Don't forget your towel

So yesterday I turned 42. A milestone for those that are fans of Douglas Adams. There will be a party this year, we just ran out of time to do it near my birthday. It’s likely this year’s Spit and Swallow will acquire a theme. I won’t reveal too much now, but the number and the author are significant.

If happen to be a facebook friend, you’ll already likely be aware of the little gift that I got from soccer on the weekend.

We played a cup round in soccer a week ago and it was a tough day at the office. Not only did we go down 6 zip, but I walked off feeling my age. Now I often walk off tired and a bit sore, but last week, for some reason, it just seemed to bloody hurt. I’ve been through worse though and so soldiered on, took the bike up to Eagle on the Hill on the holiday Monday and then ran out soccer training.

It’s probably the first time that I’ve really showed up to a game seeming still sore (in a general muscle soreness kind of way) from the activity of the week before the game. It was something of an ordinary game, giving up a goal too early, playing down to the opposition’s level and losing a man to a red card (undeserved) with a good 30 minutes to go in the second half.

It meant for a lot of hard work and I knew that it was going to hurt at the end of the game, but I really wasn’t expecting to take out someone’s elbow with my face. It certainly left me with more of a memory of the game for my birthday than what I was expecting!

If I thought I was feeling my age last week, I was really feeling it yesterday!

Old as Dirt ... or Seventy

Dad turns 70 today. We’re headed out for dinner to celebrate with him and last week Mum sprung on me invited me, during a conversation to propose a toast. This of course led to some thinking about exactly what it is that I would say.

I considered keeping it short and simple, “Here’s to you, you old bastard,” but that probably doesn’t quite cut it. Not to mention the fact that you’re probably thinking that referring to my dad as a bastard is a bit harsh. However, I do try to work with the facts. IT has been stated and not by me, that upon the death of my grandmother, certain records were found that suggest that the date her wedding to my Grandfather might not quite have been as removed from the birth date of my father as one would expect. The fact that this likely had something to do with my Grandfather heading North to war, well that’s speculation and we can only work with facts.

So what else should I say about my Dad? For as long as I’ve known him, he’s been helping out. It seems to be in his DNA. When I was in school and took up soccer (much to his horror as an avid AFL footballer) which Dad knew about as much as ‘the ball is the wrong shape and you’re not allowed to mark* it,’ we didn’t have a coach. So Dad stepped in as team manager. He was on the Primary School Sports Committee, he was at working bees and as I got older he seemed to always be involved somewhere. Even now he’s wound up as president of the tennis club and helps out at the Church.

Dad has always seemed to be one of those blokes who’d have a go. Clearly the money wasn’t there to pay for other people to do things for him, so it was painting the house or servicing a car or erecting a garage or just maybe making picket gates fly down the drive way, but it was always something. Rare are the times that I can think of that Dad would spend his time sitting down and watching the telly.

I have great memories of going to the football with Dad to watch the beloved Tigers, year in year out, almost making the grade, but not quite coming through with the goods in the final. I especially remember the two special years when we actually went to see them actually win Grand Finals. Those were good times. Dad has always been passionate about his sport, possibly to a fault at times. After all, who really manages to get a net ball game stopped until they have been removed from the spectating area? I mean, netball, really? And who get’s so involved in their son’s football that they find themselves barracking from 10 yards inside the boundary line? Not me, but I could give you a clue.

Dad has made choices throughout his life that have put family first. They’re not always apparent when you’re a kid, but over the years bits and pieces filter through and come up in conversation – decisions not to move to Sydney, not taking up an opportunity to move to PNG later in his career (and during some critical school years for us kids).

All in all, we’ve been bloody well looked after as a family. That’s not to say Dad’s perfect. No one is, but he’s made a bloody good fist of the hand that he’s been dealt and I for one am eminently proud to call him Dad. So it will be a pleasure to toast him tonight and here and now I’d just like to say thanks and Happy Birthday Dad.

*that would be catch it for you overseas people unfamiliar with the game

Fifteen

No, it’s not a Taylor Swift song, well it is, but that’s not what this is about. This is about the fact that the eldest lad has hit that milestone. Quite scary really to think that so much time has passed since the fateful day when he arrived in the world.

There’s certainly been some changes in the last 12 months. Michael at 15 seems to have his head screwed on the right way and there hasn’t been quite as many of those moments where irrational hormone driven obstinacy becomes the response. He’s generally accepting of his siblings and remains thick as thieves with Sam in particular.

The voice dropped since he was 14. Fortunately for him he didn’t suffer wild swings of tone during the process, it was more like he had a cold and sounded a little gravelly, but never quite recovered from it. It’s weird to now try and remember what he sounded like pre-voice change. I really don’t think I can recall.

Year 10 seems to be going well for him at school and recently he undertook one of those future career based assessments where they try and look at your personality and what you might be suited to in the future (whilst taking into account what the kid might actually be interested in). of course with all the communications skills of a teenager, the first I knew about it was when I received an email from the school asking that we make an appointment to see the people that had run the session. This lead to some questioning of the lad, but he wasn’t able to shed any light on the matter, not even really being able to remember what questions he’d been asked.

So we rolled up suspecting what it was about and fortunately were pretty much on the money. There weren’t really any surprises in the assessment other than to suggest that he has a whole lot of potential to live up to and that he seems to be headed toward an engineering career. There was way too much of me in that assessment even before getting to the engineering part of it.

Michael’s best friend seems to be his computer because that’s where you’ll find him most of the time. That’s probably not that unusual for a modern kid, but there are times when you feel like dragging him outside and staking him in the sun just so that he remembers what it looks like. At least he’s playing soccer again this winter and hopefully his team can manage to be competitive to keep the interest level up (I’ve not seen them yet as they’ve only had the one game).

All in all, I can only be proud of Michael and hope that he continues on the path that he’s set for himself so far.

Oh and it appears he might just have started to notice girls ;)

Camel Redistribution Theory

So as documented previously, Caroline has gone back to university. Overall, despite the additional stress, I think that she’s enjoying it. There was one assignment so far that I personally am well over.

It’s all about a camel. It could have been about any business, but for some reason, the lecturer decided to make it about a camel. The assignment caused great consternation as Caroline puzzled her way through it. It was made worse by the fact that in discussions with class mates, they thought that she wasn’t doing it right and she thought that they were doing it wrong.

The lecturer was also not very helpful according to the reports that I received. What it meant was that I heard an awful lot about the bloody camel.

The assignment was completed, handed in and results received. They weren’t what Caroline was expecting, so she quizzed the lecturer about the assignment and the process used as she worked out that she hadn’t actually got it all wrong, though she’d made a silly mistake early in the process. She got a re-mark and it improved significantly and also proved that the lecturer wasn’t possibly quite on the ball.

The long and challenging process meant that for several weeks, I heard more about the camel than I thought was reasonable.

So when we were at Floss’ the other night and the camel story started, I suggested that the best approach to the whole business would have been to shoot the camel at the outset to avoid all the complications that came later. Floss suggested that would have been a good way of redistributing the camel.

Camel redistribution theory was born.

Tri hard

About 13 years ago some work colleagues of mine thought that it would be a good thing to do a triathlon together. They proposed that we enter the BRW Corporate Cup event with each of us completing one of the legs. They’d volunteered for the run and the bike legs and suggested that perhaps I’d like to do the swim for them. Foolishly I agreed. I say foolishly because I hadn’t really done any swimming and apparently I didn’t really start doing any prior to the event because ‘it’s only 400m’.
As the day of the event drew closer, it came out in conversation that they’d not entered us in the team sprint event, but had in fact entered us in the main event where each person completes the entire race.
Now at this point, panicking and doing a bit of training probably would have been better than the approach which I took, which was to say ‘oh shit’ and yet do nothing.
On the day of the event, my two team mates did admirably and then passed over to myself. I managed to complete about half the swim before resorting to less effective than freestyle strokes (yes, I did side-stroke some of the swim) partially because I’d swum so far of course that I probably added another 50m to it. I staggered out of the water to the bike transition where I was abused by my team mates because I was taking the time to put socks on.
On the back leg of the bike ride I was seriously forced to consider what the protocol was for vomiting whilst riding a bike. Was it lean left and pedal or get off and hurl? Fortunately I never found out. Whilst abusing my team mates at the half point of the ride I nearly ran over a marshall and when it came to the run, well there was a little bit of walking involved.
Overall we completed the event in under 3 hours but I was informed that just because we did that didn’t mean that we’d each completed it in under an hour. It was quite a point of note.
Although I’d survived the triathlon, I swore never to do another one as long as I lived.
Anyway, having been conned into the Corporate Cup run and City to Bay last year, this year the same group from my client suggested that we tackle, you guessed it, the BRW Corporate Cup Triathlon. Stupid said yes.
This time, I trained. I even went through a couple of practice triathlons with friends to make sure that I’d be ready. I bought elastic laces, I practised transitions and I was determined not to be the one that was being abused in the transition area for putting socks on. The same cannot be said for my comrades. This time around, I was determined to post a time that I’d be happy with where as they were both of the ‘finishing is the goal’ mindset. I tried not to give them too much shit for it.
I opted to go second, to avoid the thrash and bash in the water at the start and so I had a clear run into the water to start (especially since by the time our first competitor came through (he’d breast stroked the swim and then completed the ride on a Big W mountain bike) there weren’t too many teams hanging around the team transition area. I managed to over take a couple of people in the swim, had good transitions and had a good solid ride on the bike. In fact, of the people that completed the triathlon on the same leg as I did, I had the 23rd fastest swim and 26th fastest ride of the 147 or so people competing. If the event had stopped there, I would have been ecstatic about my place. As it happens, there’s the run leg on the back end that has to be added to it. I didn’t quite manage to fare so well in that part. I overtook plenty of people as I ran, but also had a couple overtake me as well. I needed some better motivation I think to kick my run harder earlier in that phase.
In the end I completed my section in 44:33 which I was more than happy with given I’d set myself a target of about 50 mins. The distances weren’t quite what was advertised in the ride and run which helped, but it meant that I’d been about on target and so walked away happy.
Far from my reaction of never again the first time, this time around I’m actually a little disappointed that I don’t get to do it again in say 2 weeks to try and improve on that time! Maybe next year.

Nine (the fourth)

Last week, our darling little pink thing turned 9, the last of the tribe in her last year of single figures. Quite scary and just a little bit sad really.

The joy of turning 9 is that there is still much excitement involved in the whole process. There was much anticipation, menu demands (spit roasted lamb, pork AND beef thank you very much) lack of sleep and even a lost tooth on the eve as she went to bed, which of course delayed the whole process and started another entire round of delays.

Emily is still very much the confident young thing, particularly in her own environment. She seems to be at the stage where she wants to do anything and everything. She’s playing softball in summer and netball in winter, but would desperately like to play hockey. She’s playing the violin, participating in ensemble, although the expected practice may have put paid to that as I’ve not heard the strains of practice for some time.

There’s also been lots of interest in singing lessons, which could be a good thing. She’s not a bad singer, but it does tend to drive the boys absolutely nuts when she wanders around the house singing to herself about anything and everything. With the addition of an iPod to her arsenal as a result of birthday wrangling, music is often to be found pumping from her bedroom through the little dock she bought herself. Now we just have to teach her about volume, though given the lack of control on the internal volume of her own vocals, I don’t hold out a lot of hope for that to come off.

Emily as a baby was a sleeper; a nice deep, long sleeper. She still is very good at sleeping once you get her to that state, but right now, it’s all about 47 ways to avoid getting to sleep, which leads to a gradual emptying of her room of anything that can entertain her. Unfortunately, with the fact that she’s so easily amused, that means there’s a hell of a lot of stuff that sometimes have to be removed (or threatened to) before she’s off in the land of nod.

Also at 9, Emily is a magical little tornado of mess. It doesn’t seem to matter what she’s doing, there’s a small path of destruction in her wake. From undertaking private craft projects, to experiements or even something as simple as colouring in or making chocolate milk, the activity is diverse the result is the same … mess.

So having bagged my little girl, I have to say that I am still insanely twisted around her little finger and love her to bits for all her little flaws as equally for the many smiles and pieces of joy that she brings to my life. At 9, there’s still a good chance of a running leap and hug when I come in the door, there’s the “I’ll miss you Daddy,” when I announce that I am going to be away for work for a day and there’s nothing quite like it when she’s well rested and happy and you get to spend some time with her and she announces at the end that she loves you very much and it’s been ‘The Best Day EVER!”

Happy Birthday Emily.

Taylor Pt 2

I broke this up because it really fits best in two parts. The first was of course all about Emily, as that was really the whole point of going. This second bit is what I took away from the night.

I thoroughly enjoyed the show and couldn’t help but admire the poise, presence and performance of such a young performer. When she first appeared, she did little more than stand at the front of the stage and bathe in the adulation of the crowd. Far from appearing as if it were an ego trip though, she seemed to be genuinely delighted that the crowd cared enough to be there and even somewhat amused by the fact that a simple glance would launch them into a renewed frenzy.

Part way through the performance, she descended from the stairs and walked around the outskirts of the general admission area, high fiving and shaking hands with the punters who surged from one side of the area to the other as she made her way to perform at the back of the area for a few songs, before returning down the other side. I can’t remember going to a concert where that has been done before (not that I’ve been to that many) but it must certainly have only helped endear her even further with her loyal fans.

I was left wondering how someone so young manages to maintain such a wholesome image and deal with the reality of being a celebrity. As she said at one point during her performance, if she goes on a date with someone, she doesn’t need to ask people’s opinion because whether she wants it or not, the whole world will tell her what they think of the match for good or ill. It’s hard to imagine being subjected to such scrutiny that even such small choices as the clothes you choose to leave the house in become cause for international scrutiny, let alone the pressure that must be on her to maintain a lifestyle that doesn’t conflict with the image that she’s built up.

As a father, you can’t help but think that she’s one of the better celebrity role models out there and I’d be much happier if Emily aspires to be like Taylor than say a Miley Cyrus. Or perhaps I should be glad that Emily observed recently that she doesn’t think that Thomas should become a famous soccer player because he’d have to deal with the paparazzi. Maybe it’s a reflection on the fact that she doesn’t aspire to such lofty heights of stardom herself!

Taylor Pt 1

A couple of years ago, Emily discovered the music of Taylor Swift. It’s been her first musical love and has resulted in endless hours of time on country roads listening to and singing along with Love Story and other Taylor Swift songs, usually amidst groans, complaints of headaches, tears and even threatened mutiny from her four brothers

I’m not very good at keeping up with who’s touring the country in a music sense, particularly if Triple J isn’t promoting them, but somewhere along the line late last year it was mentioned that Taylor Swift would be touring and even coming to Adelaide. Where ever it was mentioned, Emily heard about it and of course from there, fate was really sealed.

So at Christmas, the very last present that the little pink thing opened was concert tickets to Taylor Swift and her face lit up like it was … well, like it was Christmas. Then she had to give the tickets straight to me for safekeeping and wait.

Last night the waiting was finally over and one incredibly excited little pink thing went to her first concert with Mum and Dad along for the fun. I have to say that the look on her face at the moment that Taylor appeared on stage was well worth the price of being there to see. Emily was rapt and belting out the tunes along with the rather large number of screaming adolescent girls that made up the majority of the audience.

It was to be a late night for the pink thing and clearly the excitement had done something to take its toll because near the end of the set, whilst Taylor sang a couple of her quieter tunes, Emily decided to put her head in Caroline’s lap, curl her feet up and all but fall asleep. She didn’t nod of though fortunately and certainly when Taylor launched into Love Story for the closing song of the night, she perked right up again, that delirious smile once again pasted across her face from ear to ear.

The Fifth Dependent

Something changed at home this week. The tension in the house in the days preceding the week slowly grew. I don’t think it quite reached that palpable ‘cut it with a knife’ level, but then I tended to try and be very diplomatic to offset that potential.

The fifth dependent arrived. Technically she was already with us and already a dependent, but it all became more official this week as Caroline commenced her Masters in Accounting. The difference between a wife that’s dependent and a student wife that’s dependent is yet to be fully realised, but is forecast to be significantly more effort for me (the fact that as always what it means to me will pale in comparison to what it will mean to Caroline is irrelevant – this is, after all my blog and therefore, about me!)

Already I’ve noticed changes. We’ve never really needed designated study areas for the kids as they tend to either do their homework at the kitchen table or in their rooms. Most of the time, it’s even complete by the time that I want to do something like sit down and watch TV or use the PS3. But with an adult dependent student in the house, there are worrying trends. If focussed and at the table, I feel bad if I put the TV on. If semi focussed, study starts to happen in front of the TV. I’m sure that channel flicking will be even more frowned upon than it already is and of course, the time when Caroline will be studying will coincide with the time that I like to do nothing a lot more than it does with the kids.

If I’m not careful I’ll be reduced to filling that time with replacement activities amongst which number the really fun things like folding washing, doing dishes and god forbid … cleaning house!

(but in all seriousness, despite the fact that I question her sanity and find myself asking like so many others – “Why accounting?” I applaud the fact that she is pursuing it and am proud of her for doing so – even if she could be earning money!)

Breeding like the proverbial

Did I mention that we have four more rabbits? That means a total of 8 of the little critters currently inhabiting our backyard. The worst thing is that I think there’s more on the way.

After all, the first lot of little ones came about when the mother and father were left to mix for a few minutes. It surely wasn’t longer than that, but it was apparently long enough for them to breed like … well, you know the saying. Whilst Dad is now a sports model and therefore should be able to safely occupy the same living space as Mum, there’s the small matter that there’s two boys from the first litter still about the place and they haven’t been de-sexed. That’s fine when Mum and litter number 2 are safely ensconced in their little area under the cubby house, but that hasn’t been entirely successful.

About a week ago as I was getting ready for work Caroline happened to mention that it appeared there’d been an escape. We found that all five of the rabbits that are usually in the compound were gaily bounding about the yard. Fun ensued as we chased them down, captured them and blocked off the area they’d managed to escape through.

Then a couple of days later I was woken up the sound of a small child yelling (with a little too much glee and enthusiasm) “Bunny Escape!” Someone had managed to leave a door open and off they went again.

So given that Mum has now had about 24 hours of time alone with two fertile male rabbits, I’m pretty sure there’s only one likely conclusion.

To top it all off, this morning when I looked out the window, there was once again a small rabbit bounding about. I went outside to check up on things and found Mum (Pepper) sitting very demurely just outside the cage. I found out why she was sitting there so calmly at the point that I realised she’d managed to stick her head through the vertical bars of the enclosure and become wedged! I don’t know how long she’d been like that, but I can certainly imagine the stress it must have put the little thing under. I felt very sorry for her as I bent the cage to free her and was rather glad that the small pink thing wasn’t there to witness it.
Lucky we didn’t get a dog?