I’m glad it was nice-ish outside. Our house isn’t big enough for two nearly-2-year-olds. I’m also glad it’s not possible to retro-actively discover you have twins, as trying to pick both of them up made me feel very, very old (30 squirming kgs? why not!?!)

Later, dude.

Which is why, if you are so unwise as to sit on our living room floor, a small person will “sneak” up behind you, cackling manically at the top of her lungs, and poke you in the armpit while saying ‘Ick. Ick’.

If your armpits are out of reach, she will tickle herself instead. Somewhat surprisingly, it seems to work.

In my mind, this validates the trailer approach relative to the bike seat. OK, so a single bike would have probably missed the door. Or the extra 18kg of high-mounted weight would cause a Hammond-esque Scandanavian flick.

On the other hand I was able to sprawl out silly like all over the bike lane (for future reference — giving a barbarian “yop!” while flying through the air makes the landing hurt a lot less), while the sprout remained safely upright in the roll cage. Actually, come to think of it, after we had decamped to the sidewalk and I had done the obligatory “two arms – two legs” check, she hopped down, crawled back into the trailer and put her helmet back on. I discovered later that the accident had made all of the pee come out, all at once.

Strangely, I feel bad that the door on his car won’t close anymore.

Hm. Adrenaline is wearing off. Might be nap time.

… is coming

Not visible: A short history of nearly everything, Herodotus (in translation), a train car and one sock.

After an absurdly long delay by her mechanics parents, our little girl has her wheels back. After bashing us each in the shins a couple of times, for old times sakes, she got down to business and loaded up her cart with all the essentials and wheeled it over to the back door.

Sniff. She’s all grown up and ready to fledge. As soon as she learns how to pull up the front and back of her pants, that is.

And now I’ve used up my one chance.

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!

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 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 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.