Dads Have Skills Too

I can identify the cry of my children in a heaving playground. I can not only pick which child it is, I can also tell why it's crying. The penetrating whine of, 'I'm hungry', is vastly dissimilar to the indignant wail of, 'My stupid brother just took my swing', which in turn is completely different to the heart-stopping scream of, 'My stupid brother just hit me in the head with his stupid swing and now I'm bleeeeedingggg!!!'

I have been attuned to their own idiosyncratic style of bawling since the day each clawed their way out of my horrified, protesting vadge - learning the hard way what happens when you mistake, 'I'm hungry' for 'I'm tired' and a hyper baby gushes up buckets of stomach curdled milk all over the couch

This superwoman hearing skill is what differentiates mothers from fathers. Dads can't tell which cry is which, nor do they care. They just want it to stop because the rugby is on.

But, crying aside, there are some things at which a Dad really does excel.

Dads Give Treats

My children are so deprived. They've never tasted Coke. They think raisins are lollies. They had a piece of white bread the other day and thought it was cake. I have no interest in feeding them junk food. I have seen children on junk food and they are overweight and overwrought. Dad however, has no such compunction. When he gives them juice he only waters it down by a half instead of my habitual one eighth. And the children love it. THEY LOVE IT.

Dad's Are Not OSH

All Mums are OSH. They smother their offspring in sunscreen (replacing with a fleece lined hoodie the moment the sky clouds over) and velcro sandals so tightly the baby's toes turn blue and puff out a little. A Mum's favourite things to say are, "Be careful!" and "You'll hurt yourself!" and "Oh no dear, we don't go outside when its raining. You might melt."

Dads are not OSH. They don't give a flying rats that their toddler is balanced on a box that is wobbling on a stool that is perched on the edge of a table next to a plate glass window. Their only concern is if baby will accidentally change the TV channel on the way down. Dad's favourite thing to say is... nothing.

This, annoyingly, is wonderful for children's development. Kids need to know how to move, climb, swing and jump and essentially - how not to fall. They can only do that if they're given a chance.

It certainly wasn't me who sent our two year old down a Flying Fox by himself. I have difficulty putting him on a slide. It was through sweating, interlaced fingers that I watched my precious baby flying down the wire, hair streaming back in the wind, face contorted by G forces, chubby little hands clenched white knuckled around the rusty T-bar, ("Be careful! You'll hurt yourself! It's raining!")

My little boy however, loved it. The experience helped build his confidence, improve his holding on skills, and kickstart a wonderful career as the world's first Maori Stunt Baby. All thanks to Dad.

Dad's Word Is Stronger

Mums are the disciplinarians. We tell our kids what to do and how to do it every single second of the day. Soon, for kids, that constant harping becomes dulled and all they hear is a vague yap yapping that, like tinnitus, they will learn to tune out.

Dads are too lazy to be bothered saying something more than once. And most irritating of all, 99% of the time that single order will be obeyed. This is frustrating and unfair and reasonable grounds for couch banishment, but Mums can still use this skill to their advantage merely by training Dads to say the things they want. NB. Care required. Dads also have that childlike, stubborn, wilful streak in them and your requests may also morph into a vague yap yapping that will eventually be tuned out.


I'm sure there are more skills that Dads have. I cannot think of them now however, as I must go smother my children in sunscreen before bubblewrapping their resigned bodies and placing them gently on the flat, shaded grass.

10 Signs That The Party Is Over

I love a good rark-up, me. Back in the days BC, it would take a week or so to get good and ready for a glam event. The timetable was rigorous, the event discussed to death, the anticipation an almost unbearable itch of excitement.

Regime (summer)

Day 7 - Shop for The Dress. Start inversely proportional diet and exercise regime (decrease food input for anti-bloating, increase wine input for training).
Day 6 - Shop for accessories for The Dress. Spend loads but end up borrowing stuff. (Things that were bought end up being lent or lost so it all works out).
Day 5 - Armpits, legs and faff waxed - just in case.
Day 4 - Begin gradual tanning process with moisturiser (am not a huge fan of instant spray tans ever since I watched myself develop while walking past shop windows in much the same manner as one watches a time lapse video of a pumpkin ripening. Somewhat alarming).
Day 3 - Facial. Hair cut and colour - lots and lots of colour. New lip gloss - lots and lots of gloss.
Day 2 - Pedicure, manicure, eyebrows, wash and straighten hair ready for curling (My hair is naturally curly. Why I flat ironed it so I could put curls in is one of the great mysteries of my PG existence). Make sure party feet, chicken fillets, extensions, pasties and Hollywood tape are all on hand (and if you have to ask what these are, you are not a PG).
Day of - Exhausted from regime. Tension almost at breaking point. Drink calming bottle of bubbly to wet party's head whilst getting ready for party.

I loved going out so much I was one of those annoying/brilliant (pick one) guests who always arrived on time and was the last to leave - mostly because I had a sneaking suspicion that the instant I was gone a stretch black Hummer would pull up and Prince would jump out. He'd then perform an amazing impromptu performance of the entire Purple Rain soundtrack before choppering everyone back to his ten star hotel room for a weekend of random debaucherousness. I never wanted to miss out. I always, always wanted the party to go on.

When it comes to popping sprogs however, the party you once knew and loved has to make way for a different kind of party - one with fairybread, face-painting and sticky-out tutu skirts.
So how do you know when the time is right?

10 Signs That The Party Is Over

1> You know what it means to check your undies for 'egg white'.

2> All your friends have babies. So do your younger siblings and your ugly ex-boyfriend. In fact, everyone you know has a baby and you're the only one in the whole entire universe who doesn't.

3> You 'forget' to take your pill. Every day. For months.

4> You're really, really sick of Auntie Flo and her bloody tedious visits.

5> The men you meet are assessed on their ability to provide, and their DNA handsomeness. Being kind and fun with a good sense of humour just doesn't seem to cut it anymore.

6> You hear an ominous 'tick, tick, tick' when you wake at night and there are no clocks, watches, crocodiles or ticks in the room.

7> You win a $20 voucher from Pumpkin Patch because you 'like' their store.

8> Staying at home with whiny, needy children is preferable to being at work with whiny, needy children.

9> You already have names picked out - including back-ups, alternative spellings, meanings, and where they stand on the Top 100.

10> Your parents make pointed remarks that include 'You're not getting any younger', 'We'll be dead soon', 'If you loved us...', and 'For god's sakes, what's wrong with you'.

Oh, and maybe one more.

11> Because your entire being is aching for a warm, snuggly little body to cuddle, one who smells like Johnsons baby powder, who coos delightfully and who will one day say, 'I love you, Mummy'.


Last drinks, ladies.

Confessions of a Guilty Mom

My children watch far too much TV. I know this because my two year old has started referring to me as "Mom".

As "Muuuuuuummmmm!!!!" is the usual form of address for one's mother in New Zealand and we have no American friends in our immediate vicinity, I can only conclude that the Disney Channel is to blame. This means of course, that yet another of my New Parent Resolutions has not so much as flown out the window, as it has been battered with a large stick before being plucked, stuffed, devoured and shat out the other end.

I can now put "I will never let my children watch TV" into the same basket as "I will never give my child a dummy", "I will never let my child eat junk food', and the loftily optimistic, "I will never shout at my children".

This basket can be found next to a bucket which is filled with rolled up balls of confident, hair-flicky statements such as, "My child shall sleep through the night", "My child will not only eat vegetables, they will love them" and the blissfully ignorant, "I shall adore breastfeeding", "My body shall return to it's pre-baby weight within weeks" and "My life shall carry on as before. La la la."

I cringe when I think what I, as a Party Girl, was like BC (Before Children).
If I heard a child screaming in a café, I would throw sharpened daggers at it (with my eyes obviously), before launching into a hissing rant with my Party Girl posse, "What a horrible child... it's obviously deranged... what an awful mother... it shouldn't be in a public place anyway... if it were my child, I would..."

Now I just think, "Oh, you poor woman."

Party Girls are filled with utopian ideals about what parenting should be. They don't mean to make you feel guilty, but they do - guilty about not breastfeeding, about co-sleeping, about not wanting to read The Cat in the Sodding Hat twenty times a day, about having children that throw tantrums, about letting one's offspring sit inside to memorise the Disney Channel.

I have a sneaking suspicion that it's because Party Girls are reared on a diet of women's fashion magazines - a gazillion glossy pages of guilt-ridden glamour. A world where it's not only possible but expected that you should be super-skinny with a perfect face, bonking your brains out in bone-creaking positions every night before running out the door each morning to manage a large, yet environmentally responsible corporation in really, really, high heeled shoes. A world where it's your fault if you can't meet the ideal, because you haven't tried hard enough.

Absorb enough of that guilt and you can't help it oozing out your pores occasionally.

Of course, Party Girls don't know (yet) that being a good parent isn't always something you can control. Your baby has some say too. Parents and children need to find their own way together, and most of the time 70% is about as good as it gets.

In fact, I often refer myself to my own golden law, one which should be emblazoned across all magazines - "You're Doing Okay."

Because you are.