Last night, punkling, was the census.
It's an interesting point in time, when the government asks you to take stock of where you are and what you're doing, where you live and who you are. What your ancestry is, who you work for, and what your religion is.
There's a strange feeling that strikes me everytime I'm in a position to perform some official task that concerns you. There's a fundamental paradigm shift in becoming a parent, at the point at which you have to write your child's name on an official form for the first (and indeed every subsequent) time.
You think to yourself "hangon, I was really allowed to do this?" Nobody stood up at any point at said, 'I'm sorry sir, you were too irresponsible with money in 1999 and therefore you are not permitted to have a redheaded monkey'. It's a bizarre situation to be writing your name on a form and to find you being counted by the Orstraylian Bureau of Statistics as being a real true genuine Aussie.
In 99 years, punkin, (I hope this is ok with you), future generations (ideally, of course, I'll be around to tell them about wearing an onion on my belt) will be able to see our answers to the census, to know how many hours I worked last week in the office (45) and at home (3), and how many hours your mum worked last week in the office (22) and at home (429*). There were, naturally, other questions, one of which revolved around what religion we all are.
I must tell you that your mother, who as many faithful readers of this blog know, is the sensible one in our house, prevented me from putting down your religion as "Jedi". Personally I'm of the firm opinion that someone born on "Star Wars Day", (May the Forth be with you), should have at least SOME seminal connection to the franchise that George Lucas started so spectacularly and finished so dissapointingly.
It was interesting tho, we actually discovered a few things while we were filling it out. The first, which made me pause, was that you have actually lived already, in your 15 months on this earth, in two houses. The second, being that apparently it's ok that you need help dressing and getting around because of "old or young age".
The form didn't ask about your employment status, which quite frankly I'm a bit upset about. When, punkin, when ARE you planning on getting a job?
The whole haircut thing has been done over and over. I'm the last person who's going to tell you to get rid of your flowing mullety locks, but really, you could at least offer to wash the car. I mean, I know you can't talk yet, but just, yunno, pick up a sponge and make washing motions or something...
Love you,
*this is not a typo
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