we can adapt.

Day 8ish - the parental borefest

Being a stay at home Dad means spending at least 45 minutes per day camped out at the local cafe. Did I really say this was hard work? Anyway, given that I am usually a "Nigel no-mates" (odd Kiwi expression, no offence to my good friend Nigel the builder) I like to eavesdrop on the conversations of those seated nearby. Sad,  intrusive, but an effective time waster. 


Today's conversation was between two dedicated mothers. However, it wasn't really a conversation. Earnest Mother tells a purportedly interesting story about her kid. Sensible Mother appears to be vigorously listening. Not so. Sensible Mother is really thinking about a related story about her kid. And so the pattern of conversation continues between earnest mother and sensible mother. Back and fourth it goes. They seem happy enough. 


I started scoring each story out of ten. Earnest mother won easily following a particularly gross tale about toilet training. This toilet training story included a hungry family dog, Daddy's prized smurf collection and a potato masher. A bizarre, yet moving yarn.   


In my former life as a semi-functioning member of a government agency, my sage colleague Uncle Dave warned me of this parental borefest. I hate when he is right. 

Day lost count - funeral insurance

When one has children, a new respect is found for your long suffering parents. On my first day of looking after two children at once, this respect increased by 72%. Bloody hell, its hard work. There was not time for this self indulgent blog.

Happily, there was time to sneak about 15 minutes of crap afternoon TV. On the TLC channel (that's Travel & Living Channel to those under the age of 35) one can watch Australian advertisements. Fascinating stuff. We think we are pretty similar to Aussies, but their ads debunk this. The best example is a Kiwi ad for funeral insurance versus an Aussie one.

The New Zealand ad features Keith Quin, a much loved elderly rugby broadcaster who might might well be in his eighties. His dulcet tones assure us that funeral insurance will save us financial stress if a loved one dies. He is your kindly, but ultimately past it, Grandad. Then the Kiwi ad shows a selection of old folks saying what they want at their funeral. These are ordinary elderly Kiwis who probably have names like Doris and Bruce and who enjoy a cup of tea, a game of bowls and then a lively chat about how nice that Paul Henry really is.

The Aussie ad for funeral insurance is fronted by an attractive blond female. Now she might be in her thirties which I suppose is a token attempt at getting an older presenter. The older people in the ad are reasonably easy on the eye and might be pushing 50 at best. Australians must age beautifully, or be severely deluded, perhaps it is a bit of both. It is that Aussie optimism that you just can escape from. Aussies prove that delusion is a critical element in confidence, and therefore, success.  

I suppose it all comes back to the age old question, is it better to be deluded and happy or realistic and grumpy? We would probably win more rugby world cups if we were a deluded and  happy country. But then we would be like Aussies, and that is worse.

Day 3 - Good weather is over-hyped

Its a beautiful relatively windless day in Island Bay. Emphasis on the "relatively". Those who live on the South Coast of Wellington will know what I mean.


Its the kind of day which should inspire one to thrust oneself to the park, beach or suitably natural location. Not me. Partly, this is because I am waiting for the 6 month old to wake up from her nap. Mostly its because I have a weird urge to rebel against good weather and remain inside. This is Wellington syndrome. What on earth is driving this? Time for one of my lists:


- I have an inherent suspicion of any outdoorsy type who proclaims everyone should be outside on nice days.  


- It doesn't get any better than eating a chip butty and watching Antiques Roadshow (for those of you who don't know, a chip butty is a sandwich made from lashing of butter, freshly cooked chips, or fries if you are of the American persuasion, and tomato sauce).


- Due to my porcelain, some might say, pasty skin tones, outdoors equals ludicrous amounts of sunscreen which is irritating to apply.


- Wellington averages 3.5 nice days per year so I wouldn't know what to do with myself anyway.


All of this is symptomatic of everything in life being, what my dear wife labels, "over-hyped". Even good weather is over-hyped. Like any self-respecting X generation product, I blame my baby-boomer parents. It could also be that I am a sloth, but I am not self aware enough yet to determine whether this could be a contributing factor.


In any case, as I watch the Antiques Roadshow, I can't help but think that the other staple indoor Wellington food on a nice day is marmite on toast (or vegemite if you are of poor palate). Top Gear is now on. An excellent TV show to feed a baby to.

Day 2 - Did you believe me?

In my first post, there was a throw away reference to leaving my 3 year old in front of the television so I could get a coffee with the 6 month old down the road. How you read this depends on whether you have kids or not.

Those with no kids probably had one of three reactions:

- Glossed over the comment completely.
- Perhaps wondered what cartoon he was watching.
- Thought that this parenting lark sounds pretty easy.

Those with kids who make up the esteemed middle classes of New Zealand would react completely differently with the following chain of logic:

- Startled pause followed by an immediate assumption that Island Bay Dad must be joking in a brutal 2011 kind of ironic manner.
- Quickly followed by a nagging feeling that Island Bay Dad might not kidding.
- But again dismissing it because how could any father in Island Bay leave their three year old alone, maybe in Porirua...
- Finally, a guilty feeling for judging parents in Porirua based on their low economic status.

Such New Zealand middle class parenting angst. Makes me yearn for the days of the dopier and carefree days of life with no children.

Cafe update. Apparently middle class estrogen coven flock to the cafe everyday Wednesday morning. The kindly cafe owner suggested I avoid a certain time to avoid extreme cackling. I will.

Day 1 - the 9:30am coffee experience

A few rules. No talking about solids, shitty nappies, power chucks, cuteness, rolling over or any sort of milestone. Another rule, no debating the merits of modern parenthood and all the crap that generates thousands of research, books, magazine articles and parental angst. Final rule, don't believe everything I say and I might break my own rules.

All you need to know is that I am a 39 year old father of a 3 year old and a 6 month old. I am in charge of the kids Monday to Friday for six months while the wife works.

I can sense the first uncomfortable squirm from a few earth mothers from the stay at home brigade. But remember the rules, no comment. Instead, a few observations about life at the local cafe at 9:30am on a Monday morning:

Walking into the cafe with my 6 month old (the 3 year old has been left at home in front of the TV, a godsend for the lazy father), I am struck by a heaving mass of middle aged women dominating the two large tables. Frightening on a number of levels. The six month old, sensing my immediate discomfort lets out a high pitched wail that is unheard due to the incessant cackling of the aforementioned female middle aged coven.

Upon ordering a trim flat white and decamping to the table far away from the gossipping gaggle of ageing estrogen, I wonder what on earth they are doing in the cafe on a Monday morning? Don't these women have jobs, or worthwhile interest to pursue? What brings them together in such numbers? Ill informed conclusions as follows:

- Lesbian swingers reunion
- The weekly meeting for the advancement of sensible brown slacks
- A Mythbusters type extreme decibel in a cafe experiment

None of these seemed likely. As the six month started to cry even more loudly, one of the women glided past and commented that perhaps her and her friends might be talking a bit loudly. As I have been trained all my life to suppress spontaneous adverse social reactions, I smiled politely and raised my eyebrows. I departed soon after having guzzled, and not enjoyed, my trim flat white.

As I trudged home, one positive thing struck me. At no point did any of the horrendous throng of middle aged hawkettes stop to wonder what a bloke was doing with a little baby on a Monday morning. So accepted is the stay at home Dad (at least in Island Bay) that I was not given a second glance or thought by women who would have never seen such a thing in "their day". Excellent. I'll forgive them for this.