Note To Future Self

What if, for one brief moment, I really was the world’s coolest dad?

And now I’ve used up my one chance.

I’ve spent the the entirety of the PBSE (Post Bean Sprout Era) working three days a week, and since last August, she’s been going to a creche on campus, so we’ve been going to school together. It’s an easy combination: when the Sprouticus is at school, so is dad. No variances allowed.

I really can’t complain. Back when I was employed, it worked well, thanks to my employer’s flexibility. Now that I’m playing at student, it’s even better, as long as I feel I’m keeping up with what I need to keep up with.

This week, Anna started a four-day-a-week schedule, which means I get a whole extra dad day each week. Nominally this is a work day, and since it’s winter, I’ll probably spend those extra days at my desk, trying some of this grad student slacking I’ve heard so much about. Or a bit of contracting work on the side. With the spring fineness, maybe I’ll even leaven in a bit of goofing off. Personal time? What an idea!

In other news, we’re enjoying a sartorial Nansen phase. Northward ho!

[I was struck with indecision about this post, so I think I'll try both options. Yes, it's the old double album trap --- your band isn't that good, just cut a couple of the darned songs already.]

No. Just no.

I won’t even bother to say “Ask your mother.”

OK, but you can’t mix your own two-stroke till you’re eight.

I’ve been a member of the Father and Child Trust for about as long as I’ve been eligible to be a member, though I’ll admit I haven’t made use of their resources. Lately there have been calls for more volunteers, particularly at the drop-in center where dads can go for some good blokey advice on new Kiwi parenting.

I’ve been way too intimidated to volunteer. First, there are the obvious cultural differences (no, I don’t want to swap Pavlova recipes — yes, traditionally Pav is the man’s responsibility). But more to the point, I’ve the old white man’s guilt — what does a middle-aged under-employed over-educated father of one have to say to an out-of-work single teen father of eight?

But on my good days, I think. No, no, musn’t fall into that trap. I’m sure we have common ground.

Or perhaps not. No, definitely no common ground here.

On a sociological note. It’s the middle of winter break from school and the weather has been a bit ick. The city is heaving with planned activities to keep little 5-10 year old hands busy, and all of the city amenities (libraries, museums, etc) have been wall-to-wall with moms desperate to get their 3.5 kids out of the house.

So it’s only natural, when the weekend is nice, that mom will say something along the lines of: “get yer darned butt off the couch and take the kids with you.” And so, father-and-daughter dirt bikes in the park.

House rule number 437: If you pour water from your sippy cup onto the furniture, you have to wipe it up.

House rule number 438: It is, in fact, OK, to eat spil’t currants off the kitchen floor with a tablespoon. But only if Dad says it’s OK.

It rained most of the day

The standing water in the park was just to the tops of her gumboots.

I can hardly believe there’s a little part of me

Inside her saying,

The situation could only be improved

By riding my bike through the puddles again

But faster this time.

Oh Nigel, I didn’t want to cause such a scandal.

I admit it. The biscotti aren’t even yours.

Yes, yes. I’ve been dallying with the (wonderful) Treasury of New Zealand Baking.

And I enjoyed it. Particularly the chocolate cake. And the hazelnut orange cake. And the lemon bars. And the ginger slices. And ….

The scones are pure Edmonds, tho.

I have a huge man crush on Nigel Slater. It all started when I bought Anna a copy of Tender, vol 1. Even that title. This isn’t just the cookbook of the moment, perhaps to be followed by some cynical follow-up which relies on the a cheekily inserted “more” to indicate a sequel.

No, we’re in Gibbon territory now, boys. Magnum. Opus. Volume I presages Volume II, and next thing you know, you have an entire bookshelf shrine dedicated to Nigel’s gustatory delights, decorated with candles and oranges,

The conversational tone. Recipes which marry posh to stodge, with a hint of the far-flung empire. Is this British soul food? Hugh for the urbanite? Oh Nigel, who needs a farm in Dorset when we have the potted vege on your verandah?

Nigel, drop by some time. We’ll make biscotti.

Bring Nigella with you.

Winter’s here. None of that silly frozen stuff for us, just lots of soggy and cold. A good time to huddle indoors and pick up a few new hobbies.

Maybe a little web design.

Peeling onions? Why not!

And squinting for the camera, of course.