ReCycling

Today, for the second time in as many weeks, I rode my bike to work. 

This, it should be noted, is not anything of which to be particularly proud.

Firstly, my house is a 10km straight shot, on an overall downhill trajectory, from the office, along well maintained and highly trafficked separated bike lanes, and I am provided with excellent "end of trip" facilities, including a hot shower, when I arrive. 

It's going home that's the problem. 

A problem that I, in my own fashion, decided to solve with the rigorous application of a) money and b) technology.

In December last year, we went to visit some lovely folks of our acquaintance in Brisbane, and I found a delightful organisation that would rent us e-bikes for a WEEK for a very reasonable price. We spent a solid week, zipping up and down Southbank in a wonderful fashion, and I came home convinced that I needed one. 

A few weeks idly refreshing Facebook Marketplace, and I POUNCED on one that met the brief. Since then, we've notched up a couple of hundred kms, exploring some of the city's most lovely bike paths, including some up in the hills, and one down to the beach. 

And one, dear reader, that leads from my office to home. 

A Mother of a Day

The karting appeared to be so much fun, that immediately upon finishing, we booked to go again the next day. 

The evening at the pub went off without a hitch, although with the addition of several glasses of excellent cab sauv and one of a mediocre pinot noir. 

The next day's adventure commenced with tidying and exiting the accommodation, a lovely place by the beach, to which I inadvertently donated a delightful bottle of sangiovese when I left it in the pantry. We moseyed up the road to try to find a hot chocolate at the Chocolate Factory. Unfortunately, in today's industrial relations environment, the Oompa Loompas apparently don't start until 10, so it was a quick u-turn to a local cafe. 

Then, dear reader, we hit the track. 

It should be stated at the outset, that I had a single goal for the session, and that goal was the completion of a sub 50 second lap. It may be suggested by some that this goal may have resulted in some.. assertive driving on my part, which may or may not be characterised as... less than polite. An accidental shunt into the smaller member of the party, would, in some jurisdictions, have resulted in a Black Flag.

Let it be a lesson, however, to those of us considering such practices, that the outcomes of such an approach were limited to 50.167, most definitely not worth the reputational damage that results from this strategy. 

The karting complete, we headed back up to town, into the whirling vortex of Mother's Day traffic on Melbourne's major arterials. Elly was driving, and she artfully threaded her way through the legions of kamikaze idiots, to deposit our guest at his house, (finding time to duck past a florist to ensure he didn't arrive empty handed). 

Then a rapid series of stops to pick up a dog and drop off a kid and a dog and find a bottle of rose (I can't work out how to make it do the thing but this was wine not some flowers in a bottle I want to make that clear), and then we went to visit my mum. 

Kartography

 We're at Philip Island this weekend; a place I've been many times, but never feel a particular association with. It seems like there are many other people, my partner included, who have a kind of innate understanding of this place; a deep, visceral connection to it, which brings with it a comfort and belonging.

That being said, she went the wrong way out of the supermarket car park to go back to our rented house, so perhaps it's not that deep.

We went go-karting. I wasn't sure how well the wee man would cope with the physical effort involved, but he was right into it, and had such a great time we rebooked for tomorrow as we were leaving.

Wee man's mate, who is with us for the weekend, was clearly rueing his decision to journey to Phillip island in the winter in shorts. We made a mercy dash to a surf shop and he's now safely ensconced in a pair of actual pants.

Dinner at the pub with friends tonight, we're back at the house for "quiet time". The boys are playing switch sports and I'm lying on the bed, seriously considering a nap. Tough life, right?

Challenging Times

The challenge, naturally, sets out to be, well, challenging. Every day in May, (although slightly truncated by dint of the club meeting on the 4th), we are required (ok "required" might be stretching it, it's a challenge not a directive), to put words to paper. 

I'm often struck, in my professional life, by people coming to me and telling me, on being assigned a writing task, that they're "not a writer". I smile, then, because despite near on 25 years of being paid to put words onto paper (although scant few missives from me actually land on dead trees these days), I don't know that I consider myself one either. 

I have friends who make a living, writing books. Actual books, with titles and blurbs and pages and plotlines. I've always thought of them as "real" writers, and of me, well, I say "mechanically pretty good, I've got a few chops". 

I've been waiting, you see, for the story to arrive. 

Now, at 40 *cough* years old, I'm starting to wonder if maybe the stories have been walking past, and I just haven't been seeing them. 

 

Aged Pumpkin

I was reminded, just yesterday, by The Pumpkin, on the occasion of his 17th birthday, that this thing exists at all. 

I was struck, last evening, by a challenge from a social group I attend, to write a journal every day of May in 2022. 

These two occurrences, by dint of association, led to this morning's "I wonder what will happen if", during an idle phase, between coffees and during the assessment of the piles of work on one's desk, pondering what will make up the morning's work. 

So, to that end, I wonder what will happen.

At First Sight

Your mother, it should be said, was remarkably composed during this procedure, the first chance we had to get a good look at you.

We'd both been a little apprehensive about this ultrasound, me because your impending arrival still seems a little... esoteric.

Your brother, it shall be noted, looked at you for a total of about 20 seconds before asking if he could have his Nintendo back, so I guess your appeal to him will be greater once you finally arrive in the flesh.

For my money, though, that first glimpse of you, was just magic. You seemed to have some sixth sense of being watched, because as soon as the camera found you, you wriggled over like you were snuggling further into your blankets. This should stand you in good stead amongst members of this family, all of whom have a deep seated affection for our beds.

Speaking of beds, we got some fairly astonishing news not so long ago - you will have a cousin arriving only a week after you - (I've already suggested to your Unky Dave that we ask for a discount at the hospital) - so we have a slight pressure on the accumulated baby ephemera which has, through Abraham, then Samuel and now Thomas, been floating through the family.

With this total failure of scheduling, our careful passing of stuff from one house to the next will have to come to a halt. This in mind, I secured a cot from Freecycle the other day, so at the very least you will have somewhere to sleep when we get you home. I don't know that you'll have anything else, but we'll sort that out soon enough.

We still don't know if you're a boy or a girl, personally I'm convinced you're a boy, which is good because we'll now have an entire forward line for Carlton in about 2025.

What I do know, and what will never change, is that from that first glance at you, from the first time you wriggled, my heart broke all over again, and;

I love you.

my plus one

I was reading a book last night. The title's not important; one of the things you'll find out about me is that my side of the bed is generally about 3 books deep with disposable airport fiction. The book, though, was talking about the way that differences between things are sometimes more important than the things themselves.

It said things like "the difference between one and two is one, but it's more than that", which, I'm sure you'll agree, doesn't make any damn kind of sense at all. It went on, though, to talk about how the difference between one and two is the difference between one and "many". Then it started to make sense. That having one of something is pretty easy, you don't have to divide your attention, you don't have to mediate arguments about whose cup is the blue cup, or whose goldfish had died*.

*(when I was a very young man, your uncle Dave and I each had goldfish. They looked identical. Whenever one died, it was my goldfish that had died, according to your uncle Dave. This scarred me for life)

So now we're gearing up for an occasion in which there will be "many". Certainly, not "many" as in the many that your grandparents had to deal with (at various times up to four children in one place), which entail a whole gamut of logistical requirements, but two is going to be a very interesting time.

Now I'm off, to see if I can fit a baby seat into the back of the Subaru.

Love you.

Pumpkindiary 2: The pumpkening

There was always a burning question in the back of my mind, starting this. What I would say about it, when the time came, when the question got asked, if we had more than one.

If I'd be in a position of having to defend the conversation.

Now that the original pumpkin is five, and seems to have assumed the moniker of "monkey" more than any other, then perhaps I can make a determination. An executive decision, then, that this can be a story for two people, about two people.

That when I call you, pumpkin, "pumpkin", that I'm talking to you, nestled tight inside my beloved, and that it's got nothing whatsoever to do with the other pumpkin, who used to be pumpkin but isn't anymore because he's monkey. Look, I know, this is getting confusing, and you're only a tiny batch of cells right now, but perhaps, as with your brother, if I explain it in terms of Batman, you'll understand. It's like Batman Beyond, you know, where Bruce Wayne realises that he's too old to be Batman anymore and hangs up his batsuit and then...

Ok maybe I'm overthinking this.

All I'm saying is, pumpkin (2) (the pumpkening), is that it's a delight to be told of your existence, and that I'm terribly excited that you're coming, and that I can't wait to meet you. That you're going to be loved and cherished and welcomed and snuggled and raspberried. That you're going to have an older brother called Bram, and a cousin called Sam (and another who's about to arrive, I'll let you know as soon as I know). That I'm already 100% certain what your name is, although I'm pretty sure I'll have to fight tooth and nail for it. That you have, waiting (although they don't know it yet) a huge gaggle of aunts, grandmothers, uncles, grandfathers, great versions thereof, step, half, once removed etc etc etc (you get the picture).

Love you,

Dad.

Rolling Stones

This, my wonderful, amazing, constantly surprising son, is a picture of us. Of you, and me, doing one of the things that I always hoped we could do together, and something that I didn't think we'd be able to do until much, much later in your life.

There's a great deal of argument, among the intellectuals and academics, about the way that children form their personality, about how they become who they are, and I am always interested to watch how you're becoming you.

I don't like rollercoasters. They cause me significant distress, not because of the g-forces or changes in direction, but because I'm not in charge of those changes in direction and cannot adequately anticipate them. When I was young, (and, truth be told, much older than you are now), this dislike manifested primarily in screaming. Loudly and incessantly.

You, however, due to a combination of the aforementioned nature and nurture, appear to be completely, totally, absolutely and utterly fearless.

As is evidenced by this photograph. This is you, age four, on, although by world standards fairly tame, a full sized adult style roller coaster. Point of fact it's the oldest continuously operating roller coaster in the world, built in 1912, and just about everybody's been on it.

Our travelling companions suggested that I was deluded in thinking that you'd be able to cope with a full sized roller coaster. They told me to put you on the merry go round, they suggested it was madness to take you on board, but you, punkin, my sweet, amazing, fearless monkey, you were adamant that you wanted to go. And so we did.

And as soon as we got off,

You wanted to go again.

And it made me love you more.

If that was ever possible.

Love you,

Dancing about Architecture

There is an accepted school of thought, punkin, that "writing about music is like dancing about architecture". I think, without googling it, that Elvis Costello said it.

That his point, on saying it, was that the act itself is an art form, that any attempt to translate or somehow quantify it in another 'language' would necessarily lose something of the original, and that to attempt such would be inherently futile.

Some could say the same, punkin, about writing about parenting. That any individual's relationship with their spawn is, by its nature, one that exists on its own terms and doesn't necessarily correlate in any direct way to anyone else's experience. That we are, in attempting to document that relationship, losing something in the translation.

I acknowledge this loss, but I don't think that it means, even for a moment, that the exercise is futile. Anecdotes are anecdotes, and regardless of who finds them enlightening, or amusing, or touching, they are a part of the dialogue I have with you, even if they're only one way at the moment.

I was re-reading the (admittedly sparse) archives of this site the other day, trying to work out a framework within which to post about what's happening in our lives now, and I was struck by how much has changed within such a short time, and how much, to beleaguer another phrase, has stayed the same.

I'm still, punkin, confused about how to be a 'proper' dad. You're still growing and changing and presenting me with solutions using your irrefutable kid logic.

You went to a costume party for the first time last week, and your costume of choice was your Lightning McQueen Racing Car Driver outfit, and you were (are) so enamoured of this particular set of duds that, three days before said party, you were demanding to wear it as pyjamas.

No, I told you, you can't wear (this tight fitting one piece polyester costume that will make you very hot and therefore wake up in the middle of the night and disturb my sleep precious lovely sleep) your racing driver costume, because (PARENT LOGIC) it will get dirty and you won't be able to wear it to Thomas' party.

BUT DADDY, was your earnest reply, MUMMY CAN WASH IT.

Game, set, match. I was giggling too hard to say no.

love you.

Alright Already

Fwd:
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob

She's right, you know, it's about bloody time I posted again. It's been so long I can't hardly remember what the last thing I told you was, or where we were going, so I should perhaps start at the start. Well, not the start, because that would negate the entire concept of the rest of the blog, but perhaps close enough to the start that we can gain some perspective ...

So where are we?

Well, we have a house (finally), and if I ask you, you tell me our address (all jumbled together like it's a single word - which to you, I guess, it is). You're three and a half now, full of ideas about what you want and what you don't. You're particular in so many ways that fascinate me - there's still fragments of things I remember from when you were much younger, but you're building such a strong, delightful personality that it's still very much the case that every day is a new adventure.

We're beginning, you and I, to negotiate about stuff. You want to watch Wall - E (every day, and sometimes twice or thrice a day), and I want you to, yunno, eat and sleep and wear clothes. Ok, at least pants.

We went to the zoo yesterday. You love the animals there, and we went with your mate Finn. Word to the wise, though, don't go to the zoo on children's day. There's Far Too Many Children.

Love you.

She'll be apples

It's often said, punkin, that the apple falls not far from the tree. This is, in my opinion, a bit of a ridiculous thing to say. I mean, how far could the apple get? It's not like they have legs, or the keys to my car.

The truth of the saying, however, apparently, lies in the idea that ones children tend to be quite like oneself. Quite how this happens is a bizarre process, and one that I'm not yet entirely comfortable with. Every time you turn around and giggle at me with a particular glint in your eye, I see your mother. Often when you're stamping your foot and saying "No, Daddy, it's NOT bedtime it's morning time I want to watch Diego", I can see and recall my own frustration as a young child.

So we, as hip and groovy 21st century parents, try to work with you to come to some mutually agreeable solution (also because you're astonishingly stubborn - again with the apples) to achieve our goals. Which are goals that you would have too, if you had a bit more of a long range vision and, I dunno, an idea that maybe Mum and Dad would like to have a bit of a snooze too.

The strange thing is, that as we've progressed, we've noticed that this negotiation strategy actually works. That, f'rinstance, reading you "ThomasBook!" one..... more.... time... can result in immediate cessation of hostilities, and, subsequent to correct application of little blanket, big little blanket, blue blanket, green blanket and big blanket, in the correct order and permutation, actual sleep. Before 11pm. This concept is almost alien to your parents.

There is other news, although it's a little early to be bouncing around, but the issue around your dad being underemployed appears to have resolved itself, however, to beleaguer another well known phrase, it never rains. (This is Australia, that's the end of the phrase. It just never rains.)

Your dad now appears to be what's known as "overemployed", a situation that is taking a little getting used to, but should place us in a good position for our Next Major Purchase. More on that later, suffice to say that the relationship between the "real estate boom" and the "housing affordability crisis" appears to depend on how many houses one owns. In your parents' case, this figure is zero, hence we are firmly in the Crisis section of the populace, and seriously considering Whittlesea at this point in time.

Not really.

Epping is a chance, but.

Love you

Love you

One poke over the lion.

Not that I'm saying, punkin, that you should be a lion tamer. Or a zookeeper. You don't have to live up to any paternal expectations where your choice of career is concerned. I know that my mum (your grammy) always said that she just wanted me to be happy. Naturlich, that is almost exactly as infuriating as it sounds, particularly where one is asking for advice, but it turned out, as with many things your various grandparents (see also: step grandparents, grand step parents, great grandparents, great grand step parents, great step grandparents etc) said to me over the course of my 34 years on this planet, to make much more sense when I got older.

Not that, you should understand, that I'm saying you don't understand stuff until you're ancient like me. Certainly, you understand a great many things. Like, frinstance, that one shouldn't get this close to a lioness unless a) she's asleep and b) there's about 3 feet of perspex between you and her.

Love you,

thanks for the card, and the whizzbang cordless screwdriver

Missing Link

P1040451
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob

So, punkin, as you've probably figured out by now, I'm not at home. I'm in the wonderful, cosmopolitan city to your north, known by most as Sydney. I'm here for work, so I can at least feel like I'm doing something positive, but I miss you and your mum so very much that at times it seems to be not at all worth it.

When you rang me last night (to tell me that you were eating a rice cake), I felt my biceps contracting, wanting to reach through the ether and hold you. When I kissed you goodbye before dawn on Monday, you woke up ever so slightly, smiled, said "Daddy", and lay your hand on my face. I know, now, how it is that people can walk away from their kids and loved ones to go on business trips. They do it by steeling themselves, and by making lots of phonecalls home.

Also, in your father's case, by buying a new videogame to play in the work-furnished beige anonymous apartment.

I'll not be gone as long as I'd originally thought, and will be home to share the weekend with you the weekend after next. Of course, in the timescale of a two year old boy, that is about 4000 years, so I'm glad that I have photos of you and get to talk to you often.

Not, it should be said, that you really "get" the whole concept of telephones yet. The number of things you DO get is still astonishing us every day, most notably you have recently been showcasing your ability to count to ten (although you're not quite at the point of remembering ALL the numbers ALL the time, you DO hit the important ones. Fives are your favourite.)

We also keep finding out stuff that you already know, that we haven't taught you. Just the other day, we were at your MaMa and DadDad's house, and you pointed at the TV screen and said "castle" (rightly). The feeling of pride that got me was almost overwhelmed by the sense of confusion. As parents, I think that one makes an assumption that our child learns only what we teach them. This is clearly not the case.

You're also learning about social networks. You're fascinated by babies, to the point of asking us if we can go and visit your mate Finn (who is a tiny wee bebe). You also have friends at daycare that you know by name, and demand to see fairly often.

I'm sad that I'm going to miss two weeks of your constant changes. I'm sad that I have to be away from you.
I'm happy, though, that being away from you is making it possible for me to provide a more stable base from which you can grow, and learn, and play and eat.
I'm glad that I'm able to feel within myself that I am becoming the most important thing to be for you.
and I

Love you.

Rocket? Yeah!

P1040414
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob

So yeah, punkin, it's been over a month since your dad last wrote to you. What can I say, it's not like I haven't had the time... There's been a bit of a problem with my work over the last couple of months - the man who I worked for decided he wanted to let someone else have a turn at doing the stuff I did for him, and so your dad had a lengthy period of time to play videogames.

Unfortunately punkin, and you will figure this out as you get older, there are inherent advantages and disadvantages to both employment and unemployment, the two being diametrically opposed in both the amount of free time they afford you, and the amount of money you get paid.

Being unemployed is wonderful in the amount of free time that one obtains, however the pay rate leaves much to be desired.

It is an ancient saying that one's lifestyle will automatically alter to fit one's income, however this generally only works in the expansion phase of income generation, rather than the contraction phase. We are faced, then, with a family situation that is predicated on the availability of a certain level of funding that is, at the current time, unavailable.

So your dad has been frantically surfing the intertubes, and calling people and arranging meetings. So good is your dad at this, punkin, that some people are going to pay for your dad to go On An Aeroplane to talk to them in Sydney. This is A Good Thing, but will mean that I won't be able to spend as much time with you tomorrow as I would like.

In turning two, you have changed the way you do some things, your vocabulary is expanding so fast that your mum and grandparents and aunts and uncles and I are having trouble keeping up with how many words you know now. It's now possible to have conversations with you, and to figure out what's happening in your head much more easily. It's also (and this has been stated more than once in the annals of history) constantly amusing and amazing to hear what you say. The idea that you're now able to construct sentences from words that you haven't heard together before is something that's making me feel much closer to you.

You've also found the words for cuddles and kisses, both of which you are hugely fond of, in addition to your two new friends, both called Finn.

I'll try to write to you just a tad more often, and maybe even take some new photos....

Love you,

May the Fourth be with You

P1040422
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob.

I can tell you, punkin, exactly where I was two years ago. (point of fact, I can just click over there and read about it), but that's not the point. The point, punkin, is where YOU were two years ago.. More precisely, two years ago, you weren't.

I think I'm getting away from myself here and what I'm trying to say, because what I'm trying to say is that today is the day that's two years after the day when you were born, to say birthed. To say, then, that today, is, your birthday.

Today is your second birthday, although in point of fact it's your third, on account of your first birthday, to my reckoning, is the day you're born, but by modern counting we say that your first birthday is the one that you have when you've been around for a year, but that doesn't take account of for instance that your birth, to say the date at which you emerged, wrinkled and red and yelling, from your mother, was one year previous which may account for that postulation that today is in fact not your second birthday but rather the second anniversary of your birth.

But, punkin, and this is an important point, if you wander around saying happy anniversary to people on their birthday, they will LOOK at you punkin, very strangely. This is not to suggest that you shouldn't do it, certainly your father, who has been known to serenade your mother at full volume in the supermarket, is not averse to being LOOKED at, (which, by the by, is very different to being looked at), nonetheless it's advisable that you're aware of the possibility.

I think the point to which I'm trying, slowly and with a great deal of meandering, to get to is that I, as a father, most certainly, in any case, as YOUR father, want to thank you, sincerely and absolutely, for bringing me two years of unwavering joy.

That I tell you this every day, and maybe. now that your vocabulary has extended past "yellow" to include such favourites as "toast", "juice", "elephant", "giraffe", "Lightning" (of course) and "bed"; and to find the beginnings of sentences (the vast majority of which begin with either "more" or "no", as in more toast, no shoes), maybe now you're just about ready to hear it from my lips to your ears instead of across the years and through this keyboard.

Maybe one day soon, and I promise, punkin, I promise that I'll be hear to listen to your tiny voice, to feel your sweet breath on my ear, maybe one day soon you'll tell me back. Maybe now that you know the words for cuddle and kiss, maybe soon you'll know these ones too....

Love you,

Happy Birthday
My Sweet Prince
Abraham William Penford-Dennis
Dad

Haircut!

Haircut!
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob.

It is with sadness, punkin, that I report that your father has bowed to pressure and permitted your flowing locks to be shorn.

It should, however, be duly noted that selfsame father was adamant (ant musiiiic oh oh oh oh) that your mullet should remain, and remain it did.

You were surprisingly tractable during the haircutting process, although eagle eyed readers will no doubt have already seen the car clutched in your hot little hands. What's interesting about this car in particular, according to you, and in a very interesting vocal development, is that it's YELLOW.

We've been pointing out colours to you for some time, your grandma and grandad gave you a book about colours when they were here in January, but we weren't sure that the whole idea was sinking in. But it has, to a certain extent, which I will endeavour to explain.

The thing is, punkin, that while you're adamant (ant musiiiiic oh oh oh oh) that SOME things are YELLOW, you're also fairly positive that other things are yellow. notably things that are green. And blue or red.

Love you.

cows go moo

cows go moo
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob.

It's something of a shock, bramble, to find a farm in the centre of town. In Collingwood, to be precise.

But once we found it, we knew what we had to do. You have been telling us for weeks now, that cows go moo and that sheep go baa. You did not, however, I think, have any concept of what these animals looked like in the flesh. One day, we'll explain to you about the way that the ice cream you ate while the cow was being milked came to be, but for the moment you were content with just watching.

There were chickens and ducks and sheep and goats and pigs, but you were definitely the most impressed by the cows. We were reliably informed by you a number of times, that they go moo, and the look on your face when you first heard the noise was something I'll treasure for many years to come.

Overall, we had a fabulous time, it was a beautiful day. The battery on the camera died before we got to see some of the animals, so we're going to have to go back again to get some photos of you with pigs and goats and sheep.

Certainly, it's a venue that lends itself to revisiting.

There is a farmer's market some days, and it is thought that the children's farm would make a spectacular place to have a pickamanick.

With the ever increasing number of people we know who are becoming bechilded, we are starting to think about places that people can go that will give adults a place to lounge, relax and imbibe while children such as yourself are able to... free range.

Love you,

a fan letter

Mr Carey,

I am not, in the immortal words of one Elwood Blues, the kind of guy who writes letters. I’m not the kind of guy, especially, who writes fan letters. I am inevitably content, when reading the written word, to find for myself the slight inconsistencies, the tiny flaws, and content myself in the idea that this, then, is something I could have done myself. This book I read, in the moments before sleep, or rattling along on a tram, is something I could have come up with, if only I’d had the idea, and the plot, and managed to flesh out all the characters and find the denouement properly and clean up the second act and use the gun from the first and carry that on for 50,000 odd words.

Whenever my friends, relatives and assorted hangers on asked, Mr Carey, about why I didn’t write, me, who writes thousands of words a day, I told them with conviction that “I write all day, why would I want to write when I get home?” I also told them, and half believed it myself, that I didn’t have anything to write about. That there was no story in me trying to get out.

That changed for me the day I found out my wife was pregnant. Of a sudden, Mr Carey, there were words in me struggling to surface. There were things that I knew I wanted to tell this tiny being that couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t wait.

I started then, in August of 2005, to write a letter to my as yet unborn son. I’m still writing it. It’s on the internet, annotating dates and events, illustrated with photographs of my beautiful son.

I took it seriously. I TAKE it seriously. This ability for me, now, to speak to him, then. This ongoing one sided communication, that transcends the communication we’re able to have now. I felt, Mr Carey, wonderful about what I was doing.

Our children, we are convinced, are unique. Our feelings for them must therefore also be unique. They are not.

The fierce love with which I gaze upon my child, the total awe in which I hold his every movement, smile, giggle and jump, these are feelings that a million fathers before me and a billion afterwards will have.

Reading your book, I think, was the first time that I’ve been totally floored by another father’s eloquence in describing those feelings. I read your book in one sitting, in about 15 minutes, between the top and the bottom of Brunswick St on a sunny Monday after work.

You’ve touched me deeply with the love you’ve expressed to your wife and your baby, and I felt compelled to thank you.

Warmest Regards,
Bill Dennis.

Is the plural of museum musea?

P1030922
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob.

There are many, as you discovered the other day punkin, interesting things at the museum.

Naturally, being as you are, the Bram that you be, chief amongst those things were anything with wheels. This red truck was the first thing you saw when we came up to the ticket counter, and your mother was forced to accompany you in your headlong rush towards it.

As we journeyed around the rest of this magnificent cultural icon, we found some other cars and trucks for you to look at, which, to be perfectly frank, was the only thing you were interested in.

The children's section of the Melbourne Museum is truly wonderful, and you had a blast there. Sandpits, wind chimes and things to jump around on abounded, and there was a particular set of boxes that made noises when you jumped on them. These kept you amused for some time.

Once your dad figures out how to use the animation tool in Photoshop, we'll have something groovy to show everyone, but for the time being we'll just have to imagine it..

In other news, it's Monday again, and I'm busy sorting out the things on my desk into piles of "urgent", "very urgent", "extremely urgent" and "oh gosh".

That's not really what the last pile is called, but this is a G rated blog.

Love you,